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Tempting Fate (standard:Suspense, 1909 words)
Author: HulseyAdded: Jun 16 2011Views/Reads: 3259/1726Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A complex tale of blackmail.

Carl Forester, a not so successful private investigator, lounged on the
decking of his caravan, nibbled at his toast, and admired the 
picturesque view of Lake Windermere. Several colourful yachts drifted 
on the calm, pond like surface of the lake, and Forester was envious of 
the owners. One day, he promised himself, he would own such a wondrous 
craft, but with business less than thriving, that day may be just a 

He sipped his tepid coffee and heard the approaching sound of a motor,
which heralded the return of his wife, Gemma. She carried the groceries 
towards the caravan, and Forester noticed that several of the male 
occupants of other caravans were paying her too much attention. His 
jealousy by now was curtailed, as he was accustomed to her admirers, 
ogling his redheaded wife with the hourglass figure and the ample 

After putting away the groceries, Gemma joined her husband. She placed
the newspapers before him, before settling back on her lounger, with 
her long slender legs resting on the veranda. She pushed her sunglasses 
to the top of her head, before pestering her husband once more. 

Darling, how about we go abroad next year? I mean, the Lake District is
beautiful, but we've been coming here for seven years now. I'm sure 
that we could save...” 

“Not again,” moaned Forester, abandoning the story of President Obama
visiting the Queen. “We have this same bloody conversation every year. 
When business picks up, then perhaps I'll consider a holiday abroad. 
Besides, you said yourself that you like it here... You have beautiful 
scenery, serenity, and sunshine. What more could you possibly want?” 

“An exotic beach with palm trees, clear blue waters, constant sunshine,
and a permanent tan. Anything appeals more than this inconsistent 

Forester scowled. “Such holidays cost money; money that we don't have.” 

“And whose fault is that? I mean, you were earning more money as a
plod... You and your romantic, absurd dreams. We live in York and not 
Los Angeles, Carl... Insurance scams and spying on cheating spouses 
hardly compares with Sam Spade.” 

Forester ignored the moans of his wife and returned to his newspaper. A
yacht passed close to the shore and the two young sailors wolf whistled 
at Gemma. She smiled, welcoming the boisterous attention. 

Forester peered over his newspaper and gave the youths his middle
finger. “If you didn't dress like a bloody teenager on heat, then you 
wouldn't attract all of this undue attention... You're thirty-two, 
Gemma, so act your age, eh?” 

He read on, until he came across an article that interested him greatly.
“No! This cannot be... He's only gone and done it hasn't he?” 

Gemma removed her sunglasses and squinted, her large blue eyes
registering disinterest. “Who's done what, Carl?” 

“Gregory Lonsdale's wife, Sally and his business partner, Peter Fancourt
were drowned in the Indian Ocean.” 

“Who?” shrugged Gemma. 

“Lonsdale was the barrister who hired me in April to investigate his
wife. He believed that she was having an affair with Fancourt.” 


Forester prodded his newspaper. “He hired me to follow his wife, Sally,
and I discovered that she was secretly meeting with Fancourt. I was 
unable to gain access to Fancourt's flat, as it is a security-based 
establishment... So, I report my findings to Lonsdale and suggest that 
with more time, I could find sufficient evidence. He disagreed; paying 
me handsomely before dismissing me.” 

Gemma lit up a cigarette. “So what exactly are you suggesting?” Forester

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