Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story that features a springtime ritual. Phil Yeats wrote this week’s story.
In September, 2021, he
published The Souring Seas, the first
volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced
climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards,
appeared in May 2022. He’s now published They All Come Tumbling Down,
the third volume in his The Road to Environmental Armageddon trilogy. For
information about these books, or his older soft-boiled mysteries, visit his
website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/
More
Winter than Spring
by
Phil Yeats
“Seems a bit early for
springtime activities,” Susan, my long-suffering wife, said as she retreated to
the warmth of the kitchen.
Could be, but I began
removing the piles of ice and snow that accumulated against the foundation on
the north side of our house on the first weekend in March decades ago, when I
was a working stiff. I’d been retired for years, but I’d maintained the
tradition. More an end of winter than a beginning of spring ritual, but a
longstanding one, nevertheless.
It was my time for
liberating our row of hostas from their wintertime hibernation. The
accumulation of snow always disappeared from everywhere else by the beginning
of March, but in this one area against our foundation in the narrow canyon
between our house and the neighbours, it could persist until April.
I was about halfway along
the wall when I discovered the purse buried in the snow. It was a woman’s brown
leather purse with a long leather strap for over-the-shoulder deployment. I
freed it from its ice-bound resting place, carried it inside, dumped it in the
kitchen sink, and returned to my task.
When I finished shovelling
the snow and clearing the other debris on and around the dormant crowns of the
hostas, I returned to the mudroom and shed my winter attire.
Inside the kitchen, I
found the purse and its contents laid out on towels spread on the counter.
“I’ve solved the mystery,”
Susan said from the table where she was sipping a cup of tea. She loved reading
mysteries, and obviously gained some enjoyment from solving our little one. “A
game the girls next door were playing. They forgot the purse, and it became
covered with snow.”
“But it’s obviously a
woman’s purse, not a child’s toy, and it looks to like quite an expensive one.”
“Perhaps, but it’s old and
been repaired several times. Check out my other evidence. You’ll agree, the
purse is a forgotten prop from a child’s game.”
I glanced at the three
forlorn-looking artifacts beside the purse. “That’s it? Nothing else?”
Susan nodded. “The purse
contained nothing but that child’s wallet and the paper map. And the wallet had
nothing but the ownership sticker for a kid’s book.”
“A ten-by-ten-centimetre
square of paper with ‘This book belongs to:’ inside a border of flowers. And in
the empty space ‘Mary Sutherland’ in childish printing. Do we know who she is?”
Susan shook her head, and I
shifted my gaze to the map. It was hand drawn on a piece of paper that was only
slightly damaged by exposure to the elements. It had three rectangular shapes
that presumably indicated houses, several lines that were probably paths, seven
crudely drawn trees, and in one corner, a large X.
“I have one additional
piece of evidence. I found the purse near the bottom of the snowbank. That
means they lost it in early winter, but I don’t think that alters your
assessment. Looks like you solved our mystery. Do you think the treasure was
hidden in the corner of our lot, or one of the neighbours?”
“That,” Susan said,
beaming, “would depend on where Mary Sutherland lives.”
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val
Muller: http://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine
A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/
Chiara
De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
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