I just finished my 1000 word story for the 2nd entry in the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest.  This time, my group was assigned to write a mystery in a duty-free shop in an airport with a milkshake somewhere in the story.  I found that mystery is a difficult genre for a 1000 word story.  Here’s mine:

Hell Hath No Fury

Because I’m a detective, my wife and I saved for a decade to vacation in Dubai. We happened to pass by the jewelry store in the duty-free concourse of Terminal 3 when the American man collapsed. I started CPR, but I knew he wouldn’t survive. When the paramedics arrived, I took inventory of the scene and noted the injection site on the back of his right hand.

“Who’s with him?” I asked the three American women nearby.

A dignified woman wearing a designer suit (that cost more than I made in a month) said, “I’m his wife, Mrs. Amherst.” Her face showed no emotion. She motioned towards the young woman beside her and said, “Our daughter Kate.”

“Ma’am, did you know him?” I asked the woman behind Kate.

“Yes, she did,” Kate answered.

The other two looked surprised. I asked the third woman her name.

“Brittany,” she answered.

“Kate, how do you know Brittany?”

Before she could answer, security arrived and ushered us towards an office behind the shops in the duty-free concourse. My wife stayed far enough away to avoid being rounded up. Before I walked into the unremarkable hallway, I looked back and smiled an apology. She smiled too. She accepts that the job is my identity.

Before I entered, I turned to the man in charge.

Pulling out my badge, I said, “I’m a Homicide Detective.”

In flawless English, he responded, “Any assistance will be appreciated. We rarely see murders here.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Mohammed.”

“I’m Jim. How long for toxicology?” I asked.

“A few hours.”

“Do you have surveillance video?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s watch it,” I said.

In another room further down the hall, we watched the murder. All three women had approached Amherst’s right hand in the moments preceding his collapse. Once he seemed to feel something because he rubbed his hand and looked at the woman next to him. Not conclusive proof, but something. I’d seen an odd outline in the same woman’s left pocket.

We walked back to the office. Brittany stood in a corner. Mrs. Amherst and Kate sat at a table. Mohammed stood behind me as I sat across from them. I handed them each a piece of paper and pen and asked them to write what happened.

When they finished, I asked, “What was the purpose of this trip, Mrs. Amherst?”

“Winter vacation. My husband loved scuba diving.”

“Do you and Kate dive?”

“No.”

“Kate, how do you know Brittany?”

Kate stared at the floor. She looked like a pot about to boil.

“Kate,” Mrs. Amherst said in a neutral tone, “Who is this woman?”

“About two months ago, I came home early and heard something. I saw her in bed with Dad, but they didn’t see me. I was angry.”

Mrs. Amherst stared at the wall. Absent-mindedly she reached into her purse and pulled out a tissue. I saw a flicker of orange in her bag.

“Brittany, how long were you his mistress?”

“Two years. He planned to leave her after this trip.”

Mrs. Amherst laughed. “He’d never leave. I’m worth millions.”

“He didn’t care!”

“Yes, he did. For every dollar he earned, he spent two. He liked the lifestyle my money afforded him.”

“Why’re we here?” Kate asked.

“Someone poisoned him via an injection in his right hand.”

While Kate and Brittany expressed surprise, Mrs. Amherst remained indifferent.

“We watched the surveillance videos,” I continued. “Brittany, why are you here?”

“He brought me everywhere. I’d see him with them at breakfast or the pool. When they’d go shopping, he’d come to me.”

“That must hurt. You dive?”

“No. Neither did he.”

“If he refused to leave his wife… That would give you motive.”

“I wouldn’t kill him! I lost everything today. My future is gone!”

Kate was doodling on a piece of paper. Her anger evident.

“All three of you were near his hand in the minutes before his death. Mrs. Amherst, when did you discover the affair?”

“Moments ago.”

“No,” I said. “You’ve known for awhile. You’re also the only left handed person here.”

“So?”

“Injecting someone in the back of the right hand is easiest for a left-handed person standing beside him.”

“Wait! It’s true that I knew about… her,” contempt dripped from her voice. “I discovered it about nine months ago when I uncovered the monthly allowance he’d been giving her, but she wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last.”

Brittany looked stunned.

“Did you really think you were special, dear? He’d never leave me. She must’ve realized that and killed him.”

“Did Brittany stand to gain anything by his death?” I asked.

“No. None of us did. He was worthless,” Mrs. Amherst answered.

“Unless you went to prison for his murder.”

I paused as it sank in.

“Kate, stand up,” I ordered.

“What? No!” Kate said.

Mohammad and I got up and slowly circled our prey.

“Fine!” Kate said and stood up.

In her left pocket, I found an empty syringe.

“You’re ambidextrous?” I asked.

“No.”

“You wrote with your right hand and doodled with your left. You’re ambidextrous.”

She gritted her teeth.

“You looked your father in the eye after you poisoned him,” I marveled.

Kate remained silent. Defiant.

“Why?” Mrs. Amherst asked.

“Because you’ve controlled everything by threatening to cut us off. I confronted dad and he was going to leave you. He said that I was grown up, so it was time for us to choose happiness. Joy without money? I don’t think so.” Kate shrugged and said, “To choose happiness, I needed my inheritance.”

“Mrs. Amherst, can I look in your bag?” I asked.

Near the tissues lay the orange cap of a syringe. I held it up.

“I expected you to search her – not me,” Kate said with a shrug.

Mohammed handcuffed Kate.

Back on the concourse, my wife was drinking a chocolate milkshake.

“Sorry, honey.”

Smiling up at me, my beautiful wife said, “I love being married to a hero.”