FLASH FICTION

Dolores wears an old white coat. Her hair is long, greasy, and dishevelled. She very seldom washes or grooms herself. There is dirt under her fingernails. Every day, she visits the gravesites of her parents and sits for hours in prayer. Afterwards, she goes to church and sits in the back.

 

Father Kincaid always has a sullen face and a dark and lonely demeanour. It isn't long before he wants to get to know Dolores. He senses a kindred spirit each time he sees her. Deep down inside, she knows she needs a friend as much as he does.

 

Her shyness prevents her from talking to the priest. Yet he persists, but Dolores wants to be alone. She ignores him, avoiding his overtures for the first time. There’s no way to know how many more times Farther Kincaid visits Dolores. Dolores went away only to return a few months later. His stubbornness angered her. It triggered unwanted, dark and ugly thoughts.

On November 1st, she arrives at mass late. The church is empty except for an old woman who sits in the first pew. Dolores enters the church in time to watch the priest collapse, striking his head on the marble altar.

 

The old woman continues to say her rosary.

 

Dolores rushes to Father Kincaid’s side and feels for a pulse, knowing full well that he is dead. She ran to the rectory and asked the secretary to call for an ambulance.

 

“Why? What’s happened?”

 

“It’s the priest. He collapsed.”

 

The two women worked together to revive the man.

 

After the ambulance and police arrived, Dolores had to answer many questions.

 

The detectives, satisfied with her answers, let her go. There wasn't much to say.

 

"We'll be in touch."

 

Delores left the scene but soon returned to hear what the secretary said.

 

There’s little evidence; only the old woman was in the church, and she added nothing.

 

“The woman who came to get me," the secretary said. "was in shock and genuinely wanted to help Father Kincaid.”

 

A few weeks later, a barrister knocked on Dolores’ door.

 

“Hello, Dolores Eve?”

 

“Yes, that’s me. Who’s asking, please?”

 

“I am Carl Burns, Father Kincaid’s estate lawyer.”

 

“Please, won’t you come in?”

 

“Thank you. Oh, I see you have twins. How old?”

 

“Twelve months ago yesterday. Ugh, sorry. You were saying? The man’s death was a tragedy for our community," Dolores said. "I’m confused. Why are you here on his behalf?”

 

“You are the sole heir of the old, holy man’s belongings. A key to a safety deposit box for a bank here in town and his Porsche.”

 

“Thank you very much, Mr. Burns. Good-bye. He was an old guy.”

 

She closed the door, and a sly grin creased her lips.

 

Up with the sun, she weeded her flower beds.

 

She lit a fire and threw remnants of Queen Anne’s Lace and Nightshade into the flames. She heard a knock on the door, but she was frightened to answer. She stoked the fire, ensuring any greenery was gone, checked her look in the mirror, and opened the door.

 

A voice says, "Good morning, Dolores. It’s a little warm for a fire, isn’t it? What could you be burning?”

 

“Detective, won’t you come in, please? Let me guess—just one more thing if you don’t mind.”

 

“That depends. Detective. Is this an official visit in the sense that ‘I’m a suspect’ here? Should I call my solicitor?”

 

“Now, calm down, Dolores; we’re just talking here. No suspects, capice.”