Distant Broden

Lina waited for Broden to continue.

“Oh, he was just so totally in love with life. Why would a man buy a two million dollar car and then kill himself a week later? I mean, it just doesn’t make sense.”

“That puzzles me, as well,” Lina said. “But I was part of the forensics team that looked into the car. We found nothing mechanically wrong with the car.”

A vein rose on Broden’s forehad as she spoke. “I don’t doubt you found nothing wrong with the car. But how can that lead to a pronouncement that the cause of death was suicide?”

“I can’t answer that. I was not the one who made that determination. Tell me, does the pronouncement that your husband’s death was a suicide have any effect on your insurance settlement? I assume he had a life insurance policy.”

Broden’s eyes bore into Lina as she responded. “I can’t answer that. I haven’t even thought about life insurance. Fortunately for us—for me—money has not been an issue. If you’d like to check, though, feel free.  I imagine you already have. We both have policies issued by Länsförsäkringar. I don’t recall the amounts, but I doubt they were significant, at least not compared to our net worth.”

Lina had checked into insurance before the investigation had concluded. There was nothing to suggest murder for insurance money. But she had run out of ideas. She was, to use one of Eklund’s favorite sayings, “poking the bear.”

Weaving, again. Just weaving. I hope to open my blog one day to find a tapestry.

Okay, but now I have to explore that statement. What am I waiting for? What magical potion will string together for me all these disjointed snippets, vignettes that struggle to find relevance on their own? I’m not happy with myself tonight. I’m disappointed that I’ve not published anything, I’ve not even finished anything worth publishing, and I’ve allowed Donald Trump to keep breathing. Not that I have any control over that last item, though if I were a praying man I’d pray I did. I need to either find someone to guide my prolific, stream-of-consciousness writing or give it up and devote my attention to learning how to do body work on my newly-reacquired 1997 Ford Ranger XLT Extended Cab. I’m probably better suited to the truck. I can buy a new headliner for $260 plus shipping, install it, and feel like I’ve accomplished something. Or I can write snippets unrelated to anything else I’ve written, give myself a passing grade for literary accomplishment, and wish, unsuccessfully, I would accomplish something. The truck wins. It’s more expensive, but what’s money for except to spend?

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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