The Food Critic’s Murder – Part 1 by Maxine Flam, white wine

The Food Critic’s Murder – Part 1 –White Wine

‘It is my distinct pleasure to be your new food critic,’ the newspaper column began. The prior critic, Mr. Johansen, has retired as his eyesight and poor taste had caught up to him. He visited local restaurants for years and always thought the food was excellent. How exceptionally boring! I will have an opportunity to revisit these places and I will give you my opinion which I believe will greatly differ from his. Not only are these places overrated but overpriced for the portions received. In most of the places, I will also review the beer, wine, and mixed drinks if available. I prefer French wine but will sample what is available. Stay tuned for my first review.

Jean Claude Dubois was happy with his typed introductory column and was pleased with himself. I’ll shake things up in Los Angeles. My column will be in the Sunday Food section of their biggest paper, The Journal. After my reviews come out, the slobs who own these places will get on their hands and knees to beg for another opportunity to please me. I’ll have so much power over these peons. That’s glorious.

##

Early Monday morning Joe Miller and Bill Kelby of the Major Case Squad came to work and Joe brought up the Sunday food column.

            ‘Hey Bill, do you read the food section of the paper?’

            ‘No, the wife does. I’m the sports section kind of guy,’ replied Kelby half-laughing.

            ‘Me too, but something weird happened in the Sunday paper and I brought it in to show you.’

            ‘Well, I’m waiting to hear what was weird?’ said Kelby.

            ‘The old food critic is gone and some new hotshot has taken his place and he could be potential trouble. Bill, you gotta read his opening column,’ said Miller.’

            Kelby read the column and agreed with his partner. ‘This guy could tick off a lot of people…’

‘But, it’s just words… Aw come on, you don’t think when he actually starts reviewing these places, he’ll stir up trouble and someone might off him?’ said Miller.

            ‘It’s possible. People I know used to read the old guy and if the new guy gives a restaurant a bad review, it could cause people to stop going there. The old guy never gave horrible reviews. My wife said that he would try several dishes and maybe one wouldn’t be good but he wouldn’t focus on that. This guy sounds like he’s out for blood,’ replied Kelby.

            ‘There’s nothing we can do until, if, or when, something happens. Come on, we have real cases to deal with.’

##

            The next six weeks, Mr. Dubois visited Los Angeles’ favorite restaurants and wrote his scathing reviews.

To La Bamba de la Rosa, Mexican Food.

            The atmosphere reminded me of a stable where donkeys were housed. In fact, it smelled the same way. The salsa was watery and tasteless. It went well with the overly-salted tortilla chips. I ordered the chicken burrito and beef taco. Some poor bird gave its life for that burrito. The meat was scarce and what meat I could find was of a poor quality. The beef taco was ground beef. It made the shell soggy and impossible to pick up and eat.  The margarita had too much salt on the rim and not enough alcohol to kill the taste of the food.

##

            ‘I think the war of the food critic has begun,’ said Miller.

            ‘Why?’ responded Kelby.

            ‘You didn’t see the paper yesterday?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘He started off with that little Mexican place the missus and I go to on occasion. He ripped up the burritos and tacos and said the margaritas were light on the alcohol,’ replied Miller.

            ‘Was he right?’ inquired Kelby.

            ‘I didn’t think so but we haven’t been there recently.’

            ‘Maybe the quality's gone down, you think?’ asked Kelby.

            ‘I don’t know. But I do think he’s here to stir up trouble and he started with a neighborhood restaurant. This isn’t good.’

##

To Marcharelli’s, Italian Food

The owners tried to recreate a piece of Italy as their menu says. What part of Italy? I say, it must be the boot, the bottom of the boot. The spaghetti wasn’t cooked enough for my taste. They say it’s Al Dente, firm but not hard. Someone forgot to tell the chef what that meant. I asked for meat sauce. I received uncooked lumps on top of my hard noodles. The eggplant had too much breading on it. When I cut into it, I couldn’t find the eggplant. Then they put a healthy portion of cheese and sauce on it to cover their mistake. I decided to have a glass of red wine with my meal. It was their House wine which tasted like vinegar. So I couldn’t even kill the taste of the bad food with the alcohol.

##

‘Joe, did you see the food critic’s review of that little Italian place on 5^th Street over the weekend.’

‘I did and he raked that place over the coals. I’ve been there and the food isn’t anywhere as bad as he said. In fact, I like their eggplant,’ said Kelby.

‘I told you he was here to make trouble.’

‘This was week two. Let’s wait and see what he does next week.’

##

To Old American Burger Company and Bandstand

I figured I’d at least get a decent meal here but I was wrong. I ordered a burger no seasoning; French fries no salt, and a microbrew beer on tap. Either the order was written down wrong even though I made the server repeat the order back and confirm they could make it ‘my way’ or the cook couldn’t read.  What I received was a charcoal blackened briquette of a piece of meat, oh how that poor cow gave its life for that burger. Then, the burger must have sat under a warming light for quite a while because it was served ice cold. How is it possible to get a burnt cold burger? The fries had extra salt instead of no salt. The only redeeming part of the meal was the beer. She actually brought it without spilling any of it, and it had a head on it.

##

            ‘Holy cows Bill, my kids went nuts when we told them what was said about their favorite burger place,’ stated Miller.

            ‘Are you and the wife still going to go there?’ said Kelby in a surprised voice.

            ‘Well to be honest, I don’t know. After this review, maybe not,’ replied Miller.

            ‘You’re going to let the critic think for you?’

            ‘Well, he’s right about the fries. I always did think they were too salty but the wife and kids liked them so I said okay.’

            ‘If more people thought like you, the place won’t have any customers,’ said Kelby.

            ‘Nah, that won’t happen…will it?’

##

To Three Headed Dragon Bar and Grill

I’m not a fan of Asian food because most of the menu is rice and noodle dishes so I purposely stay away from those and order something else. So I picked two meat dishes plus egg rolls and egg drop soup hoping to have leftovers the next day. I should have known better than to order so much food. I couldn’t even give it to my neighbor’s dog. What a waste. The soup was watery with bits of water chestnuts but where was the egg? You needed a microscope to find it. The egg rolls were hot but mushy inside. I had to ask three times for hot mustard and then they gave me two measly packets. Is there a embargo with China on mustard these days? My main dishes were BBQ pork which was fatty and stringy. Poor quality of meat. I tried the Honey Walnut Chicken which was a little too sweet for me but the chicken was white meat and the nuggets were a decent size. If they had less coating on it, it would have been good. I had hot green tea but the refills weren’t free. For the prices they charge, can’t they give free refills on the tea? That’s appalling. I had a bottle of beer which was fine since the only way they could wreck a beer in a bottle was it not being cold and I saw the beers were in the cooler before I ordered it.

##

            ‘Oh, no another horrible review,’ said Miller.

            ‘Yeah and my wife loves Three Headed Dragon. We usually get the Mongolian beef and fried rice but he is right about the egg rolls. I never did like them.’

            ‘Would you go back?’

            ‘Probably and just order what we always do. But I can see your point. People are going to shy away from trying these places that are being singled out as having bad food. And paying a lot of money for it,’ replied Kelby.

##

To Le Petite Fleur French Restaurant

            Being French, I hold these places to a higher standard. So I tried three standard French items starting with French onion soup which I absolutely love. This place dropped an entire salt shaker in it ruining that delicate onion flavor. The next supposed delicacy I tried was Salmon en papillote which is fish delicately wrapped in paper to hold the moisture in. Someone forgot the paper. Dry and tasteless salmon needing, dare I say it, lemon and dill. They should be ashamed. Finally Lamb shank navarin which is lamb that is cooked low and slow until it melts in the mouth but instead this critic received lamb that was cooked high and fast and resembled the burger I had at the American restaurant. The only highlight of the evening was being able to order French wine which I knew would be good so I ended up spending another evening drinking my dinner.

##

            ‘Hey Miller, you ever eat in the French place?’

            ‘Are you kidding? I couldn’t afford having an appetizer there.’

            ‘I think people who have money may think twice before returning.’

            ‘I think you’re right. What a shame,’ replied Miller.

##

To Eggs Are our Specialty

            I had to assume that anything for breakfast that contained eggs and their side dishes were their specialty too. Wrong. The chickens gave up their eggs under duress and the food tasted like it. I didn’t think I could get rubber eggs but I did. I ordered two simple meals. Two eggs over easy, hash browns no salt, and sourdough toast, no butter, butter on the side with jelly on the side. I got two eggs over hard, hash browns that had more salt than the saltshaker on the table, white toast burnt with extra butter. I sent it back. I ordered a cheese omelet, with pancakes, no butter. I received the omelet but couldn’t find the cheese, and pancakes with butter. I truly think that the waiters don’t hear what is said or write down the opposite to piss the customer off. I sent the meal back and just had coffee. At least the coffee was black and hot and they left the carafe on the table so I could have refills whenever I wanted. Too bad, it was morning. I could have used a drink after this lack of a good meal.

##

‘I have to admit he was right about Eggs are our Specialty. I haven’t eaten there in years. The eggs are rubber. You can’t ever get them cooked the way you want, the hash browns are too salty and I always ask for sourdough toast and they bring me white. After a couple of times of that nonsense, I stopped going there,’ said Miller.

            ‘See, if enough people agree with him, these places will go out of business.’

            ‘Well, maybe some of them should, if they serve bad or cold food or have water downed drinks or rotten service. Restaurants have to be competitive. If I’m paying good money, I expect things to be right.’

            ‘I guess he found a convert in you but I suspect he is walking on thin ice. He better watch his step,’ said Kelby.

 

About the author

 Since becoming disabled in 2015, Maxine took up her passion for writing. She has been published several times in the Los Angeles Daily News, The Epoch Times, Nail Polish Stories, DarkWinterLit, BrightFlashLiteraryReview, OtherwiseEngagedLit, CafeLit, Maudlin House, and TheMetaworker.com. 

 

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So Far Away by Robin Wrigley, pink gin

When you live in Dunkirk, a small town on the banks of Lake Erie, you really don’t understand much about the world and the peoples in it. That all changed on Thanksgiving this year when I drove over to Boston to stay with my older brother Andy. He had an Australian guy called Michael staying with him.

            This was the first year that I was spending out of Dunkirk as I lost my Mom back in the summer. Dad had already passed two years earlier. Andy usually came to us on Thanksgiving and sometimes at Christmas.

            That was two weeks ago and this morning as I was putting the coffee on it struck me for the first time, that I’m going to drink this on my own. Meeting Michael made me feel lonely for the first time in my life. Usually, my life teaching maths at Dunkirk High kept me busy and always had. That, looking after Mom in her last years and keeping her guessing about the apparent lack of a man in my life.

            But now little old me has gone and fallen hook, line, and sinker in love at the age of forty-eight with a damned guy who lives in a place I know nothing about, Australia. When we met, I felt such a parochial dummy I was even surprised we spoke the same language.

That’s what living in a small town in nowheresville in New York State, does to you.

            ‘So, this is Andy’s little sister Mary all the way from Niagara Falls.’ Michael was a bit short for my liking in men. But his wavy dark hair and the most piercing blue eyes made up for all that lack of height.

            ‘Correction,’ I stammered as we shook hands. ‘I live in Dunkirk, a fair drive from Niagara.’

            ‘Dunkirk? Isn’t that in France?’

            ‘Sure, that one is but my Dunkirk’s where Andy and I were born and on the south shore of Lake Erie. That’s one of the Great Lakes in case you never heard of it.’

            It wasn’t one of best starts to a relationship but the welcoming group of Andy’s family, his wife Maggie and their two boys were definitely enjoying it and mainly at my expense.

            That night at the dinner table where Maggie had put me next to Mike, I got the chance to find out a little more of this foreigner. He lived in Melbourne lectured at university in geology. That was his connection with my brother, a geologist with a mining company.

            The following morning, I was up before everyone else, or so I thought, when I walked into the kitchen Mike was at the table on his laptop.

            ‘Gee Michael, I’m sorry I expected to be first up.’

            ‘No worries, Mary. I’m pleased in many ways but at this moment, are you allowed to start the coffee percolator?’ That smile. Those eyes.

            ‘I think I might manage that, Michael. How do you take your coffee?’

            ‘Firstly, it’s Mike. I haven’t been called Michael since I was a boy. Just plain old black please.’

Now, taking my coffee into the veranda overlooking the lake I sat down and reviewed my time in Boston. I suppose it was inevitable that my affair with a married colleague ending when his wife discovered our affair and Michael’s recent divorce made late night room changes in my brother’s house inevitable. Leastways that was how I looked at it.

            Now I’m drinking coffee on my own and thinking doesn’t anyone stay in one place anymore?

About the author 

Robin'd short stories have appeared in CafeLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed. 

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Mother Knows Best or Maybe Not by Lynn Clement, a pint of Guinness and a pickled egg

 

Mother said, ‘don’t do it. You’ll regret it if you do.’

Well, that was a red rag to a bull, so I went ahead and married Godfrey Chambers, vicar of the parish and all-round good egg.

‘Boring,’ said Mother. ‘You’ll be having an affair within ten months.’

She should know. She was at it after her shot-gun wedding to my father. No wonder he scarpered not long after I was born. And now she’s on her own, picking men up in various bars and bingo halls. She’s anyone's for a pint of Guinness and a pickled egg.

Her latest fella is police officer, Lionel Monks - dresses like a dandy – all pink silk cravats and striped blazers. He covers his bald patch with a straw boater wrapped with a green ribbon. I’m sure that might go down well in Henley, but he looks a sight when he pulls up on his push-bike outside Mother’s London council flat.

Last week he had beer bottles thrown at him by the hoodies. That’s what he calls them – ‘the hoodies.’ I think he thinks he’s David Cameron or something. I hope he doesn’t go round trying to hug them, or he’ll find out what happens to pigs - on bikes.

Mother asked me to get her a pregnancy testing kit on Monday! By Tuesday she’d realized she wasn’t pregnant after peeing on the stick. I tried to tell her you don’t do that anymore – pee on the stick – and besides that, at seventy-three years old, it was highly unlikely that she was pregnant by Lionel, or any of her other random pick-ups. I suggested she gets an STI test, but she doesn’t listen.

Lionel is taking her roller discoing next week. She’s bought herself some of those long neon pink socks to go over her green Lycra leggings. She knows she’s got a matching towelling headband somewhere in the dump that she calls a spare bedroom – which is all now in the hallway as she searches for the band.

She made me order her a -‘NYC Girls Rock’ sweatshirt from Amazon, because I’ve got Prime, and she absolutely must have it for her date with Lionel. I hope he doesn’t think it’s a hoodie and she’s in league with the bad boys on her estate.

Mind you, if he’d seen her the other day under the stairs of the flats, doing a dirty deal with the spliff-king, J’eavon, he might think twice.

I hope she remembers what the orthopedic surgeon said about her replacement hip. She’ll have to wait months, if not years, to have it done again after she fractured her last one down The Legion, when she tried her hand, hips, and everything else at pole dancing. ‘It’s for charity,’ she said, ‘raising money for orphaned kittens,’ she said. She was in hospital for weeks.

When I went to see her, Godfrey gave me a lift in his new Maserati MC20. He wouldn’t go up to the ward though. He waited in the car.

‘She does my head in,’ he said.

I said, ‘that’s not very vicarish,’ and he smiled, his eyes twinkling.

We have eight children, so I can happily say life has not been boring with Godfrey.

          Mother quite fancies him really. She pinched his bottom last year at the Old Folks Community Hall Christmas lunch.

I think that’s why Godfrey wouldn’t go in the hospital to see her. He was frightened that she’d be in her see-through nightie again.

And that’s another story!

About the author

Lynn is a regular writer for Cafelit. Her first flash fiction collection, The City of Stories,' is published by Chapeltown Books. See 5-star reviews - #amazonthecityofstorieslynnclement Lynn has stories in The Best of Cafelit 11 12 & 13. 

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A Letter to Sarah, Porchester, 1814 by Jane Spirit, a glass of ale

I have shared so much with you, Sarah, over the long years since I was first brought to your shores. I fear that you will think it strange that I cannot share in your joy today, though I can understand it. After so much time, a generation’s worth of dreary days, how wonderful it must seem to you to hear the declaration of peace upon the harbourside and to join the crowds as they stream up the hill towards the market square. There everyone will converge to raise a glass of ale, share food and cheer for the victory that they can finally proclaim over Napoleon. You must forgive me if I cannot share in the jubilation of the swelling voices and clapping hands I can hear from my own small room where I sit silently, shutters drawn. It is not that I do not welcome the coming moment when the beacon at the top of the square will be lit to commemorate the end of war. It is just that for me those flames do not signify hope for the future. My future has been taken from me, as has my past, for I can never again savour the place that once sustained me, from which I was removed, a victim of your war. You have been a true friend to me, and I am grateful, but for now it is better that I stay quietly by our fire attending only to the long-ago griefs rekindled in its dying embers.

As every day, I think of you, my poor newborn baby, your first cry breaking through the wall of inertia I had built against the endless buffeting of ocean winds and the sickness that never quite went away however accustomed I became to the shifting waves. You must have been disturbed by the change in the ship’s direction and its gradual slowing. My pains began as we were being guided into the harbour by smaller vessels who ploughed ahead to lead us in. We prisoners were being fetched from below in what seemed like a rare gesture of kindness but was probably intended merely to speed up our allocation to sea or land once we had docked in the harbour. I held on till almost the last gasp before falling to the floor and screaming with pain in a way that alarmed the young officer who had been placed in charge of us and who called for the ship’s doctor to come and examine me. I scarcely needed his attentions as the rush of birth came on fiercely after that and the doctor had only time to catch you in his arms, moaning about his best jacket being blooded and then secure the cord before passing you on to me to be cradled and fed, wrapped in an old seaman’s shirt. When I looked at you, I saw that you were such a thing of beauty, a light of new life shining in that dark cave-hold where we were stowed as cargo during the months of our crossing. I held you close for the joy of taking deep breaths; the perfume of your skin an antidote to the pressing smell of unwashed bodies otherwise relieved only by the lingering tang of salt water used to swab our quarters from time to time. I drank you in and when I touched your skin it was as if I stroked again, oh so gently, the strong and even sapling that had grown steadily outside my ancestral home, its branches thrusting upwards to the far reaches of our starry skies, but also outwards ready one day to shade us from the searing sun. Seeing you took me back there, son, to my birth home and yours, where you came into being in a wordless act of love and, not knowing that you had been robbed of your inheritance, of the sun, the stars, the tree, lay low, cocooned within me, until the time had come to make your entrance.

My darling, my hope, my remnant of that older and oh so precious life before our capture and removal from the island home of our youth, in chains, lulled by the creaking rhythms of the voyage only to be woken, as were you my precious boy, by the cold reality of our destination, moored up so tantalisingly close to land, but made to stay on board until our fate had been decided. And then came the women of the port, employed to make our daily pottage and to swab the decks. You were one of them, Sarah, and there was something kindly in your face that made me certain you could never look upon my baby and hate me. He was a thing of beauty, and no-one surely would begrudge him the air he breathed or breast that suckled him. Like the other women you could not help but smile to see him, bringing little gifts and trinkets hidden in the rags we wrapped him in. You ran your fingers through my boy’s hair and touched his tiny nose with your first finger, talking slowly, confidentially as if in hope that he would somehow understand you. It was you who called him Chester as you gestured to the fortress walls alongside which our ship had sunk its anchor saying ‘Por-chest-er’ repeatedly and waiting with your finger pointing to my mouth until I copied you to signify the castle where we had landed and then my son’s English name. And as you came and went, teaching us new words upon each visit, we were left bobbing in the harbour: A human surplus kept separate, perhaps for fear that, if others saw us, they might think us too like them to hate us anymore.

You tried, Sarah, to help as Chester sickened with a fever, becoming fretful as he weakened, no longer focussing his bright eyes, or seeking out our smiles. You wept with me when he died as we let him gently down into the harbour deeps, though you would not let me pray for death, embracing me as if you knew the meaning of the words I uttered in the depth of my despair.

He would have grown to be a man by now, Sarah, and you have helped me all these years, persuading the authorities that I should be lodged with you until the war was over as if you knew that, in time, the townspeople would grow accustomed to my presence. They watch me now without fear in their eyes as I work in the stubbly field behind your cottage to tend the little crops we grow before sitting down together beneath the shelter of the little oak that has grown there over time.

I was lucky to be rescued by you, Sarah, and I thank you in the language you have taught me for the aid you gave me. Still, you know, as I do, that your story is not my story. Mine runs another course, told in a different tongue, on an island place across the oceans, moons away, and ended long ago when my husband fought back against your people and was struck down and I travelled the seas by force to birth my child who sickened on that coffin-boat.

You deserve your celebration, Sarah, your moment of joy, as I deserve my chance to muse upon past happiness and sorrow. Do not search for me on your return. I plan to rest for a time under the oak tree where we buried Chester’s trinkets, and then at dusk to take myself down to the deserted harbour and watch the incoming tide from the rocks below the castle. Think of me as I will be there, happy for a time, alone, content, then leaning ever closer to the swell to share my whispered story with the sea.

About the author

Jane Spirit lives in Suffolk UK and has been inspired to write fiction by going along to her local creative writing class. 

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Warned by Louise Arnott,soda

As Tyler pulled into the parking lot in his brother’s blue Honda Civic, Kara bounded out of Dairy Queen at the end of her shift and leaned in through his open window.’ Wow, Tyson let you have Civi tonight? I want behind the wheel. Come on. You know I’m a good driver. Just for a while. Please.’

 Tyler hesitated. Kara would likely dump him if she didn’t get her way but if Tyson found out, Tyler would never be allowed to borrow Civi again. Which would be worse - losing the girl or his car privileges?

Knowing in his gut this was a bad idea, he specified, ‘O‑kay, but no speeding, no fooling around.’ He eased out from behind the wheel.

Kara shoved past him, adjusted the seat and fiddled with the rear-view mirror.’ You are so not fun.’

‘You can only drive for a few minutes. Pay attention to what you are doing.’

Kara turned the key in the ignition, shoved in the clutch, revved the motor, and shifted, landing in third rather than first gear. The car lurched and stalled.

She giggled. ‘Oops, missed.’

Tyler protested, ‘I thought you knew how to drive a stick shift. Let me…’

‘I’ve got this, Tyler.’ She ground the gears, finally landed in first, popped the clutch and gave the car enough gas to keep it going. The car lurched forward.

Tyler grumbled. ‘Don’t ride the clutch. You’re going to burn it out.’

Kara stuck out her tongue. ‘Don’t be a backseat driver. I said I’ve got this.’

‘Don’t go past the shop - Tyson’s working, that’s why I get to drive her.’ Tyler drummed his fingers on the dashboard.’ And don’t go by my house. If Mom sees us, she’ll tell him.’

The next three shifts were smoother and Kara brashly headed for the highway exit.’ Let’s see what Civi will do. Tyson will never know.’

‘He will. He checks the odometer before and after I’ve borrowed her.’

      She rolled her eyes.’ Does weird run in your family?’ Rhythmically tapping her fingers on the steering wheel she said, ‘you should just turn back the mileage. I bet there’s a you-tube about how to do it.’

Tyler shook his head in disgust. What was with her and rules, anyway?

He suddenly saw what Kara was about to do and shrieked, ‘Don’t.’

Too late.

She recklessly swerved into traffic, missing a Fed-Ex truck by inches. The driver laid on the horn and Tyler dug his fingertips into the dashboard.

Kara cracked up. ‘You’re an old man at seventeen.’

‘Stop it. Keep both hands on the wheel.’ Tyler sat, knees locked, right hand in a death grip on the ‘oh shit’ handle. ‘Kara, watch the road. You’re gonna get us killed.’

Blue flashing lights in the rear-view mirror and the whoop of a siren startled Kara. She over-steered, veering into the right lane. The car pulled in behind her and the siren whooped again. A no-nonsense voice came through the police car’s public address system.

‘Pull over and stop the car. Immediately, Kara.’

‘Rats. It’s my dad. Why’s he out on patrol?’

Frantic, Tyler searched for Tyson’s insurance and car registration in the glove compartment. Kara checked her makeup and fiddled with her hair in the rear-view mirror. She impatiently revved the car engine.

‘Oh man, oh man, oh man! Shut off the engine, Kara. Now. We are in so much trouble. Kara, don’t anything else. I never should have…’

‘Cool it, Tyler. It’s just my dad. He’ll give me a blast and tell you off for letting me drive with only my learner’s licence.’

‘Learner’s?’

‘Yeah, but I get my Novice one next month.’

Sergeant Grayson walked along the passenger side of the car and lit up the interior with his Maglite.

‘Tyler Morrison, I thought you’d have more sense. Does your brother know what you are doing?’ He took the paperwork from Tyler’s shaking hand.

‘Yes, Sir, I mean, No sir, Mr. …um Sergeant Grayson.’

Sergeant Grayson shifted his flashlight, illuminating his daughter’s face. ‘Licence.’

‘Oh, Daddy, don’t be silly. You’ve known me my whole life.’

He snapped his fingers. ‘Licence.’

She pulled out her wallet and tossed it in his direction. Tyler caught it and handed it over.

‘Here, Sir. I’m sorry, she didn’t mean …Sorry, Sir.’

Sergeant Grayson took the wallet and paperwork and strode to the police car. He was gone for several agonizing minutes.

‘Are you brainless?’ Tyler wrenched the keys out of the ignition.

Kara shrugged; Tyler was history.

The Sergeant returned the paperwork to Tyler. ‘I could have the car impounded. The driver, with only her learner’s licence, was recklessly driving an uninsured vehicle, which is not yours. And, your right taillight is burned out.

Tyler held his head back to keep the tears rimming his lower lids from falling. ‘I’m really sorry, Sir. I…’

‘I’m letting you off with a warning, Tyler. You know you aren’t qualified to supervise her.’

‘I thought she had her licence, Sir, or I never would…’

‘Well, now you know.’

Kara grinned. ‘See, I told you Ty…’

Her father ripped her licence in two, leaned across Tyler, and handed her a ticket and her wallet.

Kara pulled back and stared at him. She barked, ‘What are you doing? You can’t …’

Sergeant Grayson held up his hand, palm forward. ‘Don’t.’

Kara wheedled, ‘Give me a warning like Ty. I won’t do it again. I promise.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You sure?’

She simpered. ‘Thanks, Daddy. You are the best.’ She crumpled the ticket.

 ‘Better not, you’ll need it when you go to pay the fine.’ He held her gaze. ‘And sweetheart, if I see you driving recklessly or hear about any new misdemeanours, you’ll be grounded until you are at least twenty-five.’

She shrugged off his meaningless warning.

      He leaned back and smirked. ‘And, Kara. Consider yourself fortunate it wasn’t Mom who pulled you over.’

Kara, silent for once, slid out of from behind the wheel and stomped around the front of the Honda. She glared at her father, and mouthed, ‘I hate you.’

He raised one eyebrow and spoke to Tyler. ‘I don’t need to follow you, do I? Take her straight home, then stop at the shop and fill your brother in on your escapades of the evening. Or I will.’

Tyler’s voice squeaked. ‘Thank you Sir.’

Mike Grayson rapped his hand on the roof, signaling dismissal. He returned to the police car and, sighing heavily, called his wife’s direct line at the detachment.

When he opened with, ‘Staff-Sergeant Grayson, ask our darling daughter…’

Paula Grayson knew it was going to be a long night and interrupted him. ‘What’s Kara done this time?’

      He continued, ‘How she spent her evening. I doubt her recollections will match mine.’

Paula came back with, ‘Mike, I can’t always be the enforcer. We need a better way of dealing with our recalcitrant daughter.’

Mike offered no argument. ‘Let’s grab a coffee after work and we can figure out how best to deal with this kid before she is completely out of control. After tonight’s run-in, I’m fully on board with your tough love approach.’

 

About the author 

Louise moved from land-locked Calgary, Alberta to Victoria, British Columbia to enjoy ocean views. Instead she spends hours in her basement writing-room considering the uncommon in the commonplace. 

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