Strains of Long Ago: a novelette

By B.A.L. McMillan

Galway is a lanky attorney-turned-handyman, desirous of being truly good at his new work. Letitia is a childless widow -- petite, bowed, and fearless. Letitia remembers a day when fellow student, Harold Wilson, climbed from an upstairs classroom window down a drainpipe.  He was so nimble.  "That was grand." she tells Galway.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liquid Amber Publishing
• Release date: Jan 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9780989503426

B.A.L. McMillan

B.A.L. McMillan is a Missouri writer originally from Gravel Hill, Missouri. She is a student of psychology, herbal medicine, folk lore, religion, animals, and of literature on the subjects of ghosts, witches, and angels. She writes traditional mysteries and fantasies.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 B.A.L. McMillan

All rights reserved.

Formatting and cover design by Stephanie Flint

ISBN-13: 978-0-9895034-1-9

ISBN-13: 978-0-9895034-2-6 (e-book)

LiquidAmber Publishing

Henderson, Nevada

Dedication

To those who guard the secrets of a heart.

~

Strains of Long Ago

~

GALWAY, AWAKENED BY A STORM AND STILL SLEEPY, DREW back the curtain, noting his neighbor’s kitchen light was on. Sometimes he thought Mrs. Dunbar never slept.

He showered and dressed quickly, then went downstairs and out onto the front porch. The rain had already stopped, but the air was misty. His newspaper, unwrapped, lay at the far end of the walk. The newspaper girl either did not have an arm or cared little about doing a good job. He didn’t really mind. He liked moving into the mist, liked the deep green of wet Missouri mornings.

In his kitchen, he carefully unfolded the newspaper, grateful the first page was readable. A brief article caught his attention: A long-time resident, Harold Wilson, had been found dead in his storm cellar, ostensibly from a blow to the head suffered during a fall. Foul play was not suspected, though Wilson’s wife, who found the body, informed police that some young men in the neighborhood had been causing problems. She didn’t know why her husband had been in the cellar at night.

Galway expected Mrs. Dunbar to be at his back door any moment, because this was exactly the kind of news item she always noted—one that posited a mystery and allowed her to conjecture. His previous profession—attorney—had intensified her interest in crime, particularly murder. He could often answer questions about procedure or possibilities. He hadn’t informed her, yet, that his short career as an attorney hadn’t been enjoyable, though he was quite good at it. He preferred to work with his hands, to spend leisurely time with good people, and to allow his mind to wander. He wasn’t lazy. He just wasn’t talented or focused. At least, that was his self-assessment.

At 9:00, concerned that Mrs. Dunbar had not come bustling over as he expected, Galway crossed the wet, thick grass to her house. She answered his knock still dressed in her robe, her hair down, long, gray, with a curl that belied her age. She nudged the screen door open,

Thought I’d check on you, he said, going inside. Something was wrong. Her slate-blue eyes, usually bright with good humor and intelligence, regarded him