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|Tempting Fate (standard:Suspense, 1909 words)|
|Author: Hulsey||Added: Jun 16 2011||Views/Reads: 1644/657||Story 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 pipedream. 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 bosom. 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 weather.” 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.” “So.” 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 Click here to read the rest of this story (194 more lines)
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