Memorial Day

By Wayne Greenough

All graveyards are sad. Mother and I visit three of them to pay our respect to those who have gone on. But this graveyard is different. I keep hearing a male voice. No matter where I look I can’t see him. I’m cold sober. I haven’t had a drink since last night. There’s the voice again. Who is it? Why can’t I see the guy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Feb 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781771114240

Book preview

In trouble you can’t solve? See Thanet Blake, Private Detective.

All graveyards are sad. Mother and I visit three of them to pay our respect to those who have gone on. But this graveyard is different. I keep hearing a male voice. No matter where I look I can’t see him. I’m cold sober. I haven’t had a drink since last night. There’s the voice again. Who is it? Why can’t I see the guy?

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Memorial Day

Copyright © 2013 Wayne Greenough

ISBN: 978-1-77111-424-0

Cover art by Carmen Waters

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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Smashwords Edition

Memorial Day

The Private Detective Murders 4

By

Wayne Greenough

To June, you’re my wife and that makes me a lucky guy.

Chapter One

It has been written many times, and verbalized a lot more often, that hardboiled detectives are cynical and old fashioned. They will take no live prisoners because they enjoy the sound of gunfire and the viewing of corpses. They believe in nothing because they have seen it all. In addition, what’s happening in the world around them makes them bone tired, weary, and stone-faced to where they never smile. A cloud of cigarette smoke is always surrounding them. They constantly booze on cheap liquor, are rough in speech and manner, and only by luck do they ever manage to solve their cases.

Every word in the above paragraph is true. I ought to know. I’m Private Detective Thanet Blake, and I’m sure as hell hardboiled in my attitude on life. My voice has a deep growl. Every word I say is slow, to the point, and reeks with danger. My face is overly rugged and has the appearance of a logging truck running over it.

Enough of that. I’ll enter the private detective beauty contest, next week—and yes, when they declare me the winner, I will graciously sign autographs.

Right now, it’s Memorial Day. I’ve already paid my respect to Father Jones’ grave. It’s located behind the church where he was the Pastor. He was a guy the world needed and offed by a guy the world didn’t need.

I’ve picked up Mother. She is presently sitting in the car next to me and being very quiet. Her nice looking, wrinkle-free, face is solemn and she’s dressed in respectful black. It’s that kind of day for her, and also for me. We’re on our way to do our traditional visiting of three graveyards.

At our first stop, we see cars parked haphazardly and everywhere. After a few minutes, I managed to squeeze the old Ford into a spot without whacking anybody’s car.

My car’s full of flowers. Mother grabs an armful and so do I. It’s a quiet and humble day for everybody we meet as we begin decorating the graves of those that we remember, and are no longer with us. Yet, in their special way, they are still with us by the memories we have of them—how they looked, the sound of their voice, their smile, their favorite flowers, a thousand things they liked.

Normally, I’m a very talkative guy. On Memorial Day, in the graveyards, I sew up my big mouth