An Unlikely Murder

Part 2 Coming Soon!

This is my worst nightmare. And all of it happened in less than 10 minutes. 

The once bright pink painted floor is now scattered and covered with glass, dust, and smoke. Ash rises from the destruction, and simmers beneath the fallen walls. I stand there, the sound of a sharp, edged knife clatters at my feet, but as I am in shock at this moment, I do not dare turn around to see what or who it is. 

All of my intentions this morning were the usual on every tenth day of each month, painting Mrs. Whitehead’s nails red, the exact same color she gets every month. 

“It makes me feel powerful, and fierce.” The woman tells me just minutes before her death. She is always such an interesting, yet strange character when I speak to her, that I wonder why she married the most handsome man in Kaztervil. But as usual, I am quiet, and finish my job efficiently, barely speaking to anyone who comes in, the only exception being if they are applying for a job. 

I did my job like I always do until the accident happens. Now, the nail salon is gone, and Mrs. Whitehead is near dead. Her rose red nails are half painted, staining her white buttoned-up blouse. A pang of fear suddenly runs through me when I realize something. 

Maybe it isn’t her newly painted nails on her shirt. Maybe it’s blood. 

I shiver, collapsing at my knees, so afraid to move. My stomach churns with worry as I cry harder than I’ve ever cried before, stroking Mrs. Whitehead’s auburn hair, her face now still, pale with death. 

Fear and shame fills my body as witnesses of the scene enter the salon, their eyes darting to me. I am now appearing to be the only person alive. 

“Miss Chantelle?” A man’s voice speaks, and shuffling proceeds to move through the destruction. Glass breaks, and bodies are moved out of the way as the other salon workers are helped up from the floor. 

The fallen ceiling is cleared by many strong arms, revealing behind it, myself, huddling on the floor over Miss Whitehead. 

Mr. Owens slowly lifts his hat, and holds it to his chest. The kind old man’s lip quivers, and a single tear drops down from his cheek. A finger points to me, the man shaking uncontrollably. “It was you.” He says. 

The man I’ve always trusted to mow my lawn and help with my landscaping accuses me of murder in front of half the town. I look across from me at the rusty old knife, at the now dead Mrs, Whitehead, at the possible blood on her clothes, and where I remain. 

I manage to stand up shakily, wiping the smeared makeup and tears off of my face with my shirt. “No! Mr. Owens, you don’t understand!” 

“No, ma’am, as a matter of fact, I do understand,” Mr, Owens says. He murmurs to the man next to him, Dr. Polar. “That’s what they all say when they kill somebody,” He says in his slow country drawl, and through his dusty glasses from working in the fields, he eyes me with disapproval. 

“Why doesn’t anybody believe me?!” I exclaim, stepping over Miss Whitehead’s body. I notice everyone moving away from the scene as I move closer. 

Mrs. Edwards, a young adult woman creeps forward, barely taking her eyes off of Mrs. Whitehead. “Then explain that.” She says, pointing a bony finger at the dead woman beside me. 

“Explain what?” I wonder, but I know exactly what she means. 

“My god, you stupid, guilty woman. Miss Whitehead’s death, of course.” A voice says from behind the townspeople. Every head turns, and my heart skips a beat when sirens sound, blue and red lights flash, and several armed men in uniform enter the salon. 

“Miss Chantelle Perry?” Sheriff Jones says, his gruff voice quaking with each word. His eyes water with tears, his deputy nearby behind him holds two armed guns both in either hand, and handcuffs wedged between his fingers, ready for action. 

I couldn’t believe this is happening to me. 

Me, Chantelle Perry of all people, a normal salon lady in the town of Kaztervil was accused of murdering someone she’s hardly ever known. 

“Yes, sir?” I reply, praying they wouldn’t think it was me, though I know they are sure I am the killer. 

I didn’t kill Mrs. Whitehead. Nobody killed her, I know of it. 

A pipe must have burst, or someone must have bombed the salon, but now everyone believed I was the one who killed this rich, wealthy woman who everyone would want to be. And yes, I’d love to be Mrs. Whitehead, but kill her? Never. 

I look down through my tears at the blurry figure of Mrs. Whitehead. A single tear falls from my eyes, onto her cheek below me. With a click, Chief Jones opens the handcuffs Deputy Gonzales hands him. “You need to come with us, ma’am.” He said, pinning my hands behind my back as he leads me out of my own salon, and to his car. 

I so badly want to scream and flail until I am free, but I know that will just end up in more trouble than before. Everyone watches me as I am arrested. 

I hold out my wrists, feeling the cold handcuffs wrap around my bare wrists, 

with now no way of wiping away my tear stained cheeks, and my melting makeup under my sobs. That, my friends, was my worst nightmare, and it came true to be. 

A million more thoughts run through my mind as I am shoved into the police car, and hauled away to prison, leaving the destroyed salon, leaving everything behind. 

Whether or not we know if all of this story is true, it still very well happened early on that morning of July 10th, 1968. 

Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers, and thank you all kindly for all of the accusations.

Sincerely, 

    The Murderer of Mrs. Whitehead