A little short story I wrote as an exercise for a writing group I belong to, thought I would share it, let me know what you think.

My Saturday morning started like many others at my favorite coffee spot, the French bistro and market around the corner from my apartment. A brisk October morning sitting on the sidewalk terrace with hot chocolate and a perfectly  baked croissant with just the right amount of crisp on the outside, soft and buttery on the inside and reading AM New York.

Limbs from elm trees overhang the street, black and white striped awnings on the building where the café is located. With last of the seasons yellow Marigolds blooming in pots, you can almost believe you are at a little café in Paris. 

People watching provides me with both entertainment and insight into the lives of strangers. I enjoy trying to figure out what they were doing that led them to the same place and time as me.

This Saturday there happened to be three couples sharing the terrace with me, each at their own small table and absorbed with their own lives, not really paying close attention to their surroundings. One young couple had that look that identifies them as tourists wearing their “I Love New York” t-shirts. They were looking at maps and various brochures planning their activities for the day, obviously excited and enjoying the adventure of a visit to The Big Apple. An older couple at the table farthest away from me looked like the type who came into the city for the theatre and stayed over in one of the city’s many boutique hotels before driving back to their home outside the city. At the table nearest me sat a couple, in their early thirties I would guess, his hair was dark with slight waves and hers was long and blond. Considering their striking good looks one might assume they worked on the stage. There are several theatre groups in New York who would scramble at the chance to hire either one of them.

The table occupied by the “beautiful” couple was close enough that I could hear their conversation without straining or appearing to be eavesdropping. The young man had deep brown eyes and his voice was deep and soothing, reminding me of a radio announcer. It seemed totally out of place to hear him say “We need to get rid of him, he’s in the way”.

“Your right” the woman said to him, “but how, poison can be traced and so can bullets”.

“What about an accident?”

I was shocked when I realized they were planning someone’s murder.

The pretty blond got such an excited look on her face and started smiling. “That’s good, a hunting accident, that way we wouldn’t need to worry about the bullets being traced. You know he likes to get out in the woods. He loves putting on all that camouflage gear, cleaning his gun before he goes out. What if the gun were to “accidentally” discharge while he was cleaning it? A gun could be rigged that way couldn’t it?”

“Should I contact the police” I thought to myself. There must be something I could do to stop them. I was weighing my options and about to step inside the café so they couldn’t hear me on the phone when a black town car pulled up on the street in front of the café.

The young couple got in and as the car drove away I noticed the decals on the doors identifying it as belonging to the Murder Mystery Writers Guild.

I smiled and sipped my hot chocolate.