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Missing Persons
Missing Persons
Missing Persons
Ebook61 pages54 minutes

Missing Persons

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Short story.

A widowed college professor retires, moves to a California coastal town, and buys a home.  Digging in his garden one morning, he uncovers old love letters buried in a metal container.

He pries open the container, reads the letters and is emotionally moved.  He becomes intrigued by what appeared to be a clandestine love affair between a married woman and a man she had known before she married.  

He makes inquiries about the former residents to learn who wrote  he letters.  His real estate agent tells him that a WW II war hero bought the house before the war, later married, and his young wife moved in with him.

But the war hero's wife disappeared in a storm.  Her body was never found. Was she one of the letter writers?  Who was her lover?

The professor begins researching -- a special talent of his -- and learns the startling truth.  

But what should he do with the information, go public, or let it remain a secret that will never be told? 

LanguageEnglish
PublisherJack Erickson
Release dateDec 19, 2016
ISBN9781452388472
Missing Persons
Author

Jack Erickson

Jack Erickson writes in multiple genres: international thrillers, mysteries, true crime, short mysteries, and romantic suspense.He is currently writing the Milan Thriller Series featuring the anti-terrorism police, DIGOS, at Milan's Questura (police headquarters). Book I in the series is Thirteen Days in Milan. Book 2, No One Sleeps, was published in December 2016. Book 3, Vesuvius Nights, was published in 2019. Book 4, The Lonely Assassin, was published in 2020.The models for Erickson's Milan thrillers are three popular Italian mystery series: Donna Leon's Commissario Brunetti in Venice, Andrea Camilleri's Inspector Salvo Montalbano in Sicily, and Michael Dibdin's Commissario Aurelio Zen in Rome. All three have been produced as TV series at either BBC, PBS, RAI, or Deutsche WelleErickson travels throughout Italy for research and sampling Italian contemporary life and culture. In earlier careers, he was a U.S. Senate speechwriter, Washington-based editor, and RedBrick Press publisher. He wrote and published several books on emerging craft brewing industry including the award winning Star Spangled Beer: A Guide to America's New Microbreweries and Brewpubs.Before he began writing fiction, he was a wealth manager for a national brokerage in Silicon Valley.

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Missing Persons, by Jack Erickson, is a short story. It is both a love story and a tale of mystery. The story opens with a retired man, T. Jefferson Winslow, digging a hole on his property in order to plant fruit trees. He uncovers a box that contains letters written fifty years ago to a previous married owner of the property, Harriet Summers. The letters are from her lover, Arthur ParkerMr.Winslow decides to learn more about both Harriet and Arthur. His research reveals that both went missing within two weeks of each other in 1948. Presumably, Harriet drowned. Arthur simply disappeared. Neither body was ever found. The contents of the letters that Arthur penned to Harriet clearly show his love for her. It became obvious that while Harriet's husband was in the military she spent time with Arthur. Mr. Winslow had his suspicions about what really happened to Harriet and Arthur and this led him to finally uncovering the truth. Now he is faced with a dilemma- what does he do with his newly found knowledge? This is well crafted story with depth. The suspense is well layered and held my attention to the end of the story. I wasn't sure how the author would end the story and for me, this is the mark of a good mystery. I recommend reading this book.I received this book at no charge from ReviewTheBook.com and I give this review of my own free will.

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Missing Persons - Jack Erickson

Missing Persons

Jack Erickson

Copyright © 2010 Jack Erickson

Published by RedBrick Press

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without written permission, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This is a work of fiction based upon the imagination of the author. No real people are represented.

Subscribe to Erickson’s email newsletter on his personal or publisher’s websites:

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Milan Thriller Series

Thirteen Days in Milan

No One Sleeps

Vesuvius Nights

The Lonely Assassin

Novels

Bloody Mary Confession

Rex Royale

A Streak Across the Sky

Mornings Without Zoe

Short Mysteries

Perfect Crime

Missing Persons

Teammates

The Stalker

Weekend Guest

True Crime

Blood and Money in the Hunt Country

Noir Series

Bad News is Back in Town

Audio Books

A Streak Across the Sky

Perfect Crime

The Stalker

Teammates

Nonfiction

Star Spangled Beer:

A Guide to America’s New Microbreweries and Brewpubs

Great Cooking with Beer

Brewery Adventures in the Wild West

California Brewin’

Brewery Adventures in the Big East

Missing Persons

My spade sliced into the damp dirt like a knife through a peach. I scooped dirt out of the hole to plant fruit trees in my backyard. Instructions stapled to the wrapped root-ball said the trees had to be planted eighteen inches below the surface in a two-foot-wide hole.

I widened the hole, piling dirt in a mound next to my bare-limbed fruit trees. I was a foot deep when my spade clanked on a solid object. I pulled out the spade and sliced down six inches to the side. Clank again. I tried six inches on the other side and my spade slid deeper into the dirt. When I pulled the dirt out, I uncovered the edge of the inch-deep metal object my spade had stuck.

I scraped dirt away from the top to expose the surface. It was about eight inches long and six inches wide. I jabbed my spade underneath and popped it out of its earthy hold.

I lifted the metal box out of the hole and sat down on the pile of dirt. The box had a pale green patina, two metal hinges on the back, and a clasp in the front. The lid was frozen shut. I reached into my toolbox for my pruning shears and ran the tip under the lid. I forced the clasp open and lifted the top.

Inside was a bundle of letters tied with a string. Beneath the letters were three black-and-white photos. The top letter was addressed to Harriet Summers at 873 Windsor Lane. That was my address—the home I had bought last fall after moving from the Midwest. I flicked through the letters, admiring the colorful canceled stamps of fifty years ago. All the letters were addressed to Harriet Summers except one. The exception was the earliest letter addressed to Harriet Gaithers at 1019 Waverly, a tree-lined street down the hill that ran through the historic district of town: classic old Victorian homes from the 19th century that had been included in the National Register of Historic Districts.

I carried the box to the gazebo and sat down on a bench, feeling the soothing warmth of the spring sun on my face. The air was fragrant with apple and cherry blossoms. Spring flowers were in bloom: orange, purple, and yellow lantana; scarlet and orange African violets; rosebushes in red, pink, white, and peppermint; and clusters of tulips. Robins flitted from tree to tree, hopping across my lawn, chirping cheerful notes of spring. One landed on the dirt I had dug and stabbed its beak into my dirt mound. It pulled out a juicy worm and tipped back its head to swallow it before flying to a nest in a tall oak tree. A hungry

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