You Think So?

By Joni Delrose

You Think So by Joni Delrose

Five Short Stories

The first story, You Think So, introduces a narcissist reporter, Jack, who is given an assignment to cover the murder of a young woman in Chicago. While walking with him through the gathering of facts, it becomes evident that he is manipulating the details. Why would he do that?

Then comes the Senior Snoop Sisters, Hennrietta and Mitsy Graham, who did not see their coming retirement as a dull, lifeless, unproductive destination. Figuring out puzzles and solving mysteries was what they enjoyed most. Retirement would give them a chance to soar.

Next we meet one of the Imperfect Angels, who had been shackled to a tragic past. Addiction became her survival. Will she be able to find the road to recovery despite betrayal?

Vials of Justice might make one wonder what it would be like if plants were found that could make one a genius with a photographic memory overnight. What would the cost be? Danger escalates when  trying to stop the manipulation of drug trial results to prevent loss of life.

Last, Ominous Illusion tip toes into a "could this be real?" world. Carrie McKenna is on her way to visit her grandmother but falls into that unrealized pocket of day dreaming while driving.  Lost, she enters a small town that seems beautiful but has many fearsome secrets.  Will she be able to escape in time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joan Griffin
• Release date: May 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223944959

Joni Delrose

Joni Delrose writes fictional mystery stories for adults. She enjoyed writing poetry in college but soon found story writing to be an addictive pleasure. Since retiring from the Library Science field, she has participated in and facilitated creative writing groups in her community. She is the mother of 4 children and resides with her husband in Elgin, Illinois. Faith and family are a priority and when not writing she enjoys studying everything from Quantum Physics, and Physiology to Cooking, Gardening, Natural Health remedies and practicing the “old ways” of living.

Book preview

You Think So

"Young Vocalist found Dead in Alley across from

Paragon Music Hall in Downtown Chicago.

Appeared to be Hit and Run"

My mind lingered in vast emptiness and chilling reality numbed each systematic body function. Why did I have to get that assignment? There were three other reporters with empty desks, so why me?

Smugly, my boss said, Jack, This is just the kind of thing you’re really good at, you’ll cover every angle. Charlie Capland is the detective you’ll need to get in touch with at the police station. The captain over there warned me that the guy is a bit brutal but excellent at what he does.

I could cover every angle all right I thought to myself, as my fingers settled into trembling movements across the keyboard.

Brenda Hepner, the victim, had been an alluring new country singer, whose genteel nature and raspy, sexy voice had pushed her forward to star status in the clubs around the Windy City.  She was a real looker too, a simple beauty with long hair the color of cattails, loosely tied back most of the time with a simple leather string. Her naive disposition regarding the honesty of those she dealt with was the charm that did her in. 

I wondered just how much that hard ass cop, Charlie Capland knew about her and this case.  Mindful that self-inflicted doom was hovering over my head like a vulture, I decided to pay him a visit right away to see if there was any sifting or juggling of evidence to be done.

The Police station was as run down as the neighborhoods it protected; with it’s out of date, grimy, over patched plastered walls.  As I entered, the sounds of continuous coughing and the rancid odor of filth and booze anesthetized me. The gray-haired, well-fed officer sitting behind his cluttered metal desk, flicking balled up gum wrappers into a small garbage can questioned me.

May I help you?

I need to talk to Charlie Capland. I replied.

He’s talking to a witness in his office right now, you’ll have to wait.

A witness?

Yeah, some old guy claims he saw the hit and run downtown last night.

The muscles in my neck tightened, and swallowing became difficult as the word witness took on the size and weight of a billiard ball in my throat.  Oh really, what guy? 

Surprisingly, without any hesitation he spewed what should have been confidential information.  It was old Willie.  He’s been livin’ on the streets down there probably half his life.

Feeling as though my head was suddenly clamped in a vice grip, I sat down, lit a cigarette and groped for a sense of composure.  Just as scenes from the night before started to replay in my head, Charlie appeared in the doorway.  His icy glare and weak suspicious handshake settled on my nerves like sandpaper.

What can I do for you Mr.......?

Jack, Jack Devlin, Mr. Capland.  I’m a reporter for the Chicago Post.  I was wondering what information you could give me on that hit and run.

He looked me up and down with the cunning of a leopard stalking its prey, as if every inch of me was a puzzle piece to be configured and consumed.  Then, relinquishing professional courtesy, he asked me to sit down.

Well Jack, we’re still gathering the facts, but I’ll tell you what we know so far. As a matter of fact, Mr. O’Brian here is just leaving, but has helped me immensely.

Cautiously, Willie O’Brian stepped out from behind this tall, sturdy specimen of the police force.  Deeply embedded wrinkles, like the defining marks of an old oak tree, puckered the darkened skin of this dwarfed little man.  Faded blue eyes that carried both sadness and signs of reckless pleasure highlighted a rather large, porous, red nose.  There was a wide, rippled scar running down the lower left half of his face, and another circling the right side of his neck. This aging soul was unmistakably marked with the visible wounds of a vagrant existence.  Although, he seemed quite coherent at that moment, dirty, tattered clothes reeking of cheap vodka exposed his addictive life style.

He spoke no words, but through squinting eyes, scanned my face several times. The air thickened with animosity as he took off his crumpled black hat with his left hand, then pressed the fingers of his right hand across his temples. He looked over at Capland and back at me.

Capland, with his blood hound senses asked, "Have you and Jack already met, Willie?

Raising his right eyebrow, Willie shot accusation from his eyes to mine, yet he calmly replied, No—-I don’t guess we have.

I realized that this would be a good time to develop an opening to get to meet with Willie later.  I quickly forced a smile and jokingly mentioned, No, we have never met but he seems like the kind of guy we could learn the secrets of the world from, don’t you think?  Maybe I should have coffee with him sometime. 

Disdain was evident on Willie’s face as he raised his hand to wave a quick see ya later and turned to head for the door.

Charlie walked over to shut the door behind him, and told the officer sitting at the desk outside to catch Willie and make sure he had picked up the item they had spoken about.

Oh yeah, right. I’ll make sure he gets it Charlie.

Charlie sat down, leaning the heavy leather chair back on two legs as he twirled a pencil between his hands.

So, what do you think of our witness Jack?

With moderate aggression I responded. The man is old and a drunk.  Lawyers would shred his eyewitness account to pieces in five minutes if it came down to it and you know it.  Charlie Capland just looked down at that damn pencil again, grinning, and said, you think so?

I wondered why the grin but was more anxious to find out just what Willie had told him.  As I was about to proceed in prodding him, he got off the chair and started pacing back and forth, slapping that pencil on the palm of his hand as he walked and talked.

We have pulled in and questioned the two girls that Brenda Hepner worked with. They were back up singers in her band and these simmering songbirds have given us a second hand description of a man who was a regular visitor to her shows. Brenda told them he was a songwriter. Actually, she was supposed to meet the guy outside the music hall last night.

What do you mean second hand description?

They never saw the guy themselves but Brenda had described him to them. She was obsessed with him, talking about him all the time.

I jotted down notes, with an ebb of arrogance as he talked, thinking to myself that none of the evidence he had was worth anything.

What about this Willie character, I pursued. What did he tell you?

Forthcoming conviction seemed to establish his expression and he sneered at me before continuing.

The poor girl was standing in front of the alley across the street from the Paragon Music Hall, when a blue Taurus screamed out from around the corner and crushed her up against the wall before she new what happened, before she could move. Willie O’Brian was sitting half behind a trash bin and said the driver sat there staring at her for a moment before he sped off towards Michigan Avenue. 

My concern was ignited Did he see who the driver was? 

Charlie walked over to a grand window, which, unfortunately, only overlooked the parking lot.  He stood there silent for a long time, trying to torture me I suspect. When he finally spoke, his speech was slow and deliberate.  He purposely wanted to tell me and yet not tell me.

Well—-we think he did.

By now my patience had totally disintegrated and I demanded, What do you mean, ‘we think he did?’ Did he or didn’t he!

I later pondered his facial cast of satisfaction as he ignored my obvious agitation and simply replied, okay, yes he did give us a pretty precise description of the driver.

Without thinking, I jumped in with a dissecting demeanor.

Oh hell, how could that old coot see anything? He’s probably half blind and there wasn’t even a street light where she was standing.

Capland quickly halted his pacing and focused his eyes directly on mine.  His jaw stiffened as he asked, How did you know that?

My heart stopped briefly then took off with the pounding rapidity of elephant feet in a stampede. My lungs closed off like flattened bellows, and I gasped, suddenly aware that my one, thoughtless statement baited Capland to size me up as a suspect. Like a fortuitous mantra the word relax kept repeating in my head, slowly bringing my erupting blood pressure down and restoring enough deep breaths to respond to his question.

I spit words out as if each were coated with hot pepper; I called earlier and got the address off the police report so I could drive by the scene.

Skepticism framed his expression as he tossed the pencil onto the desk and said,

I see.

Panic still reeling in the back of my mind, all I could think of was getting the heck out of there. I also remembered I needed to ambush Willie before the day was over. 

Well, Mr. Capland, thank you for your time. You have given me enough answers and questions to develop a good story. May I check back with you tomorrow to see if any other evidence has shown up?

The words, Sure, you do that slowly dripped from his mouth as he plopped down into the chair and twirled it towards the window again. 

I truly was confounded by the calculated rudeness of this captain of the crime-buster fraternity, who magnified the word pompous to new heights.  In my haste, I forgot to attain the actual description of the driver and record it.  I wasn’t about to go back in there again though. Besides, there were other things on my mind at the moment, like finding out where Willie was so I could see if his affirmation of what happened could be dissolved.

As my feet hit the pavement of the parking lot, I turned back to see if Capland might be watching me from that window of his. One quick spasm of fear shot across my body as I considered what his reaction would be if he saw me get into my sparkling clean blue Taurus. I was relieved to see the vacant window but accelerated my departure anyway.

I drove in the direction of Wacker Drive downtown, knowing that this was the place where one could come face to face with nomadic destitution.  Most people blocked out the sights and sounds of the mentally handicapped and physically decrepit creatures they saw wandering down the street there.  Surely this would be the place to find old Willie, I suspected.

It didn’t take long to discover his bony body sprawled out on a park bench, near the town fountain. His hand clutched the worn out black hat resting on his chest, as if it was the only prideful possession that still linked him to accepted society. 

The blue Taurus was safely tucked away in a parking garage before I walked up and shook Willie awake.

Hey Willie, How ya doin’, remember me?

It took a lot of effort for him just to rise to a sitting position, but once up, he used surprising determination to adjust his hat to exactly the right position on his head. He looked straight forward, not even acknowledging that I was there. Swallowing my irritation, the tone of my voice hardened as I spoke again.

HEY WILLIE, IT’S JACK, REMEMBER ME—-the reporter from the police station? I need to talk to you about the accident last night, you know, about what you think you saw.

Contorting his expression he mumbled, Ha, you think you’re so smart. You know that weren’t no accident.

Thinking I could somehow mix up his thoughts I answered with a question, What do you mean?  If I knew what happened, would I be sitting here asking you?

I saw you take her out, that poor kid.  You didn’t think any one was there—-but I was. I saw you. Why’d you kill her?

Patience totally escaped me and forgetting my mission of trying to convince him otherwise, I lost it, sounding off like a criminal trapped in a corner.

Okay you old cadger, so you saw me, so what. Do you think anyone will believe a half-blind drunk? I don’t think so. Maybe you should start watchin’ your back, cause you could wind up just like her.

He displayed no fear at my threat, just repeated, "Why’d ya do it man?

Sometimes you just get backed into a corner Willie and the only way to protect yourself is to do away with the problem. The little lady found out that I had sold her someone else’s songs to pay for some Internet stock trading losses. I let her believe that I wrote them.  Even though she said she loved me, Brenda was going to turn me in.  What else could I do, right?

Just as I finished