Forbidden Entry by Sylvia Nobel

“Excuse me. Sorry.”
    â€œDude!” Jim admonished him, feigning disgust. “Get it together. You’re a festival of bodily noises today.”
    â€œStuff it, Sykes,” he retorted with good humor, obviously enjoying their customary banter before returning his attention to me. “No worries here.”
    I hoped not. “Got a few minutes?”
    One hand strayed to his abdomen and he winced, “Sure thing.”
    I filled him in on the situation, suggested that he read my article and then contact Sheriff Turnbull or Duane Potts later for more information on the two previous deaths. As I talked, I couldn’t help but notice beads of sweat glistening on his forehead and tiny alarm bells clanged in my head. Was he really just suffering from indigestion or something more serious?
    â€œWill do!” Walter concurred with a strained smile. “Now you get out of here and go enjoy yourself. Lavelle and I will catch up with you later at the cookout.”
    â€œSee you both there.” I only got about six steps along the hallway when I heard running footsteps from behind. I glanced around just as Walter pounded past me and disappeared into the men’s room. Not an encouraging sign. As I slid into my car, I had to counsel myself against giving in to my natural pessimism. Walter was going to be fine, nothing was going to mar my plans and that was that. Clinging to that thought, I dialed my brother’s cell number and drove towards the motel. After five rings, I heard his sleepy response. “Wassup, sis?”
    â€œSean! Don’t tell me you’re not out of bed yet?”
    A loud yawn. “I’m getting there. Wait for me in mom and dad’s room while I grab a quick shower.”
    â€œWell, hurry up, bro. It’s after nine and I’m starving!”
    â€œWhen aren’t you starving?” he said with a droll laugh. “Give me fifteen.”
    It was a pleasant surprise to find my parents sitting on the stone bench in the cactus garden fronting the motel. They waved and smiled as I parked. Even though I imagined the temperature was still in the high fifties, the sunshine felt warm on my back as I walked up to them and exchanged hugs. While we stood beneath a dome of flawless blue sky, my parents once again celebrated the beautiful weather, praised their accommodations and complimented me on my outfit. My picky mother proclaimed that she had slept well, but my dad admitted he’d had a long night after refusing another pain pill. As we made our way to the car, he grilled me for details concerning Marcelene’s daughter and expressed surprise that I’d passed on pursuing the story further.
    â€œIt may have just been an unfortunate accident,” I reminded him, holding the crutches as he eased into the front seat.
    He turned and pinned me with a quizzical look. “Always remember to follow your gut, Pumpkin.”
    â€œI do, Dad, believe me.”
    Good to his word, Sean strolled up, joking, “Hey, people, what’s the hold up? Are we going to eat today or not?”
    I felt a measure of relief that everyone appeared to be in good spirits. Following the short drive to the Iron Skillet, we piled out of the car and were greeted by the mouth-watering aroma of frying bacon as we pushed through the heavy glass doors. It was encouraging to note that the breakfast crowd had mostly thinned out as we entered. Good thing. I was in no mood to wait. Even though I’d hoped to avoid it, well-meaning residents, eager to meet my parents, buttonholed us as we weaved our way among the tables. Another ten stomach-growling minutes passed until we were finally seated at a corner table where my dad could comfortably stretch out his booted foot.
    While I adored the café’s scrumptious food, the predictable zing of irritation surged through me as Lucinda Johns approached our table, menus in hand, wearing her usual skintight jeans. Sean caught my eye