THE WRITERS CLUB SCANDAL
The Writers Club’s Saturday topic was scandals.
Maurice, Kevin, William, and Jonathan sat in a circle eyes glancing over to the drink of the meeting.
“You first, Jonathan. We know you have skeletons in your closet,” Maurice said as Jonathan handed around a glass of Port in an expensive set of ruby wine glasses. Jonathan sat and gazed intently upon the other men.
“Okay, gentlemen. Do you remember your local history? The story about Maude Parker and Clyde Griffin? No, I didn’t think you did, although it shook the very foundation of the community.
Maude was the belle of the town. She was engaged to Clyde but loved to play around.. One night at a party, young Maude decided to flirt with Harry Brady. Clyde was furious and left in a huff. Later, he came back. He brought wine and offered it around. Everything seemed okay until some of the guests got deathly ill. Maude and Harry both died.” Jonathan sighed and shook his head. “The police arrested Clyde.”
Maurice nodded and sipped his wine. “He was your uncle wasn’t he?”
Jonathan narrowed his brows and frowned. “Yes. Yes, he was.”
“So what happened?” They stared with rapt attention.
“Clyde never went to trial. They called him Manic. Today it’s called Bi-Polar Disorder, and they give you pills. Anyway, the disorder was traced from the Griffin family back to their ancient ancestors, the Borgias. You know about them! He died, by the way. Hanged himself with his bedsheets from the bars covering his cell window.”
Jonathan smirked as he surveyed his Murder Club colleagues. They’d turned a greenish pale. One dropped his ruby glass onto the floor, splintering slivers.
“Poor Clyde,” he said.
“What the hell?” Maurice choked. Kevin and William pointed to their glasses and doubled over gasping for air.
Slow and deliberate, Jonathan stood and loomed over them—a grin surfaced from his lips. “So gentlemen. We come full circle. Each one of your families was responsible for putting away dear Uncle Clyde. May you rest in hell!”
Jonathan’s laughter coincided with the thunder from the sky. He took a large sip of the wine and waited. The Port and arsenic did its work. The Writers’ Club was no more.