Started working on my second Homer Lockshels mystery novel; some feedback would be appreciated. thank you
The Butler didn't do it! (Because there's no Butler)
Book 2: The Fatal Broth
A Homer Lockshels mystery
Chapter One: The Last Supper
"Good morning", - said Loyde.
"Hhuh... what? who? Ah, good morning", mumbled Lockshels, sitting absent-minded at his desk.
Now, ...pause! Let's take a troll break and give some people a moment to feel somehow "important"! I can already hear the naysayers warming up, ready to cry that I'm not describing the atmosphere, the room, the wallpaper, the number of atoms in the carpet fibres, and so on. Truth is, I could easily fill two or three pages with the exact shape of the walls, the precise distance of the table from the center of the chamber, even describing the colour palette of each painting hanging around the room. But I ask you, dear reader, ...does it really matter? No, really, does it??? This is not a script, and I have absolutely no expectation of it becoming a movie, so, ...keeping that in mind, I ask again: does it matter? Isn't it better to leave it to your imagination?
[Addendum (just in case IT DOES make it into a movie): It's a fairly big room with blue walls, covered in reproduction paintings. A large Persian rug sprawls across the middle, slightly off to the left; Lockshels' desk sits near the south wall, halfway between the window and the door, opposite a fireplace that doesn't give quite enough heat to chase away the cold trying to embrace the room.]
"What's up, detective?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I see you're kinda... upset."
"Well, Loyde, if you must know, ...I had a very peculiar dream last night."
"You don't say!", replied Loyde, dragging a chair close to the desk, wearing the face of one ready to reach for the popcorn.
"I'm having them pretty often, lately. But this one... this was the cherry on top!"
"About our last case?"
"No, Loyde. It involves Quickdraw Homer."
"Quickdraw Homer, eh?", Loyde was barely hiding his giggles.
"Yes, him. But last night... well..."
"Yes... go on..."
"Well, Homer was riding his horse, when he got some... business to attend to. So he dismounted and went into the bushes..."
"Bushes... aha..."
"His horse casually wandered off and went into a nearby bar. And the bartender said..."
"'Why the long face?'!"
"No."
"No?"
"No. He said 'Whiskey?', and the horse said 'Yeah'. Then he said 'Ice?', and the horse replied 'Neigh'."
"Neigh! Ha ha ha! Hilarious. I bet you... I mean Quickdraw was laughing his boots off."
"No."
"Ah, right. He was probably worried, you know, looking for his horse..."
"Well, that's the thing, Loyde: I was the horse!"
"Aaahhh... hmmm... now that's a just a fantasy! You know horses have long..."
He felt Lockshels' eyes burning into him.
"... faces!"
"Yeah, Loyde, I'm aware of that!"
Lockshels and Loyde. What a duo! I told you about them! And now... What you mean you don't know ? Well, don't be a cheapskate, and buy my first novel! It's all in there! Yeah, you bet your bottom I'm plugging my first book! I need the money, I'm poor!
There was a knock on the door, and the sergeant dipped his head inside.
"Wanna hear something strange?"
"I doubt it will be stranger than what I just heard!", mumbled Loyde.
"What is it, sergeant?", asked Lockshels while giving Loyde the evil eye.
"Well, you remember Mr. Sellar, from that case a while back?"
"The one that was ready to sell even the pants off a nudist? Yes! What about him?"
"Well, it seems the time has come for him to buy, this time. A coffin, more precisely. He choked while eating in a restaurant."
"Where?"
"Not far from his shop. Me and a few boys are headed that way. Wanna come?"
"Loyde, you go bring that thing we spoke about, then meet me at the restaurant. The sergeant will radio in its location."
"Let's go !"
Next... you know those wide police station hallways, with their grand staircases, concrete balustrades, imposing double doors, and the ever-present fleet of police cars waiting outside to whisk officers away? Well, they used all of those to get to the restaurant, so I'll spare you the tedious details.
From across the street, Lockshels and the sergeant were admiring the restaurant... well, I said "admiring"... it was just a figure of speech.
"'Le chow dans la corner and be'", sighed Lockshels, putting the legendary-now cigar in his mouth.
"Wants to be 'and bed', but the 'd' was blown out by last February's winds," responded the sergeant, striking up his lighter and offering it to Lockshels.
"I wouldn't bother!", said Lockshels. "The damn thing won't light anyway!"
"Yeah... what a dump!", added the detective.
"Believe it or not, it is considered a posh place", came the sergeant's response.
"Oh, sorry! What a posh dump!", Lockshels corrected himself.
"And I think I... I... Achoo!", sneezed Lockshels loudly, sending his cigar like a projectile towards a passer-by.
The stranger, well dressed in his buttoned-well-over-the-nose woolly black coat, with a fedora covering almost the rest of his face, stopped, surprised. After looking at the fallen cigar for a few seconds, he bent down, picked it up, and returned it to the detective.
"Cheers for that, very ki... ki... Achoo!"
Another sneeze. The stranger nodded and silently went on his way.
"Strange, but very polite chap", said Lockshels, watching the departing silhouette.
"Yeah, poor guy. Probably has a slight LLD - Limb-length discrepancy!"
"Huh? How would you know that? And... how could you know that?", exclaimed Lockshels, surprised.
"Well, see how he limps slightly? I recognise this as my little brother suffers from it."
"Well, I never imagined you as Doctor Sergeant.", said Lockshels.
"Shall we?", he said, pointing towards the restaurant.
"We should certainly should!", answered the sergeant, as they started to cross the street.
