Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  Is it normal to have these thoughts?

  I read somewhere, most children want to kill their parents.

  Saliva pools in my mouth.

  The fluorescent lights blink, but I keep vacuuming.

  How difficult would it be to butcher a human being?

  And could I fit Daddy and Gloria into the freezer?

  The lights go out, leaving me in darkness.

  Swallowing a mouthful of saliva, I nearly choke.

  “Daddy?”

  Even if someone answered, I wouldn’t hear them over the rumble of the vacuum. But my hand is shaking so hard, I can’t turn it off.

  I consider following Kitty Muffin’s tracks and escaping through the broken window.

  My feet refuse to budge.

  I need to pee, like I’m eight years old again, tied up in the torture chair. A trickle of hot liquid escapes my underpants, rolls down my thigh. No diaper.

  I stare into darkness.

  “D-Daddy, is that you?”

  The fluorescent flickers overhead.

  I turn toward the steps.

  Gloria stands at the top of the stairway, her body swaying. Her hand rests on the light switch. Her pink mouth opens, and her chin jiggles like she’s yelling.

  I yank the vacuum’s plug from the wall socket, and her voice blasts across the basement.

  “I’m going out. I have an appointment at Pedicure Palace,” her speech is slurred, so it sounds like, Gwan out fer a pointment Pedcure Palce.

  Great news!

  As soon as the wicked witch is gone, I’ll pop open a beer, turn on the TV and watch something explicit on cable. Then instead of meeting Jason in the woods and risking poison ivy, I’ll tell him to come over.

  Gloria folds her arms over her fake boobs, and her tank top threatens to explode. If her fake baby latches onto a nipple, it will suck silicone.

  “When you’re done with the floors, make something for dinner.”

  I just made lunch.

  “Expecting twins?”

  Gloria leaves, banging the door shut.

  I creep up the stairs, slowly, so they don’t creak.

  Pressing my ear against the door, I listen.

  Hear nothing.

  I reach for the knob, half-expecting it to be locked.

  It turns.

  I crack the door open, peer into the living room. For once, the TV’s screen is black.

  The front door slams.

  I run into the living room, part the window’s curtain—gray from smoke and lack of washing. Through smudged glass, I watch Gloria climb into her Buick Century Coupé. (Daddy gave it to her for her birthday.) She adores that car, has it washed every week. Before she puts the Buick into gear, she adjusts the rearview mirror and examines her teeth. The Christmas tree air fresher trembles. That’s when I notice Kitty Muffin, napping on the asphalt.

  The engine revs as I shout out a warning.

  The windowpane stops my voice.

  With a squeal, the car backs out of the driveway, rear tires racing over Donnie’s cat.

  Too wasted to notice, Gloria points the car toward Pedicure Palace and zooms down Maple Street.

  I have to clean up this mess before Donnie gets home. My brother is sensitive, and he can be quite the drama queen. Who knows what he’ll do when he discovers Kitty Muffin is now a pancake.

  Two years ago, when Daddy was on a binge, he accidently threw my brother’s goldfish into the garbage disposal. Donnie got so angry, he set fire to the stacks of newspapers out in the garage. I called 911 and the fire trucks arrived, sirens blaring. That was fun. But after they extinguished the fire, Daddy made me clean the mess.

  Donnie gets out of a lot of things, because he’s a guy.

  It isn’t fair.

  Sometimes I could kill my brother, but he’s the only one I’ve got. (Gloria’s fake baby doesn’t count). Guess I feel protective. Dumb, I know. You can’t protect anyone. No one is safe in this world. If I had superpowers, like Supergirl, I would have flown through the window and rescued Kitty Muffin—just for Donnie.

  Knowing my brother, he’ll insist on giving his kitty a proper burial in the backyard. Maybe we can light the grill and perform a cremation, like the one I gave old lady Tyrpak’s annoying cocker spaniel.

  I bet Donnie will cry.

  It must suck to have emotions.

  Scooping Kitty Muffin’s body off the pavement, I don’t feel anything except the weight of the cat’s body—and mild curiosity. I wonder how long it took for the heart to stop beating, and did the cat feel its eyeball pop out of the socket?

  Donnie got all the feelings in our family.

  I carry Kitty Muffin to the kitchen and attempt to shove the flattened cat into a store brand freezer bag. Cheap imitation. The plastic splits, spilling guts onto the counter. Another mess for me to clean. Luckily we have heavy-duty foil, and I manage to mummify Kitty Muffin in aluminum.

  The air conditioner rattles in the window, working overtime. You’d think Daddy would put in central AC, since he’s a contractor, but he’s too cheap. The house feels warm and muggy. Pretty soon Kitty Muffin will start to decompose.

  That might be interesting.

  I consider shoving the corpse under my bed and using it as a maggot breeding ground for science class, but who knows what state it will be in come September.

  I need to keep the body cold.

  The fridge up here is stuffed: half a ham I made for Sunday dinner, cartons of milk and eggs, stacks of diet cola that take up an entire shelf, drawers filled with rotting lettuce, moldy carrots, brownish celery. Daddy says wasting food is a sin, so he won’t let me throw anything out. The rest of the refrigerator is filled with imitation Tupperware containing unidentifiable crap Daddy insists on storing. I move three boxes of eggs (bought on sale, and now outdated) attempting to squeeze Kitty Muffin between the ham and an almost empty milk carton, but even in its compressed state, I can’t wedge the cat in. The freezer is worse, filled with trays of ice cubes for rum and Cokes, a half-gallon of Rocky Road ice cream, and a year’s supply of frozen vegetables that no one eats.

  If I toss the cat into the trash, my brother will have a cow.

  I consider saying nothing, letting Donnie think his beloved pussy ran away. Speaking of pussies, the C-word comes to mind. I can’t allow that C-word Gloria get away with murder. It’s a matter of principle: Kitty Muffin’s wrongful death must be avenged.

  Not that I give a damn about the cat, but I’ll take any reason to get rid of Gloria.

  I begin to formulate a plan.

  Knowing my brother, he may object to Gloria’s demise—even though I have proof that she murdered Kitty Muffin. 1) I’m an eyewitness. 2) It was clear-cut hit and run. 3) Gloria ran Kitty Muffin over on purpose. (Okay, number 3 may be an exaggeration.)

  No need for a trial.

  I glance at the clock: 3:18.

  When Donnie gets home, I’ll break the news about his dead cat. Meanwhile, I’ll stick the kitty corpse in the basement freezer until we have time for the funeral. Then I’ll convince Donnie to see Die Hard with a Vengeance or I’ll give him money to buy a Tasty Squeeze ice cream cone—get him out of the way, so I’m alone with Gloria.

  I push open the basement door. Carrying tin-foiled Kitty Muffin like an offering, my arms outstretched in front of me (the package leaks), I move down the steps, imitating Boris Karloff in The Mummy. (Saw it on Turner Classic.) I’m the evil priest, and Kitty Muffin is a sacrifice to the cat goddess Baast. The basement feels like an Egyptian tomb, creepy and silent.

  I step through groceries as blood oozes from the package, spattering brown paper bags. Red drips onto boxes of Rice-A-Roni, Hamburger Helper, cans of SpaghettiOs. I make my way to the holy of holies: Daddy’s private refrigerator.

  Using an elbow, I prod open the sliding door and enter the back room. A string dangles from a naked light bulb; I reach for it (nearly dropping Kitty Muffin), tug, and the bulb’s meager 60 watts cast shadows on the walls. Water leaks a
long the concrete blocks. No wonder the place smells moldy. No grocery bags cover the floor of the back room. There’s no beige linoleum buried beneath dirt, just gray cement. A breeze comes through the broken window, carrying an earthy smell.

  I fish the key from my pocket and drop Kitty Muffin’s mummy on the floor, ruining the ritual effect. Stepping over the body, I slip the key into the padlock. As expected, the fridge is full of beer and store brand cola.

  I pop open a Budweiser, take a long, cold slug.

  When I open the freezer door, it creaks. It’s as ancient as Egypt. No self-defrost. Plastic bags, their contents indiscernible, are packed one on top of another, encased in ice.

  No room for Kitty Muffin, unless I chip some out.

  Too bad the Egyptians didn’t know about cryonics. How cool would it be to defrost some pharaoh or a queen like Cleopatra? Of course, the Sahara is hot, and as far as I know, ancient Egyptians had no electricity (unless they were ETs, like New Agers claim), so freezing a body would be tough. We learned about cryonics in science class. Right after a person dies (or just before), you freeze them at a low temperature, and then, a thousand years from now, you bring that person back to life. Like a zombie, only better. Kitty Muffin would have to be inflated, but who wouldn’t want a zombie cat?

  Leaving the back room, I pick my way through groceries to Daddy’s workbench. From the pegboard, I select a screwdriver, since I don’t see any ice picks, grab a hammer, then head back to the freezer.

  Using the screwdriver as a chisel, I dislodge a chunk of ice. The freezer bags are clumped together, and I can’t get them out, so I keep chipping.

  This takes longer than expected.

  I pop open another beer and slug it down.

  Then I go back to hammering, harder because this is taking forever. The screwdriver slips, gouging a hole in the freezer’s wall. I hear the hiss of Freon escaping into the atmosphere. I am personally responsible for global warming.

  A Ziploc bag falls out of the freezer, hits the floor.

  I pick it up.

  What the—

  Through plastic and cracked ice, I see matted fur. I recognize the color.

  I turn the bag around.

  That is definitely a head.

  Familiar black eyes. The cute pink tongue.

  “Muffy!”

  I’ve unearthed (or, in this case, deiced) our long lost puppy.

  Guess it will be a double burial.

  Advice from L’il Sadie

  10 Ways to Your Dream Confession

  Trick the sleazebag into confessing, by pretending you already know what she did. I plan to try this on Gloria, but it may not work since she’s a BIG FAT LIAR.

  Pretend the truth is not important and makes no difference to you. Example: so Daddy, I cleaned out fridge like Gloria told me to do, and guess who I found? Our doggie, Muffy! (And now I don’t have to walk him.)

  If you suspect refuses to confess, look for evidence and confront him. Note: this may be a bad idea with psychos, because they may attack you, remove body parts, and make you die a slow, excruciating death.

  Try the Reid Technique, commonly known as the good cop, bad cop method. This works best with two people performing the questioning, but in a pinch, you can use this technique by yourself. If you happen to be a Gemini, or have a split personality, you’ll have an advantage. There are several steps. A) Isolate your victim/suspect. B) Maximize what a badass you are so you’ll scare the crap out of them. (For example: tell the sucker how he did it—ignore or argue any claims of innocence.) C) Minimize by pretending to be nice. Fake a little sympathy, and say you understand why the lying scumbag committed the crime. This technique will confuse your victim and encourage him to confess. Questions? Watch a thousand episodes of Law and Order.

  Look the sleazebag in the eye and lie. Make him squirm by claiming you have evidence, even if you don’t. Cops do this all the time. So does Daddy.

  Use magic words. In this case, magic does exist, and you don’t need a wand (unless you intend to beat the hell out of your suspect). Here are some magic phrases: Shit happens … Anybody might have killed him, in your situation … Everybody makes mistakes …. These phrases will encourage the loser to confess.

  Ply your suspect with drugs and alcohol. Warning: this may not work on alcoholics and druggies, since they’ve built up a tolerance. Daddy and Gloria are prime examples of people who lie more creatively under the influence.

  Accuse your suspect of doing something worse. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a confession to a lesser charge. For example: You saw the cat, and you deliberately ran your car over it. When Kitty Muffin tried to escape, you stepped on the gas.

  Speak to your suspect’s relatives and friends. If they have any. Of course, if the person is a career criminal, their friends and family aren’t likely to rat him out. If you choose this route, be sure to bring a gun, in case the friends and family decide to blow you away.

  This old standby often works best: beat him to a pulp, and make him beg for mercy.

  Remember, if you know the sleazebag, scumbag, douche bag, or an old bag like Gloria, is guilty, who needs a confession?

  Crime and Punishment

  Two murders in one day: Muffin and Muffy.

  (Granted, Doggie Muffy is a cold case, but due to the August heat, an hour after I discovered him, the terrier is thawed.) Who knew today would end in double homicide? When Gloria gets back from Pedicure Palace, I may make that triple homicide.

  I’m not used to drinking this much beer.

  My eyes aren’t working all that well.

  I think the freezer’s broken. I taped the hole, but all the ice is melting. Doggie Muffy and Kitty Muffin are lying on the basement floor in a giant poodle. I mean puddle. (Sorry, drank too much.)

  I need a beer.

  I swipe another can (my sixth, I think), stumble upstairs to find a mop.

  Why’s the kitchen turning like a carousel? Steadying myself, I lean against the counter, bend over the sink, careful not to fall into the drain, and imagine getting pulverized. Bummer for that goldfish. I turn on the faucet, splash my face with water. The contents of my stomach (not six, seven cans of Budweiser … or was it eight?) slithers up my throat.

  I swallow it back down.

  Why did I come up here?

  I open the fridge, get a whiff of ham. Dry heaving, I scurry back to the sink.

  The doorbell rings.

  I shove my can of beer into the oven, wonder why Gloria or Daddy would ring the bell. Weaving past the living room, I pause to lean against the couch, before staggering onward to my destination: the front door.

  Sober up, girl. Now!

  My command has no effect.

  I crack open the door.

  Jason is standing on the porch, shirtless, jeans slung low so I can see his V line. His skin looks tan and smooth.

  I fling the door open, fall against him.

  “Heeeeey, Sadie girl.”

  “Dude.”

  He tries to hold me up, but my body sways precariously. I push my hair out of my face, lean against the doorjamb, attempting to look sexy, but really it’s a challenge to remain upright.

  “You wasted?”

  “Little.”

  Jason laughs. Draping his arm around my shoulders, he guides me inside the house, closes the door behind us, and turns the lock.

  “You forget our date?”

  “No. Whah time’s it?”

  I glance at the kitchen clock, but the numbers make no sense.

  “Got another brewski?”

  “You bedder go.”

  “Just got here.”

  He flashes me a smile, presses his body against mine.

  “I’m all sweaty. Been working down in that dark basement—”

  “I’d like to be somewhere warm and dark.”

  “You wanna go down to the basement?”

  “Yeah, I want to go down.”

  He unbuttons his jeans, slides open his zipper, and reaches for mine
.

  Next thing I know, I’m naked, our clothes strewn all over the living room. Jason lifts my chin to kiss me on the mouth, like in a movie. I stumble backward, dragging him with me, and we crash onto the floor.

  “Babe, you’re so sexy.”

  “I think I’m gonna puke.”

  Jason pushes me onto the carpet. My head lands on a catnip mouse, and my mind flashes to Kitty Muffin. I think catnip must work on people too, because I feel really horny, but that may have more to do with Jason’s tongue.

  “Poor, poor Kitty Muffin.”

  “Poor who?”

  “Kitty Muffin.”

  Jason pushes himself up. His body is suspended over me, like a yogi halfway through a sun salutation. Despite the air-conditioning, sweat gleams on his chest. I run my fingers over his muscles, then roll onto my stomach.

  “I gotta go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Don’t know.”

  I’m crawling on all fours, when Jason surprises me from behind.

  “Let’s do it doggie style, like in that movie.”

  I feel far from glamorous. My face is smushed into the carpet, and my lips kiss the catnip mouse.

  Am I Kitty Muffin reincarnated? Maybe I’m possessed.

  Pretty soon, I’m howling like a cat, and so is Jason—so loud, we fail to hear the key turn in the lock, don’t notice when the front door opens.

  “What the hell are you two doing?”

  As if Gloria can’t tell.

  Jason gets off me, and I collapse onto the carpet.

  This isn’t what I had in mind, nothing like that porno movie.

  “Get up,” Gloria orders me.

  Standing is a challenge, since the floor keeps shifting.

  There’s a red stain on the carpet.

  Gloria shakes her head.

  “Wait till your father gets back, Missy.” Her face matches her lipstick. “Wait till he finds out what a slut his daughter is—”

  “Guess I take after him.”

  Jason is attempting to sneak out of here, but the witch catches him.

  “And you,” she says, spit flying from her mouth. “You are disgusting.”