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Obit Delayed — Helen Nielsen
The melody of death...
Down at the edge of Mexican town, where the pavement gives out and the yellow dust drifts ankle deep over the hard packed adobe, a radio is moaning a dreamy beat into the night. It is the kind of music that needs two people, but only one is listening -- a long legged blonde who keeps time to the music while brushing her glistening hair...
She drops the brush and reaches for the tall glass that stands on the dressing table -- and then she hesitates, peering into the blackness of the room beyond. There is no doubt about the sound...
“Frank?” She stands up and moves through the doorway, the name still on her lips. And then she dies...horribly.
Down at the edge of Mexican town, where the pavement gives out and the yellow dust drifts ankle deep over the hard packed adobe, a radio is moaning a dreamy beat into the night. It is the kind of music that needs two people, but only one is listening -- a long legged blonde who keeps time to the music while brushing her glistening hair...
She drops the brush and reaches for the tall glass that stands on the dressing table -- and then she hesitates, peering into the blackness of the room beyond. There is no doubt about the sound...
“Frank?” She stands up and moves through the doorway, the name still on her lips. And then she dies...horribly.
