Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  “Get out of here, Sadie.”

  “You’re under age,” I shout, but I doubt he hears me, because he’s wearing headphones.

  I yank them off, hear Liza Minnelli belting “Cabaret.”

  My glare moves from Donnie to Jason.

  “He’s thirteen.”

  “Same as you, the first time we did it.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Why?”

  “Two guys having sex?”

  “A BJ isn’t sex.”

  “Who are you? The president? I’m reporting you, Jason. You’ll be arrested for statutory rape.”

  Donnie snatches his headphones from my hands, says, “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Wouldn’t I?” I stab my finger into Jason’s chest. “Leave now, or I’m making a citizen’s arrest.”

  Jason finds his jeans, pulls them on.

  I draw my phone out of my pocket, my finger poised to dial 911.

  Donnie shoots off the bed and grasps my arm. Twisting it behind my back, he forces me to drop my phone.

  “Listen, Pepto Bismol Butt,” he says. “No one’s calling the police. Unless you want me to explain how you killed Gloria and used Jason as a phony alibi.”

  “Wh-what do you mean?” I glance at Jason. “You told Donnie?”

  Jason shrugs.

  “Get out of here!” I yell

  Breaking from my brother’s grasp, I lunge at Jason, but he sidesteps me. I collide into the wall. My fingernails clutch at the plaster as I slide to the floor, ripping away a poster of Xena, Warrior Priestess.

  My pride is bruised, but I manage to stand. Donnie yells as I give chase to Jason, pounding down the hallway, floorboards vibrating under my weight. I corner Jason in the living room. He’s wedged between the paisley couch and loveseat.

  Raising his hands in surrender, he says, “Sadie, stop.”

  I lunge at him and bang into the coffee table, knocking six years of Cosmos and several ashtrays to the floor. Tripping over the purple ottoman, I crash onto the paisley couch as Jason makes his getaway. That doesn’t stop me. Heaving myself off the couch, I go after him. When he reaches the front door, my recently acquired body mass proves to be an asset. I tackle Jason, lay him flat. We roll around the floor, almost like the good old days, except I’m squishing him.

  “Get off me. I can’t breathe.”

  “Stay away from my brother.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Promise.”

  I”m pressing my groin into his, regretting I don’t have a knife, when something hard slams into my skull. Stars stream from my eyes, like in a cartoon. My body rocks forward, sways backward, then I keel off of Jason and hit the floor.

  My brother stands over me, wielding a cast iron frying pan.

  Before I pass out, I think of pancakes, melted butter, warm maple syrup.

  The fact that my brother is gay, a queer, a fag, a twink … whatever, doesn’t bother me. But why’s he doing my boyfriend? He stole Jason out from under me, while my nose was stuck in a gallon of Extreme Moose Track ice cream.

  You may say, Forget it, Sadie. Get into the holiday spirit. This is the season of forgiveness.

  Bull.

  I can’t let my brother get away with this. As his older sister, it’s up to me to set an example, don’t you think?

  Today is Thanksgiving, and I have big plans for that turkey.

  On holidays, we never invite anyone over, not even my cousins. Never have, and never will. Daddy likes to hold us hostage, so he can torture us in private—me anyway. Right now he and Donnie are glued to the boob tube. Mickey Mouse and Macy’s have finished parading, and now Daddy and my brother are on to the Lions and da Bears. While they watch football, my job is to prepare a feast.

  Why?

  How does an extra orifice make me qualified to cook and clean?

  “Hey, Sadie, bring Donnie and me another brewski, will ya? And make sure they’re cold.”

  I snatch two beers out of the fridge and head into the living room.

  Daddy is getting bigger every day. I’d like to put him back on the arsenic diet, but it’s too risky—how many accidents can you have in one family? He’s lounging on the paisley couch and my brother’s on the beige one. To hand them the cans, I squeeze past the ottoman and the coffee table. A bag of potato chips is balanced on a tower of magazines, and a bowl of onion dip sits on my father’s stomach. Normally, I’d reach into the bag of chips and dip into the sour cream, but the sight of Daddy’s rotund mound acts as a deterrent.

  My brother says, “Thanks for the brewski.”

  Daddy says, “Move. Your fat ass is blocking the screen.”

  “Do you know your son whacks-off with other guys?”

  Daddy stares at the TV, says, “So what?”

  See what I mean? He always takes my brother’s side.

  “What if I whacked-off with girls?”

  That gets Daddy’s attention. Lowering his glasses, he actually looks at me.

  “You’d better be a virgin.”

  My brother snorts.

  I go back to the kitchen, butter a slice of bread and stuff it into my mouth.

  I don’t mind cooking. In fact, I enjoy it.

  Mommy was a good cook, and I have all her recipes. I just make a few adjustments. For example, I garnish the butternut squash soup with nuts—you can use walnuts, but I prefer something more potent—plus, I’m helping out the stray cat problem. Many people feel sleepy after eating turkey, supposedly due to the amino acid L-tryptophan. But, I read online, sleepiness due to L-tryptophan is an old wives’ tale. To ensure that Daddy and Donnie conk out, so I can enjoy the holiday, I’ve added melatonin to the stuffing. Melatonin is a hormone that induces sleep, and everybody’s using it. Of course, I’m serving mashed potatoes (did you know the eyes are poisonous?). Dessert? I doubt the Dynamic Duo will be awake long enough to eat minced meat pie, but I’ve got something special planned.

  My brother wanders into the kitchen.

  My head is in the oven, checking on the bird, and I flip him one.

  “Want me to do anything?” He sounds contrite.

  “Test this stuffing.”

  I pull the turkey out of the oven, set it on the stove to rest, scoop stuffing on a plate for Donnie, and hand him a fork.

  “It’s hot,” he says.

  “Blow on it. You’re good at that.”

  He digs his fork into the stuffing, shovels it into his mouth.

  “Delicious.”

  “Have some more, and bring a plate to Daddy.”

  Pretty soon they’re both yawning, barely able to keep score between the Cowboys and the Dolphins. By half-time (after heaps of melatonin stuffing, turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, etcetera, etcetera.) they’re knocked out.

  Time for minced meat.

  Donnie’s hands are tied behind his back. I shove him down the stairs, and he stumbles into the basement. He’s half asleep. When his head lolls toward his chest, I slap him.

  “Wakie, wakie.”

  I drag him toward the torture chair, and he trips over a bag containing cans of tuna fish and boxes of spaghetti.

  I push him into the chair’s seat, and the spikes jolt him awake.

  “OWWWW!”

  He tries to stand, but I won’t let him. I’ve got plenty of rope, old-fashioned sisal, the prickly stuff, rather than smooth nylon. The kind of rope Daddy always used.

  “Sadie, what are you doing?”

  I circle with the rope, binding my brother, so his spine presses into the chair’s thorny back.

  It resembles a throne, an instrument of torture you might find in a medieval dungeon. Daddy built it out of wood, I’m not sure what type, but the spikes he carved so lovingly have held up all these years—spikes on the seat, spikes on the back, spikes on the arms, designed to pierce the sitter each time he makes the slightest move.

  My brother stares at me, pretending he feels nothing.

  He can be sooo annoying.

  “
What do you want, Sadie?”

  “Jason.”

  “You think that’s up to me?”

  “You stole him.”

  “You lost him.”

  “Shut up.”

  I peruse the pegboard. Deciding against a screwdriver, nixing pliers, I remove the wire cutters.

  “Now what?” Donnie asks.

  “Remember Kitty Muffin?”

  “When he got run over?”

  “Before that.”

  Donnie tilts his head, studying me, says nothing.

  “Remember how he got fixed?”

  “When he went to the vet?

  “That’s what I’m gonna do to you.”

  Donnie chuckles.

  Not the reaction I expected.

  I take a step toward my brother, bang into a bag of ancient potato chips, and notice that they’re turning green.

  I feel a bit green myself, but it doesn’t stop me.

  “Snip, snip,” I say, snapping the wire cutters.

  “You’ll be doing me a favor.”

  I stop snapping the cutters.

  “Why?”

  “As soon as I’m old enough, I plan to get surgery.”

  “What surgery?”

  “Snip, snip.” Donnie scissors his fingers. “There’s a doctor in Trinidad, Colorado, who gets rid of unwanted appendages.”

  I stare at my brother.

  “You mean, you want to be a girl?”

  “I am a girl, stuck in this male body.”

  The wire cutters fall from my fingers into a bag of Pop-Tarts.

  I’m speechless. This puts a damper on my plans.

  Donnie says, “From now on, call me Donna.”

  Advice from Li’l Sadie

  10 Telltale Clues Daddy is a Cross-Dresser

  Underwear keeps disappearing.

  Fails to cancel his girlfriend’s subscription to Cosmo magazine, and you catch him reading articles like Why You Should Be a Jealous Bitch: And 6 Other Relationship Secrets.

  Sparkles on his toenails. Sparkles on his face. In fact, he’s got a bag of fairy dust.

  He grabs your latest Victoria’s Secret catalogue, but he’s more interested in miracle bras than the models.

  You notice he’s stocking up on Nair.

  He’s pierced his navel, just like you.

  Asks if those strappy high-heeled sandals you’re wearing happen to come in size twelve.

  When the temperature drops, instead of wrapping the scarf you crocheted him for Christmas around his neck, he sports a feather boa.

  His reading glasses are encrusted with rhinestones.

  You spot him at the movie theater wearing a dress and a platinum Jean Harlow wig.

  Murder Four

  (2000)

  My New Year’s resolution has paid off. I’ve been working out, and I’ve become picky about what I put into my mouth. (Wow, you’ve got a dirty mind.) I mean, the food I eat: organic veggies, seafood, chicken, whole grains. Consequently, I’ve lost all the weight I gained and added muscle, so once again, Jason thinks I’m hot, hot, hot.

  The bad news: eight months into the millennium and no apocalypse.

  The good news: Jason got another raise, and he’s spending it on me.

  He bought me an MP3 Player, and thanks to Napster I’ll never be without my tunes. I also got a laptop, and there’s this new thing called WiFi that lets you access anything from anywhere. I’ve started a blog called Sadie’s Killer Recipes. Like it?

  Speaking of killers, living with Daddy is murder.

  He’s hosting lingerie parties, and he forced me to attend the last one. Of course, Donna wanted to be there. (Yeah, it’s official; my bro is my sista.) Guests included old widow Tyrpak, Jason’s mom, some guy I never saw before, and a woman who looks a lot like the mailman.

  Today, when Donna gets home from swim practice (the school’s not sure which team she’s on), I need to ask her if being gay is catching.

  My dad’s always been insane, but now he isn’t faking it. He wants to sell his business and retire, move to Phoenix. He plans to apply for disability on account of his health, and I guess he means his brain. (Or lack of one.) That would be fine with me, but he’s determined to make Donna and me move too.

  That’s why I need to kill Daddy soon.

  Donna’s still hoping for a vaca in Colorado. Lately she’s been wearing Gloria’s old dresses. (For some reason, Daddy never threw them out.) They’re kind of big and out of style. I offered to take her shopping, but Donna says my taste is trashy.

  Look who’s talking, ho.

  She still sleeps with Jason.

  So do I.

  Good thing I have my job. Watching movies keeps me sane. Psycho Beach Party is showing now. Excellent! I’m not old enough to watch R rated, but when I take a break from selling DOTS and Raisinets, I sneak into the theater.

  The weirdest thing happened last night.

  Nobody wanted popcorn, so I decided to watch the movie.

  I always sit in the back row, in case I get a customer. Last night, the only other person sitting there is this tall redhead wearing cat-eyed rhinestone glasses. She looks like Kanaka in the movie (who I’m guessing is the psycho), except a whole lot heftier, so I don’t sit next to her. But I can’t help staring. It’s her dress—shocking pink and purple polka dots—Gloria’s favorite.

  “Dad?”

  The redhead opens her purse, pretending to look for something.

  “Daddy, is that you?”

  I know it’s him. I recognize the profile.

  “Why are you wearing that dress?”

  An old lady, three rows down, tells me to be quiet.

  When I turn back to Daddy, he’s squeezing through the aisle, attempting to escape.

  I try to catch up with him, but despite the high heels he’s wearing, he’s running pretty fast.

  He makes it through the theater’s exit out into the parking lot, clomping toward his truck, high heels smacking the pavement, his wig falling off.

  “Hey,” I yell after him. “That dress clashes with your hair.”

  Donna and I are in the living room, supposedly watching The Simpsons, but really talking. Donna is lying on the paisley couch, and I’m sitting on the loveseat.

  The more we talk, the more confused I get.

  “I’m not gay.”

  “But you wear dresses.”

  “So do you. Are you gay?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s the difference between you and me. I know what I am. I’m a female stuck in a male body. If I were gay, I’d be attracted to women, but I prefer men. I’d say that makes me straight.”

  “What about that poster of Xena on your wall?”

  “If that makes me a lesbian, what are you, the Terminator?”

  Maybe.

  But I don’t tell Donna that.

  Instead, I ask, “Is Daddy gay?”

  “Nope. Dad likes women. In fact, he likes women so much, he wants to dress like one.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t need to get anything. You just need to accept that everyone is different.”

  “So … what’s normal?”

  Donna laughs.

  “Normal isn’t you.”

  “Is Jason normal?”

  “Yup. He’s a normal Goth, bi-sexual. In fact, Jason is one of the most normal people I know. He’s the night manager of Tasty Squeeze.”

  Sounds weird to me.

  “And I’m not normal, why?”

  “You kill people.”

  That stops me. What does that mean, I kill people. The only person I’ve killed is Gloria … and according to the police, she killed herself by accident.

  “I’ve never been convicted, not even arrested.”

  “Are you denying you killed Gloria?”

  “She deserved to die.”

  “So you admit you’re a murderer.”

  “No.”

  “What are you then?”

  “A no
rmal teenager?”

  “Not.”

  “Okay, I’m Walker Texas Ranger. No one calls him a murderer, and he kills bad guys all the time.” I glance at Donna aka Donnie aka my brother/sister, stretched out on the orange paisley couch. He/she appears skeptical. “What do you mean, I kill people? That’s plural.”

  “Congrats, you pass the English test.”

  “Donnie!”

  “Donna. Ask Dad.”

  “Whatever Daddy told you, he’s a liar. His brain’s coated with aspartame.”

  Later, when I meet up with Jason, I ask him if he thinks I’m normal.

  He says, “Hell, no, Sadie. That’s why I like you.”

  “Thanks.”

  I think.

  I’ve decided normal is overrated.

  Jason and I have a plan. He’s sick of Tasty Squeeze, and I’m sick of home, so we’re gonna run away. Jason wants to head west and become a Mormon. I’m not sure why, but that’s okay with me, because he asked me to marry him.

  I’m pretty sure hooking up with Jason will solve all my problems, so I’ve been practicing my new signature, Mrs. Bardo, Sadie Bardo, Mrs. Sadie Bardo…

  So what if Jason’s still got a thing for Donna? I’m the one he wants to marry.

  We plan to leave tonight, jump into his car and drive all the way to Las Vegas. I’m seventeen, old enough to tie the knot with consent from Daddy.

  While I wait for Daddy to get home, I’m packing.

  Donna’s in her room, blasting Barbara Streisand for my benefit.

  I think she knows what’s going on, because she caught me schlepping Mommy’s suitcase out of the garage. It’s one of those old-fashioned things, no wheels, so you have to carry it. Doesn’t matter. I’ll toss it into the back of Jason’s Fiesta and we’ll start driving, like that movie, Natural Born Killers.

  The suitcase won’t close.

  I find a grocery bag, throw in my NikeAirs, Reeboks (two years old, still awesome), NewBalance1500s (barely worn), and a new pair of Adidas. I’m not leaving any prisoners.

  I sit on the suitcase, forcing it to shut.

  A screech of tires tells me Daddy’s home. His truck pulls into the driveway. The door swings open, and size twelve silver pumps step onto the asphalt, followed by red chiffon that makes Daddy look like Mrs. Claus in a John Waters movie.