A little idea bopping around my head

I’ve been working on publishing some of my poetry and short stories so I don’t have as much time as I’d hoped for my website. I’ve been workshopping so much of my work that it feels like I should share an idea I’ve had that might not be drafted enough to make it to being a candidate for submission, so I’ll leave it here to pick at.

(Also as a side note, I’ve watched See How They Run—a good Christie adaptation exists, don’t tell Kenneth Branagh—and maaan I fell in love with the story, so I tried to write my own whodunit in homage to Christie’s talent for mystery and to Tom George and Mark Chappell for not using the Dutch angle or spinning cameras.)

A whodunit.

—The idea:

“Well, I was hoping this could be…a secret,” Rosie asked, wincing as she looked at the two police officers.

The inspector purses her lips but nods. “Of course, please go ahead Miss?”

“Lightmore, Rosie Lightmore.”

“Right, Miss. Lightmore. Constable, take notes please.”

The constable flips their worn cloth notebook and ready their pencil. Rosie begins,”I don’t want you to think the worse of me, but my job has unique conditions, all the secretaries do. Mr. Rightfield, well, he isn’t a bad person, he simply likes to be kept in the know.”

She was rambling, so the inspector interrupted, “Nothing you say about your boss will be made public.”

She deflates, “Right, I just I could get fired for this…”

“You will be able to sign what we will publish.”

Again she relaxes, properly sinking into the hard chair. “Okay.” She is psyching herself up, she shakes out the tension in her hands and then continues, “Mr. Rightfield has the secretaries take notes, transcripts, of calls coming into the theatre. We write them down, then typed them up and hand them into him at the end of our shifts.” Here she pauses, allowing the unsavoury nature of her job to settle in. “On the night of the murder, Terrence Clyft received a call from his wife.”

The constable’s hand is a flurry of movement, scribbling shorthand, though he can’t help but move his eyebrows as catalogues the information, he asks, “Does he usually receive calls from her?

“Yes, not every night, though she makes it a routine to call on Thursdays.”

The inspector shuffles in her seat, “Does anyone else call Terrence?”

“Fans, though it is company policy to refuse such calls. His mother will call every month, and his brothers will ask for money.”

The constable scribbles that down, then asks for a moment to finish. Rosie turns an heirloom ring on her pointer finger before continuing after the inspector’s go-ahead.

“I didn’t hand this particular call in, you see, it felt too personal to give to Mr Rigthfield.” She leans down to her purse and pulls out the transcript. It is written much like a screenplay might; characters listed and their lines. “His wife called to tell him about,” she stumbles over the word, it fits strangely in her mouth, “infertility issues. She goes on to imply this has been going on for the last couple of months.”

The inspector tilts her head and asks, “Is that all? That is rather personal, I understand why you would keep it from Mr. Rightfield.”

Rosie shakes her head, “No, we are told to wait to hear any closing remarks and…well, after his wife hung up, Terrence called someone. I believe it was a doctor as he said: we did it, thank you.”

The constable gasps.

Rosie nods.

———————————-

Idk where it was going or what starts it but I like this little bean of what could be.