Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  “Why,” I say. “You don’t like doggie style?”

  “Shut your mouth, Missy.”

  Jason slips behind Gloria, reaching the door.

  Giving him a little wave as he exits, I say, “I’ll let you know about the funeral.”

  “What funeral?” Gloria asks.

  “You ran over Donnie’s cat.”

  “I certainly did not.”

  “You certainly did. Poor, poor, poor, poor, poor Kitty Muffin.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject, Missy.”

  “You murdered Donnie’s cat, and I’m a witness.”

  Ignoring that remark, Gloria points to the bloody stain.

  “Clean that up.”

  “You never liked old Kitty Muffin, did you?”

  “Now!”

  I head to the kitchen for a sponge.

  Gloria calls after me, “You know what? Forget it. I want your father to see what you’ve done.”

  I drop the sponge into the sink, and my gaze falls on a knife. It would be easy to make a run for Gloria. I reach for the blade’s handle, then hesitate.

  I imagine blood splattered on the furniture and walls, her dead body lying in the middle of the living room.

  Too obvious.

  And talk about a mess.

  Gloria’s behind me, tapping her gold sandaled foot on the kitchen tile. Her toenails are perfectly purple. The Valiums she ingested earlier have been replaced by a rush of adrenalin, and she appears to be on the verge of an anxiety attack.

  “What do you mean, I ran over Donnie’s cat?”

  “Not you, your Buick.” Her pink face has gone pale. “Want a cocktail, Gloria?”

  “Yeah, a double.”

  She leaves the kitchen, goes into the living room, and turns on the TV.

  “Wonder what my brother will do when he finds out you murdered Kitty Muffin.”

  “I’ll get him another cat.”

  “You know how crazy guys can get about a little pussy.”

  “Hurry up with that drink.”

  It sounds like an order, but I can tell she’s losing heart.

  Truthfully, Gloria doesn’t give a rat’s ass about my lost virginity. In fact, she’s glad I screwed up, because it gives her something to hold over me. Waving the remote, she flips through channels. ABC, NBC, CBS, FOX—all news at this hour. She lands on the Home Shopping Network. They’re touting cubic zirconia, and no doubt she’s imagining her engagement to Daddy. All she needs is a fake diamond ring to go with her fake baby.

  I need to get rid of her, before Daddy gets back.

  Handing her an extra-strength Valium cocktail, I use my sweetest voice, “Here ya go, Gloria. Want me to run you a bath?”

  She downs her cocktail.

  “If I ran over Donnie’s cat—I’m not saying I did—but if I did, big whoop. It was an accident.”

  “Remember his goldfish? That was an accident.” I glance out the window at Gloria’s beloved Buick. “Remember how Donnie torched the garage?”

  Gloria reaches for her cigarettes, shakes one from the pack. As she attempts to ignite her lighter with trembling fingers, I lean toward her.

  “I won’t tell, if you don’t tell.”

  “You’re blackmailing me?”

  “Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  She hands me her empty glass.

  “Fix me another, and run me a bubble bath.”

  I know the perfect way to kill her.

  I didn’t knock off Gloria that evening, because shortly after our conversation, Donnie arrived home from swim practice. I told him about Kitty Muffin, leaving out Gloria’s involvement and explaining that I found his pussy trampled in the street—the victim of a hit and run.

  I’ve never seen my brother so upset.

  He punched a hole in the wall of the living room, which was a lot better (IMO) than punching a hole in me. Then he swore he’d kill the SOB (in this case, DOB) who left Kitty Muffin for dead.

  I knew he’d be angry. I’m smart that way. In fact, sometimes I think I’m psychic, but despite my ability to foresee the future, I had no idea that Donnie had been performing experiments with Kitty Muffin, and Jason’s pit bull—attempting to breed a new animal called a cat bull. Apparently, there’s a lucrative market in Japan for unusual pets like Bearded Dragon Lizards, Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches, and Prairie Dogs. Donnie and Jason plan to make a fortune selling cat bulls on the Internet.

  It pissed me off that they neglected to include me in the scheme, proves you can’t trust anyone—not even your boyfriend and your brother.

  But, I played it cool and let it ride, like I always do.

  Donnie totally buys my bogus hit and run story. In fact, he believes the crime was committed by his competition—this kid, Roger, who’s been attempting to mate ducks with frogs. Roger told me he plans to call his new animal a Dog, Duck+frOG.

  Way to go, genius.

  I told him he should call them Frucks.

  “Where’s the body?” Donnie asks.

  “The basement.”

  We head downstairs, go into the back room, where I point to Kitty Muffin’s tinfoil mummy.

  Donnie doesn’t respond.

  He’s staring at the defrosted Ziploc bag that’s floating in a pool of water.

  “Muffy?”

  “Yeah. I found our puppy packed into the freezer.”

  My brother makes this strangled whimpering noise.

  Then, like an automaton, he goes to the torture chair, pulls off a clump of rags, and wraps the dog inside of them. Holding Doggie Muffy like a baby, he rocks the dog against his chest, so traumatized it makes the goldfish incident seem like no big thing.

  Gloria in Excelsis

  I didn’t sleep last night, stayed awake listening for any moves my brother made, because I thought for sure Donnie would burn the house down. He didn’t, so I guess he’s waiting for Daddy to return before staging a family cremation.

  Things feel different around here this morning.

  The atmosphere is electric, like you could get zapped any minute. As Mommy’s old shrink would say, we’re all walking on eggshells.

  Usually, first thing, Gloria sends me out to get the newspaper. No big deal, because the delivery guy tosses it onto our driveway. But today, wearing her pink bathrobe and slippers, Gloria went out to pick it up herself.

  She’s circling the Buick inspecting every inch of paint. Next, she kicks the tires. Finally, she drops to her knees and peers under the chassis, searching for a bomb, I guess.

  I’d like to see her turn the ignition and explode into a thousand pieces. But nothing happens. She stomps across the lawn and, bathrobe dragging up the porch steps, comes back into the house.

  I’m in the kitchen, making scrambled eggs.

  I know it’s August, but I keep humming this Christmas song we used to sing in church, “Gloria in Excelsis, Deo.” Can’t get it out of my head.

  I hum when I’m nervous.

  Daddy comes home tomorrow, so I have tons to do today.

  After breakfast, Gloria flops onto the couch and sticks her nose into the latest Cosmo, while I wash the dishes and wipe down the counters.

  After checking to make sure she’s occupied—reading enlightening articles like Untamed Va-jay-jays, The Orgasm Whisperer, and My Gyno Talked to My Vagina (I didn’t make those up)—I scoot toward the back door.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Missy?”

  “Out.”

  “You’re grounded.”

  “What about our deal?”

  “That don’t mean we don’t have rules.” Gloria slips a Salem between her lips, flicks her lighter.

  “But it’s Sunday.”

  On Sundays old lady Tyrpak visits her mother in the nursing home over in Port Jeff, so she pays me to walk her new puppy.

  When Gloria speaks, her cigarette bobs up and down. I focus on the red hot tip. Her eyes remind me of that cow’s our science class dissected. The Japanese eat eyeballs. Consider
them a delicacy. Not human eyeballs, not even cows’; they chow down on giant tuna eyes that look a lot like Gloria’s.

  “All right,” she says. “Walk the mutt, but get back here in a half hour.” A snake of ash slithers off her cigarette, missing the ashtray.

  I wave a paper bag.

  “I have to pick up all the poop, and that takes about an hour.”

  Gloria’s first Valium cocktail of the day is kicking in, so she drops the argument.

  Walking the dog does take me an hour, sometimes longer, because after I run the thing around the baseball diamond at the elementary school, I meet Jason in the woods. We smoke a little weed, do a little research—focusing on anatomy, of course. Now that my cherry has been popped, I’m open to experiment.

  Still humming my Christmas song, I skip along the sidewalk. Jason lives across the street in that gray split-level. The mower sits in the middle of the lawn, where he left it yesterday. His pit bull pulls at its chain and barks as I walk past, probably missing those workouts with Kitty Muffin. Sometimes I throw a pebble at Jason’s window to let him know I’m heading out, but today I don’t, because I’m pretty sure Gloria is watching. Jason’s mom is divorced. She works the night shift at the hospital, so she sleeps during the day and his bedroom is off-limits for screwing around and making noise. That’s why we’re meeting in the woods.

  Maple Street is shaded by trees, but due to the humidity, I’m already sweating. When I reach the end of the block, I pull off my tee-shirt (worn for Gloria’s benefit), and walk along Oak Place in the pink bustier I stole last week from Target. Not much in the way of boobs, so I keep tugging at the thing.

  Mrs. Tyrpak (she’s a widow—her husband got hit by a bus) lives in that white house with green trim. I open the gate and enter her front yard, where her black Lab puppy is tied up. (Glad she decided against another cocked-up spaniel.) Nearly strangling itself, the dog attempts to tackle me. I grab the leash, and manage to hook it to the dog’s collar, while he drags me toward the gate.

  We sprint two blocks to the elementary school.

  Bustiers hug your boobs, but they aren’t good for jogging. As we hit the parking lot, my right nipple escapes. Two boys stop playing on the jungle gym and point.

  Just for grins, I flash the other.

  That’ll give them something to discuss for Show and Tell.

  I run the dog around the playground, stopping periodically to pick up poop. Then I tie him to a tree and, carrying the bag (I don’t believe in littering), head into the woods.

  Dead leaves crunch under my shoes, and giant roots rise out of the ground trying to trip me. Poison ivy lurks along the path, and I avoid the shiny leaves. Mommy told me you can use poison ivy to make medicine, but I might have made that up. Mommy and I used to walk here, so long ago I barely remember her face. That doesn’t make me sad; I just find it curious. The path wanders through creeping myrtle, ferns, Jack-in-the-Pulpits. (Baby ferns are called fiddleheads, and you can cook them like asparagus, but eating Jack-in-the-Pulpits will make you sick.) Mommy knew all about wildflowers and plants. Yarrow reduces swelling and blood pressure. These purple daisies are called Asters, and they’re harmless; you can eat them in a salad. But see those yellow buttercups? They look sweet and innocent, but they’ll give you a rash, blister your mouth and esophagus, cause excessive salivation and bloody diarrhea. I’d like to pick a bunch for Gloria, but they’ll wilt before I get home.

  Besides, I have other plans for her today—after I secure my alibi.

  “Hey, Sadie. Why you singing Christmas songs?”

  Glancing up, I see Jason standing on the trunk of a fallen tree, no shirt, like Tarzan in that movie, Greystoke.

  He jumps, landing in front of me.

  “Nice top.”

  He yanks at my bustier, and I drop my bag of poop. Next thing I know, my shorts are around my ankles, and we’re rolling in the leaves.

  “I brought you a hot dog,” Jason whispers in my ear.

  “A cold one from Tasty Squeeze?”

  “With relish and spicy mustard, the way you like it.”

  “Jason, I need to ask you—”

  “Yeah, you can eat my hot dog.”

  “This is serious. I need an alibi.”

  “For what?”

  “Gloria.”

  He slips something between my thighs. I think it’s the hot dog, because the mustard stings, but I’m distracted.

  “I need an alibi for when I kill her.”

  Jason looks up.

  “Seriously?”

  “If the cops ask, I need you to tell them I was with you.”

  “When’s this going down?”

  “Today.”

  “No problem. We spent the whole day together. Speaking of going down …”

  Jason dives between my thighs, and I hear munching sounds.

  When I get home, I place the bag of poop on our front porch. Then I set it on fire, ring the doorbell, and hide behind the half-dead shrubbery that lines our driveway.

  Gloria opens the door, stomps on the burning bag.

  Splat.

  She curses.

  Hahahaha.

  The oldest trick.

  I wait till she goes back inside.

  As I open the screen door, she calls out, “Sadie, clean up that bag of crap.”

  “What crap?”

  Gloria’s face appears over the back of the couch.

  “I don’t want it stinking up this house. Put the bag in the garbage can outside. Then wash off my slippers.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass, Missy.”

  After I dispose of the poop and clean Gloria’s slippers, I tip-toe past the living room. I know she’ll catch me. I want her to. It’s all part of my master plan.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To my room.”

  “You have chores.”

  Crinkling my nose, I say, “I’m not cleaning the bathroom. It smells from your slippers.”

  “That’s exactly what you’ll do. And make sure you use Clorox.”

  (Economy-sized, store brand bleach.)

  My plan is unfolding perfectly.

  “Okay,” I say, my tone petulant. “But I’m not running you a bath.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told, Missy. And, yeah, when you’re done scrubbing the floor and tub, run me a bath.” Looking smug, Gloria flops back on the couch. “First get me a rum and Coke.”

  “Can’t Donnie do anything?”

  “Your brother’s out. The swim team has a meet today.”

  I know that.

  I lift my upper lip and throw Gloria my finest sneer. Then I head into the kitchen to make her a high-octane cocktail.

  I’m using a lot of bleach to clean the bathroom, and I washed the toilet with ammonia—careful to close the lid. Note: always wear rubber gloves when working with chemicals … also, gloves leave no fingerprints.

  Gloria’s bottle of lavender bubble bath is nearly empty, because I dumped out half of it. I’m reading the list of ingredients on the purple plastic bottle: Cocamide Mipa, Cocamidopropyl Betaine, Tetrasodium Edta, and Methylchloroisothiazolinone. Also, Sodium Laureth Sulfate, which (I read online) is used as a cleaning agent to scrub garage floors. It causes cancer.

  If I weren’t in such a rush, I wouldn’t need to add ammonia to her bath.

  I pour a good cup of ammonia into the bottle of bubble bath and shake it, so the liquid still looks purple. Then I twist the top back on, so I won’t asphyxiate myself.

  Thanks to bleach, the tub is spotless.

  I open the faucet and let the water run, testing the temperature. She doesn’t like it too hot. The rush of water masks my voice as I sing at the top of my lungs, “Glor-ororororor-ororororor-ororororor-ria in Egg Shell Sees Deh-eh-oh—”

  I’m in the Christmas spirit now.

  I fill the tub halfway, so there’s room for more water, then pour in bleach from the economy-sized bottle. Did you know blea
ch works wonders as a soak for infections? It softens the skin and destroys bacteria.

  Almost ready.

  I hang a fresh towel on the rack and light a lavender-scented candle (helps to disguise the bleach). Stepping back, I study the scene.

  Nice.

  I go out to the living room.

  “Your bath is ready, Gloria. Don’t let it get cold.”

  “Coming.”

  She downs the remainder of her latest cocktail, snaps off The Young and the Restless. As she gets off the couch, she trips, banging her shin on the coffee table.

  “Ouch.”

  “Want another cocktail?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  She weaves toward the bathroom, and I hold the door open.

  “Smells like bleach,” she says.

  “A little. I used it to clean the floor and the tub.”

  She allows her pink robe to fall, displaying her pink pudgy body, sticks her hand into the water.

  “How’s the temperature?” I ask.

  “Too hot, and you forgot the bubbles.”

  “Sorry. Run some cold water and add the bubble bath. I’ll be back with your cocktail.”

  She eyes me suspiciously.

  “Why’er you being so sweet?”

  “Just getting into the holiday spirit.”

  “Labor Day’s a month from now.”

  Gloria steps into the tub, turns the faucet to full blast. After a minute, she plunks her chunky ass into the water. When I see her reach for the bottle of bubble bath, I shut the door and hang onto the handle, making sure she can’t get out.

  No need to worry.

  After a few seconds, I hear coughing, water splashing.

  “Sadie, help!”

  I crack open the bathroom door, and toxic vapor hits me in the face. Holding my breath, I watch Gloria attempt to stand. Gasping and choking, she slips back into the tub, bubbles spitting from her mouth.

  I slam the door, run into the living room and open all the windows, so the fumes will dissipate. Then fling the back door open, to provide cross circulation. I sprint back to the bathroom, listen.

  No cries for help.

  No splashing.

  My science project is working.

  I head down to the basement, search through grocery bags, and find Gloria’s stash. Bearing a new purple bottle, I return upstairs.