After five wonderful days skiing with family and friends,
I returned home to a crime scene.
I was busily unpacking, looking forward to the Turkey Supper that awaited us at the Lutheran Church once we were all settled in again.
En route from my bedroom to the kitchen,
something on the living room floor caught my eye.
My stomach gave a small, warning lurch.
I entered the living room to examine it more closely,
but my eyes had already jumped ahead to a slightly more bloody spot on the carpet.
Then I looked up.
And my blood froze in my veins.
Not wanting to believe my eyes, I looked over at the spot on the piano where Alfred usually sat.
It was empty.
To see him lying there so crumpled and small was such a shock that I stood, unable to move, for a very long time.
When I finally gathered enough courage to approach the chair, I gently moved his inert body to one side. His clothes were unkempt, his hair even more disheveled than usual. I was barely breathing as I surveyed the damage, but what I saw on the chair beside his body brought me to my knees.
One entire section of his amazing ‘do’ had been torn out by the roots.
I knew instantly who the culprit was.
And I didn’t have to look far to find her.
She was sitting by the rocking chair, smiling smugly at my distress.
She wouldn’t stand still long enough for me to get a proper mug shot.
But all you have to do is look at her.
Tell me that isn’t guilt written all over her face.