Mr. Lovejoy's Little Secret

By Dana E. Donovan

Jerry Martin has a creative imagination, perhaps too creative. When a peculiar old man pulls up to Jerry’s quiet suburban home in a stretch limo and asks if he can come inside, his request leaves Jerry perplexed yet curious. The old man claims he once lived in the house some years ago and in a hasty move, had accidentally left something of sentimental value behind. Now he would like it back and will pay Jerry for his troubles if he’s allowed to go inside and retrieve it. The only catch is that Jerry cannot know what it is.

This is a short story taken from this author's book of short stories titles Death And Other Little Inconveniences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dana E. Donovan
• Release date: Nov 26, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452305431

Dana E. Donovan

Dana E. Donovan grew up in New England where folklore and superstitions can mold a town’s history as much as its people. Such is the phenomenon Donovan exploits in all his books, perpetuating the enigma of small town life and the belief in all that dies is not dead.

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Mr. Lovejoy’s Little Secret

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Dana E. Donovan © 2006, 2024

Author's notes: The stories in this book are based entirely on fiction and the storylines are derived solely from the imagination of the author. No characters, places, or incidents in this book are real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be copied or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, or otherwise, without the expressed written permission of the author or author’s agent.

Other books by Dana E. Donovan include:

Abandoned

Resurrection

Skinny

The Detective Marcella Witch’s Series:

The Witch’s Ladder

Eye of the Witch

The Witch’s Key

Bones of a Witch

Witch House

Kiss the Witch

Call of the Witch

Gone is the Witch

Return of the Witch

Bury the Witch

Soul of a Witch

The Last Witch

Mr. Lovejoy’s Little Secret

The limo pulled up to the house just as I was walking the trash out to the curb. It was Saturday morning, the sun was up over the trees, just barely, and the dog had already been walked and fed. Susan slept in. She had worked late the night before, but I expected her up at any moment.

The Gunther house across the street had a for-sale sign out on the lawn, so when the limo first stopped, I didn’t think much of it. The back window on the passenger side rolled down, and a portly-looking man with a bald head and sunburned cheeks peeked out.

Excuse me, he said in that, I am lost; can you give me directions, sort of voice. I figured he had to be lost. The nearest country club was over ten miles away, and the last time the neighborhood saw a limo like that was when Patty Higgins married Mathew Pratt. It was a shotgun wedding, and yes, I know what you are thinking. I did get with Brian Foley, and the two of us wrote all over the honeymoon car: Matt Pratt, what a rat, slept with Pat and got her fat. Patty’s father was not amused.

I told the man in the limo that the owners of the house across the street were out of town for the weekend and that if he wanted, I could take his name and have them call. He turned and looked over his shoulder at the sign on the lawn and laughed.

Oh, I see. No, that’s not why I’ve come. I’m here to see you.

I dropped the trash bag into the can and did the confused pointing to myself thing. Me? You want to talk to me?

Yes. That’s your house there, isn’t it? He nodded toward my humble abode.

It is, but my house is not for sale.

This made the man giggle like a schoolgirl. Oh, heavens, I’m not interested in buying your house.

That got me a little ticked. What’s the matter, not good enough for you?

What? Uh, no! Nothing like that. I didn’t mean to imply….

Well, you did. So, if you’ll excuse me, I palmed the lid of the trashcan and pushed it down with a grunt, I have things to do.

No, please! The little guy kicked open the car door and hopped out. He stood there like a Keebler elf, barely four-foot tall, but better dressed. His suit, impeccably tailored, fit his barrel chest like a woman’s glove: not a crease and smooth as silk. I squinted in the glare of the diamonds bejeweling his fingers and matching cufflinks. His watch (a Rolex, I think, though I can’t say I’ve ever really seen one up close) glistened like tinsel in the wake of the early morning sun.

I almost laughed at