(///swing.brick.umbrellas – Oxfam Shop, Winchester, UK)
“Do you ever wonder about all the things in here, the lives they’ve lived?” Frank asked Bernie as he glugged his cup of tea.
“They’re inanimate objects,” Bernie replied kindly, hoping that the older man wasn’t displaying early signs of senility.
“I know that,” Frank chuckled. “But people bring in boxes and boxes of donations. Think about all the stories these objects have been part of, the people who’ve surrounded them, what might come next after sitting on our shelves. A charity shop is a microcosm of social history.”
“I guess,” Bernie mused, nibbling on a Bourbon biscuit, while wondering exactly what Frank had put in his tea.
“Take those umbrellas,” Frank continued, gesturing at a rack of them. “Maybe one walked the Open Golf Course. Or starred in Mary Poppins. Or was used as a murder weapon!”
“Or kept someone dry,” Bernie suggested. Frank glared at him.
“Open your mind to the possibilities,” he continued. “Those children’s toys, that train set, that swing. Imagine the laughter and fun of playtime, think about that child growing up and handing the toys on, think about the pleasure still to come.”
Bernie reached for another biscuit. He figured he might need some chocolate Digestives after this.
“This box makes me sad though,” Frank continued. “Old Malcolm brought this in. His wife died last week, tripped and fell through their glass patio doors, tired apparently from too much chamomile tea. Deirde often used to pop in for a chat though, so tragic. She used to buy little things, said Malcolm didn’t mind though it looked like she didn’t mean it. So sad.”
Frank picked through the box a little more and then sat up a bit straighter, his back stiffened slightly. He moved a few things around, put a few more on the counter, looked at them for a few moments.
“What is it?” Bernie asked.
Frank shook his head. “Deirdre didn’t die by accident. She was murdered. Look, Frank is giving away all the evidence, it’s here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Here’s a teapot, faint whiff of chamomile. His fingerprints must be on it. This floor mat. Really shiny underfoot, would slip on a polished floor. This lego brick. Actually all these mini bricks. She would have trodden on them and lost her balance. And this carriage clock. Deirdre only bought it a couple of weeks ago. She joked that Malcolm would kill her if she bought something else we don’t need. And now he’s giving it all away. He mustn’t get away with it.”
Bernie sighed. “Hardly conclusive,” he advised.
“Nevertheless, I’m going to the police,” Frank said, hurriedly collecting up his clues. Bernie shook his head. Maybe it was early senility all along.
A week later Bernie was sitting in the shop munching on a Kit-Kat when Frank burst in. “What’s up?”
“I was right, Malcolm confessed!”
Bernie almost dropped his chocolate. “That’s amazing, congratulations. You caught a killer. And to think, you solved it from the contents of his box.”
Frank scratched his chin slightly. “Well not exactly,” he said. “Apparently he no longer loved Deirde and couldn’t stand the smell of the chamomile any more so he simply shoved her through the window and said it was an accident. What he was giving away was, well, pretty random. He didn’t even know where that clock had come from, so my friend at the station told me.”
Bernie smiled. “Well never mind that, they wouldn’t have caught him without you.”
“True, true,” Frank said. He looked behind Bernie. “Is that the stuff that Mrs Jacobs brought in recently. I think she lost her husband a couple of weeks ago. What say you we take a look through it.”
_______________________________
what3stories 