Fatespeaker

Winds broke against the sandy mounds as Clyde strode down a half paved walk-way to the shores. One hand didn’t leave his hat, so as not to lose it in the gust; the other was crossed against his jacket to keep it tucked.

Fall had just begun, and the added particularity of the location made for sparse company. You wouldn’t think it was all that bad, though, since the resplendent fade of the sun made for a glowing golden ambiance against the scattered overcast. 

And there she was, as Clyde had suspected. A newlywed Mrs. Johnson was sitting alone at the beach bar, fiddling with a completely ignored whiskey. Not a single inch of her exquisite scarlet attire moved to meet Clyde as he approached. Her gaze was the blank and distant kind, held by the sort of personage that may have all too much to think about, and altogether nothing to act on. 

Mrs. Johnson’s cool reception was only accompanied by the sound of crashing waves. Clyde figured he’d better get started, and the silent tune of nature gave way to the devices of conversation. 

“Betty Johnson, I presume?”

There was only a head tilt in acknowledgement. She took a slow and fancied swig of her drink (which seemed to lose no volume) and then replied in a hurry. “Who are you? What do you want with me? If you’re looking for my husband-”.

“No, Mrs. Johnson” He cut in. “I came all the way out here to speak with you.” He took a step into the cover that the thatch roof provided, and finally let his hand down from his head. “And let me tell you, you weren’t easy to track down - had to ask quite a few of your friends about the places you might be.” Her face furrowed in a worrisome way, but Clyde responded by putting his outstretched hands up in front of him. “Rest assured, you’ve done nothing wrong. I just want to get some information - ask a few questions.”

The alerted Mrs. Johnson jittered, as if she would take off any second. “And, so? Who are you then?”

Clyde dropped his hands while rolling his eyes at himself. “My gosh! Where are my manners, ah lord... Mrs. Johnson, my name is Detective Speaker, but please - just call me Clyde.” He reached out with one hand to shake, and the other went into his jacket, feeling for an old little notebook.

Her hand met his own with hesitation before withdrawing again, but he held a warm old city smile all the same. Clyde finished retrieving the notes from his jacket, and with it the pen which accompanied his work.

“Alright, Mrs. Johnson. Well, about your husband... Yesterday, he’s-”

“He’s dead. I know.”

The words were weightless, and she said it like any other simple fact; he is dead. Clyde gave pause to let the sound of soaring winds take over once more. 

His lips pursed, and he shook his head. “I’m sorry for your loss - truly. I can’t imagine the pain you’re going through.”

Her colorless eyes were fixed back to her drink, and the dim light of the sunset just barely pierced the glass. She was hardly audible at first, and spoke. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Mrs. Johnson, I-”

“It doesn’t. It doesn’t! It doesn’t matter anymore!”

Her hand lashed out through the air as she stood, fierce and without warning. “Stop! Stop calling me Mrs. Johnson!”. Clyde recoiled, but as quickly as it came, her rage had tempered, lessening by the breath. She slumped back down to the chair with a whimper. “I wasn’t even Mrs. Johnson for a day. Please - don’t call me…” her voice trailed off.

Clyde wasn’t surprised at how she felt. He leaned softly onto the birch counter to take in the view a minute. The space between the clouds reminded him of a sort of longing. Witnessing someone's loss always sent a chill down his core, far colder than the Pacific sea spray. There was seldom joy to be found in this work, not until an investigation was over - not until a killer was found.

He gave her as much time as could be reasonable, and eventually took the adjacent seat. 

“I’m sorry.” He exhaled slowly, quietly. “I really am, Betty - and I want to help. I just need the smallest bit of information. Just a moment of your time, Betty; please.” Clyde knew that a widow deserved every second in the world to grieve, and while it pained him to pry, a loose killer meant that there were far fewer seconds to spare before someone else could be hurt. She could have all the time in the world after his question.

Finally, her head rose, and the tears coming off her face seemed to disappear before they ever hit the sands below. “Al-alright… I’ll tell you what you need to know. But let me - let me ask just one question first, Detective.”

“Of course, anything you want.”

“There were a million places I loved to be with Johnathan… but no one knew about this one. Not one. This was just our little secret spot - a place for us. How did you find me here?”

Clyde thought about the question a moment, and gave it the truest answer he could. “Fate.” He wiped his face with his sleeve. “Fate and… maybe a few of your good friends were paying more attention than you thought. Fate can be resourceful.”

For the first time, she nearly smiled.

He wouldn't waste a second now, and the notebook flew open as his mode shifted. “I have a close account here of yesterday from your friends Betty, but I need to hear it from someone close to the scene of the crime, I need to hear it from you. I already have it on good authority that you were in the room at the time of the murder. Furthermore, I just need to know - did you have any relation to the killer? Do you have a name you can give me?”

Betty closed her eyes, and her face curled to near tears again. “Martin. Martin Smith. He couldn’t deal with it… He just couldn’t see me happy - but to think he’d do what he did to him, to us, to think…”

Clyde's thoughts were all in his hands now, along with the name of the killer. He collapsed the notebook, and peered out onto where the skies met the ocean to take it all in one last time before parting with Betty.

 “I know that was hard. Thank you. We’re going to catch him. We’ll get who did this to your husband… To your husband - and to you, Mrs. Johnson.”

He took a final look back to the chair, which was vacant. The sun finished it’s fading retreat over the water, and the lone, untouched drink sat on the counter.