(I wrote this to submit to the Woman's World Magazine 1000 word mini-mystery. They didn't want it. )

  "Good morning, Mr. Quinlan," Valerie said cheerfully as the old man opened the door to let her in. This was her first Home Nursing Program visit with him, and she wanted to get off to a good start. She was late, as well. The sun had already begun to dip. Harry Quinlan looked her up and down with a quizzical air. "So you're my new nurse." "Yes, Irene retired last week. How are you feeling today?" "Fine. I feel fine every day, young woman. Lets go out on the lanai." He turned as if he was not accustomed to argument, and she followed the frail, elderly man through a den, its walls covered with framed certificates and photos, to the screened patio. A pleasant breeze touched her face as her patient sat in a well-worn chair. The canal behind his home and the houses on the other side of the water were fading in the dusky light. There were several vacant lots, and most of the houses were closed up for the summer. "So, what's your name, young woman?" "Valerie Cain. Your blood pressure is good today." She started to ask when he had moved to Florida, always a good conversation-starter. Everyone there had transplanted from another state. "My blood pressure is good every day, he interrupted. Looks like a neighbor of mine has some trouble." Directly across the canal, three men were standing by a window at the back of a house. One wore a blue police uniform. "My goodness." Valerie took his pulse. "What happened?" "I expect he was burglarized. He had a broken window this morning--I saw him in his yard picking up pieces of glass." "Really?" Valerie shivered. The community was relatively well-to-do, and break-ins were common. She found the idea of a stranger in ones home disturbing. She concentrated on the old mans temperature. "He hasn't lived there very long," the man went on, talking around the thermometer as best he could. "Must be a sporthsman. Goeth out fithing every day, in that little canoe. Liketh to row, I gueth. Thits on the lanai and wathses the water the retht of the time." "Well, I'm sure the person who did it is long gone, and won't be coming back." The old man looked at her with an odd smile as she checked her digital thermometer. "You think so?" "Sure. It would be foolish of him or her to hang around, waiting to get caught. How have you felt since Irene's last visit? Any problems? Coughing, sneezing?" "I've felt fine, young woman. I feel fine every day. Why don't you go over there and see what's going on?" He softened the order with a smile. "Humor an old man." She hesitated. It wasn't any of her business or Mr. Quinlan's, but on the other hand, if he was deprived of information, his imagination might take over and upset him even more. Besides, she was curious. It was more of a hike than she'd imagined. She had to walk for half a mile before she came to a side street with a bridge over the canal. This is ridiculous, she muttered. What am I supposed to do, say, excuse me, may I butt in for no reason whatsoever? But having started, she couldn't go back without completing her assignment. It was getting past dusk and into dark by the time she approached the house. The only illumination was a bright light over the garage door. Feeling foolish, she walked up to the two men and introduced herself. "I'm sorry for asking when its none of my business, but he's a frail old man and I don't want him to worry." "That's quite all right, ma'am," said the homeowner, a tall, sun-bronzed man with sandy blond hair and eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea. His smile suggested all sorts of things. "This is Eric Holston," the detective, Michael Kelly, told her. "He writes all those best-selling true crime books. Someone broke into his house and stole his computer." "On which was my latest book," Holston said. "That's the real loss--all my notes, my research, everything. I've been working day and night to get this book done by deadline. Six months of research, down the drain." The pain showed in his eyes. "You didn't have a copy?" Kelly asked. "Sure I did, but they grabbed all my disks, too. I don't have an office, everythings in my house. It's where Im comfortable," he added, without taking his eyes off Valerie. She flushed at the attention. "I came home from a fishing trip and found the room trashed, glass all over the floor," Holston went on. "Good thing I have even my unfinished works insured, or I'd be bankrupt." "Thanks for telling me," Valerie said. "Mr. Quinlan should feel better--he doesn't have a computer. I think he spends all his time sitting on the lanai." She hiked back, grumbling to herself. The route was nearly pitch dark, and so was the Quinlan house. She called her patient. She found him in the den, after flicking on the light. He was lying on the floor with blood slowly oozing from the back of his head. She felt frantically for a pulse while dialing 911 with the other hand. Her eyes fell on the framed certificates. New Jersey K-9 Unit...NJPD Officer of the Year.... 911 dispatched an ambulance, then, at Valerie's request, connected her with Detective Kelly. She explained the situation and suggested that he arrest Eric Holston. Two days later Valerie was at the hospital, staring down at the frail body. "I'm glad you're feeling better." "It takes more than a knock on the head to kill me, young woman," Mr. Quinlan chuckled. "He knew you'd probably seen him moving the broken glass inside, so that the window would look as if it had been broken from the outside," she said, half to herself. "So he rowed across the canal while I was walking, and attacked you. You knew he'd been spending his days fishing, so how could he be working on a book? Holston just had a bad case of writers block, and had to cover up somehow." "The computer's probably at the bottom of the canal. Too bad," the old man said, shaking his head gingerly. "They say he's a real charming fella, too." Valerie looked up to see Michael Kelly approaching with a smile and a cup of coffee. "Maybe," she said to Mr. Quinlan. "But not my type."