15 - There dwells a spirit, waiting to be released

The next week passed in a blur of up and down emotions for Merlyn. Alton’s funeral was just as he would have expected, lavish and attended by more people than he would have thought possible, both the rich and famous and the young and gay. As he stood graveside after the service he wondered if the killer lurked somewhere among the throngs, watching with the satisfaction of a job well done. Apparently the police had the same idea. He spotted Detective Jonas standing several yards away from him along with several men he’d have bet were also police, all of them scanning the mourners. He also noticed two men quite a distance away taking photographs. They were either reporters or more cops he thought. 

Merlyn arrived home after the funeral in the depths of depression. Despite everything that had happened since the detective had called his that first time, it hadn’t really hit home so forcefully that Alton was dead until he saw his friend’s mother place one red rose on the casket.

He scoured the kitchen cupboards in search of the bottle of fine whiskey Alton had given him in celebration of the sale of his first sculpture. Merlyn had been saving it, not wanting to open it until something equally as noteworthy happened in his life. Now was the time he thought. Taking it and a glass into the living room he sat down in one corner of the sofa and poured himself a liberal libation. Lifting the glass he said softly, “To the best man I ever knew, my friend, my mentor. Would that you could be here to share this.” Then he took a deep drink, savoring the flavor.

One drink led to another as he opened himself to the pain and sorrow he felt.

Hours later he came to, surprised to find himself curled in a ball on the sofa. It took him a moment, and a glance at the nearly empty whiskey bottle, to figure out why. He felt emotionally drained, and thoroughly hung-over. With a groan he managed to stand up.Then, moving very carefully, he went in search of aspirin and water.

When the aspirin had taken at least the edge off his throbbing headache he went into the kitchen where he made coffee and then leaned against the counter to drink it.

It wasn’t until he was feeling marginally better that he realized something was out of kilter in the living room. From his vantage point at the kitchen counter he could see the sofa and the coffee table. The whiskey bottle stood precariously on one corner of the table, the empty glass lying beside it. And, in the center of the table, were two long-stemmed roses, one white, one black.

Unbelieving, Merlyn scrubbed a hand over his eyes and looked again. They were still there.

“Someone’s been in here,” he muttered, a ‘duh’ thought if ever he’d had one. He walked swiftly to the front door on the off chance that he’d forgotten to lock it and set the alarm when he’d come home from the funeral. Both were as they should be. He turned to look at the roses again and saw a piece of paper folded in half next to the stems. Cautiously he crossed to pick it up and open it.  Inside, written in an elaborate script, were eight words.  “Make your choice,” he read aloud, “Your life depends on it.”