LIVING ON THE EDGE

CHAPTER: 2

'This is what you get for being in the office on Christmas Eve,' Private Detective Sharon thought, as she watched a car parked parallel in front of her office. It was her fourth year of widowhood, but she still had not figured out how to have a successful holiday season at home. After spending the past few Christmases out of town, she had convinced herself to stay home this year. But, unfortunately, she had overestimated the amount of business that would present itself in December, and most of her days had been spent organizing and filing paperwork. Now that it was Christmas Eve, a specific pang of loneliness throbbed in her throat. Sharon's husband, Daniel Stone, had been a Christmas enthusiast; he would start streaming lights around the edge of their house the day after Halloween. 

Every time she closed her eyes, memories of the warm, refreshing scent of pine, or the aroma of a vast, hot, bubbly piece of apple pie slipped into her thoughts. The sights, sounds, and smells of the season saturated her senses, although she had not participated in any festivities since Daniel's death. She had wonderful memories, but now, being at home during the holidays meant facing a silent, empty home. That was why she was at the office organizing receipts for tax season.

To drive away, the pangs of loneliness, she had started her day with a shot of vodka. Normally Sharon stayed away from alcohol, but there were days when the bitter poison slowed her thoughts and helped her to forget. By 10:30 a.m. she was scouring through piles of receipts. After about an hour, she took a break and paced the office, noticing how loudly Stuart Stone, her brother-in-law/assistant, was snoring at the adjacent desk. She poured herself another shot. Even though they had no appointments on the books, Stuart had decided to come to work. They were both there for giving unspoken comfort to each other. 

Sharon walked over to the window, drank the vodka down in one swig, and sat on the window ledge. Nashville, Tennessee, was playing its usual bipolar weather game. The previous week there had seen snow, and that too about a foot of snow had fallen, but now the temperature was in the low fortyish, and cold, unforgiving rain had been beating against the window for almost the last three days. Sharon was staring at the picture-perfect scenery outside, admiring the stillness of the town below, when a car came flogging into view. She watched the sporty, black Ford Fiesta squeeze itself into the tiny space between her brother-in-law Stuart's Chevrolet Malibu and an old, rusted Pontiac Bonneville.

Sharon smacked the bottom of Stuart's hiking boot.

"Look are you alive? Someone is coming up," Sharon said to him.

"Huh?" Stuart asked half sleepily.

"We have a client, Stuart," she said.

"Where?"

"He is on his way up," Sharon replied.

"How do you know it is for us?" Stuart asked, leaning back in the chair and attempting to return to his nap.

"Because no one else in this building is stupid enough to be open. Get up," Sharon said, pushing the back of his chair to an upright position.

"Geez, Sharon," he said, scratching his head before sitting up straight.

Sharon tossed the bottle of vodka into the bottom desk drawer, pushed the receipts that she had been working on, aside, and opened her laptop. A few seconds later, a man entered the office but only after knocking and being asked to enter by Sharon.

The man was drenched from head to toe.

"Hello," Sharon said, before holding out her hand and waiting as he pulled off his rain-soaked waterproof jacket. He waved her hand away and cautiously hung the jacket on the coat rack. When he looked up, Sharon immediately recognized his face.

"My name is Sharon Stone. How may I help you?"

Chase Reed was his name, and he had been on the nightly news for months following his wife's untimely demise. He was just as lean as he had looked on the television. About six feet four inches, and slightly bald, with huge haunting green eyes, and he had a very sharp, long nose. The wrinkles at the corner of his eyes told her that he was older than he seemed, but his body was sleek and trim, like that of a long-distance runner.

When he failed to respond, or move, Sharon decided to prompt him a second time. "Hello, I am Sharon Stone. What can I do for you?" She asked, stretching out her arm once again for a handshake. He gave her hand a gentle shake, headed towards the desk, and dropped into the chair next to Stuart without any explanation.

Sharon took a quick mental inventory of the man. Chase Reed reeked of old money. The sporty but economical Ford Fiesta reinforced the fact that he had nothing to prove to anyone. He had always had money, and always would have it, so there was no need to be flashy. His creased brow was a direct result of his wife's murder because this was a man who had been able to fix just about any problem that had come into his life. Losing his wife and not having answers was probably killing him.

"You need a private investigator?" Sharon asked him.

He nodded but did not elaborate. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Sharon said, "Start from the beginning."

She sat down in front of her laptop, opened a new document, and cast a sideways glance at Stuart, signaling that he should leave. Stuart introduced himself and quickly disappeared into the tiny room next to the office, shutting the door behind him. 

During her brief stint as a private detective, Sharon had learned that it was better to do an initial consultation one-on-one. Clients were more adept to be straightforward if they were spilling their secrets to a single person.

"My wife..." began Chase Reed, only to have emotion smother his throat closed. He dropped his head, his eyes shut tight. After a moment he regained his composure and continued, "My wife was murdered. I want to know what happened to her. The police have no leads, and they have interrogated me to the point of harassment. Now they are not even really investigating the case. I need to know what happened." Tears welled in his eyes. Sharon pulled out a box of tissues and pushed it towards him.

"How long has it been?" Sharon asked him.

"Eighteen months ago," he replied.

"Who do you think would do this?" she asked him.

"That is the thing. I don't know. She was a beautiful person and I cannot think of anyone who disliked her. She was a great mother, wife, and friend. The world was better when she had been here," Chase Reed, replied.

He could not think of anyone who would hurt his wife, but the reality was that someone had done more than hurt her. Someone had taken her life and taking life, although sometimes the unplanned attempt of a stranger, was more often a passion-riddled deed that was usually carried out by an associate, an ally, Sharon thought.