by Jon Scieszka
I raced home, changed into my pajama jeans and opened my hot pink laptop. My screensaver of Boo (the cutest puppy in the world!!!) appeared. Okay. Edgy. I can do this. I Boo’lieve in myself.
I stared at the page. I kept staring for weeks. At first, I didn’t panic when Herman emailed to ask how the manuscript was going.
It’s going ! <3! xoxo!!! Jules.
But it wasn’t going . It was going and :o. Panic set in. I ignored Herman’s emails. His calls. His texts. And I kept hearing Herman’s voice, like a thousand fluffy bunnies tap dancing on my skull: “Edgy! Or else.”
Finally, Herman gave me an ultimatum. I had one more day. If I didn’t turn in my manuscript, I would have to give back my advance and he’d cut my bookmark and postcard budget in half!
Herman Mildew had pushed me over the edge. The edge of edgy. I checked my pink Domo clock and yes, there was time to run a few errands.
Shopping List:
• Perfume
• Nail file (v. v. sharp)
• Shoes (spiky stiletto heels)
• Outfit (all black, because I’m edgy)
After shopping therapy, I was in the perfect mood to stop by and say hi to my beloved editor who often worked late and alone. Anyway, that visit’s not really important.
What IS important is that after I came home, I sat down at my computer and the story began to flow as if it were, well, nonfiction. An edgy story about a kick-ass murderer who’s really a heroine, because the victim deserved it. Now, I don’t want to give away too much before the ARCs go out but…just as Herman had so brilliantly suggested, there was:
• Violence: the victim was blinded by a blast of perfume
• Swearing: from the victim
• Brutal death: as he was stomped through the heart with stilettos
• Gore: and disemboweled with a metal file
It was a killer manuscript.
I had my agent submit it widely, because I didn’t expect to hear back from Herman. Since he’s so busy with his other authors, of course. Authors like.…
Dave Eggers! OMG! Dave freaking Eggers just walked into the pickle factory! I totally have to get a picture with him for my mug shot! I mean my Facebook page! Squee!!!!
Oops, sorry, Dave! I didn’t mean to step on your foot. I know, my stilettos are very sharp.
This looks bad, I know.
All this blood.
On me.
But I assure you, this is not Herman Mildew’s blood;
or if it is, he placed it there voluntarily;
or if not, it was stolen from him by a person or persons unknown and then planted on me as the most likely suspect, based on:
certain unauthorized tweets made to my account @killmildew;
that Facebook status update (“it’s stabbin’ time!”), posted at 3 A.M. when I was fast asleep with all my knives safely under lock and key, having taken an extra half an Ambien, fearing a long night of bitter drinking would bring out the demon dreams, the terrible memories of the murder of my first book, page after page run red with illiterate scribbles and derisive Xs, the protagonist Cassius sex-changed to Cassie, the title diminished from The Sorrow Clouds to Love Nerds, my proposed cover, a piquant detail from Van Gogh’s Starry Night jettisoned in favor of a girl wearing pink socks, my lovely, brutal coming-of-age tale debauched by some bastard whose name I can’t recall at the moment, and then remaindered before its time;
and, should you obtain a search warrant, some items in my apartment that could be easily misunderstood, including:
maps and schematics I found on the street and brought in because they might be important to whoever dropped them there;
a voodoo doll that could be any older obese bald guy with glasses, the pins fairly obviously placed where anybody might go about stabbing someone and how many times;
tear-stained copies of my first book, with the title and imprint gouged out by an unidentified sharp instrument;
on my computer, an exchange of emails, the tone of which could be misconstrued, which is a real problem with email as you know;
and some search terms on Google, including:
“discount stabbing knives;”
“juiciest artery;”
“music to kill by;”
and “faking insanity,”
which taken together might lead you to a conclusion other than the correct one, which is it’s all research for a new book I’m writing that I’m not prepared to talk about just yet;
or, if none of that is flying, there are any number of alternate theories that could raise the shadow of a doubt for any jury, including:
that animal-rights activists, upset by Mildew’s new coffee table book Veni in Furs, featuring models petting the very animals they were wearing, went to see Mildew and, becoming enraged to find him wearing baby chinchilla finger warmers, slit his throat with his conflict-diamond-encrusted narwhale-ivory letter opener, drained his blood into an elephant-foot wastebasket, and then threw it on me, for some reason;
or that I was on my way to make peace with Mildew, having recently become a secret Buddhist, when I slipped and fell into this puddle of blood, rolling around to get my bearings, and then I picked up this knife to keep any small children from finding it;
or that whatever happened happened but I was insane at the time, though I’m better now;
or, actually, it’s coming back to me now, wow, and I’m going to go with my first alibi, which is that it’s not Herman Mildew’s blood at all, and I should probably get to the hospital.
Last time I talked to Herman, it was a very productive conversation. I value his artistic input. He has…or had … such a keen intellect and a firm grasp on the current market.
Me: I had an idea for my next novel. A mermaid discovers she’s—
Herman: Hate mermaids. Remind me of sushi. Next.
Me: Okay, I had another idea. It’s about a shapeshifter who—
Herman: Hate shapeshifters. Too indecisive. Can’t abide indecisive people. Next.
Me: How do you feel about witches who—
Herman: Can’t stand witches. Pointy hats revolt me.
Me: How about zombies?
Herman: Too gooey.
Me: Angels?
Herman: Too glowy.
Me: Vampires?
Herman: Too sparkly. Also, too thinly disguised metaphors for sexual angst.
Me: Phoenixes? Gryphons? Aliens?
Herman: I want you to write about frogs.
Me: Um, frogs? You mean, like, a spin on the Frog Prince? I suppose.…
Herman: Just frogs. Red frogs. Purple frogs. Yellow frogs with green polka dots. Did you know that the largest frog in the world is called the goliath frog? Weighs as much as a housecat. You write about him.
Me: You want a book about a goliath frog?
Herman: And toss in a love triangle.
So you can see that I had zero incentive to murder Herman Mildew, since he had practically promised to buy my next novel about a vampire zombie frog with ninja training who is in a love triangle with a beautiful girl with a hedgehog head and her best friend, a sheep.
He’d requested another meeting to discuss changes to my synopsis, and as everyone knows, Herman prefers to act out the stories as he discusses him. So that’s why I packed the suitcase full of frogs.
I swear the frogs were plastic when I packed them.
In retrospect, I should not have put in the vial of dragon’s blood, but I thought it would make a nice gift. It must have shattered in the suitcase when I fainted after hearing the horrible news about Herman’s death. And you know what happens when dragon’s blood touches plastic.
Or maybe you don’t know, since there is a government conspiracy to suppress the truth. It is a fact that when dragon’s blood is applied to plastic, the plastic takes on lifelike properties. That’s what was behind the Barbie Massacre of ’98.
Herman collected dragon’s blood. He kept it in a liquor cabinet in his office, and in between meetings, he
used to sprinkle it on toy soldiers and instruct them to destroy unpublished manuscripts. Sometimes it was G.I. Joes. Sometimes those green army guys. Once, he said he used My Pretty Ponys, but they left tiny plastic poop pellets all over his desk.
So really, I know he would have loved the gift of dragon’s blood. I certainly did not intend to sprinkle it on the plastic poison frogs and release them where he’d find them. Why would I? As you can clearly see, I had no motive. He always loved all my ideas.
I did not kill Mildew, but I tried. Repeatedly. So my alibi is really just a list of failed attempts.
I started trying to kill Mildew back in the mid-1970s.
As you know, Mildew is a gluttonous man, so back in ’78 I thought I’d send him giant sausages every day, hoping that he would eat each one and have a heart attack by the end of the month. It didn’t happen. These were huge sausages, at least four feet each, but he ate all thirty-one and asked for more. Now the man is six hundred pounds and covered in boils. And he still eats a giant sausage every day.
He thanks me for it.
In 1979, someone had just made a disco version of all the songs from Star Wars. I bought the record and sent it to Mildew, hoping it would melt his brain. It didn’t. He hums the theme, the disco version, every time I see him.
He thanks me for that, too.
In 1980, I intercepted a shipment—long story—of a particularly smelly type of banana called a durian. At first I thought I would send the durians to him, hoping he’d eat them all and choke—or suffocate from the smell. But I’d learned from the sausage experience, so instead I figured I’d just drop them all on his house. So I rented a cargo plane, loaded it with the durians, and dropped them from about 4,200 feet. They crushed his house, sure, but he survived. He was in his basement, eating sausages. That’s where he eats them.
Turns out he wanted to renovate his house, and the durians flattening it gave him the push and insurance money he needed to get the job done. He invites me over to his new place all the time. I want to thank you! he says.
Since then, I’ve tried a few dozen different ways of doing him in. I sent an infestation of hermit crabs into his house. I’d heard they were aggressive around fat men, but this was not true. They were tame, even friendly. So I sent in those kinds of frogs that give you hallucinations if you lick them. Mildew, though, who licks or eats anything he can reach, didn’t lick them. He named them.
Now he thanks me for introducing him to the crabs and the frogs. They’re some of my best friends, he says.
A few years ago I met a monkey who seemed like it could be trained to kill a guy like Mildew. So the monkey and I went through six weeks of intense Mildew-killing training. I taught the monkey how to kill Mildew with a wiffle-ball bat, a handsaw, and a pair of pliers. Lots of stuff like that. Finally I felt like the monkey was trained well and ready to go. I sent the monkey into Mildew’s house—his new house—and what happens? Three months later they were married. Turns out the monkey was a girl, and Mildew really had a thing for lady monkeys.
He thanks me for that, too. You introduced me to my wife! he says. Come over and let me thank you with dinner! You can visit the frogs and crabs, too!
Since then, I’ve tried offing Mildew with schemes involving the usual tools—ball-bearings, duct tape, okapis, groups of Canadian teenagers. None of these things have worked. The sinkhole did not work. The locusts did not work. The bundt cake filled with C-4 did not work. Sending him the collected wisdom of Rick Santorum did not work. Mildew is a hard man to kill.
So when I heard Mildew was dead, it was bittersweet. I was glad he was dead, but sad that I had not been the one to do it. I’m probably alone among your suspects in that I’m not going to bother with an alibi. I wish I’d done it, but I did not.
To begin, I offer your own ludicrous accusations as rebuttal. These are your words, not mine:
• Concerning the discovery of a poorly crafted “voodoo puppet” (Mr. Ehrenhaft’s words) on his person;
• Furthermore bearing the vague likeness of Herman Mildew, a generous term given the artistic quality;
• In addition smothered in Mr. Ehrenhaft’s fingerprints;
• Finally pierced with a plastic spork emblazoned with the brand moniker Chilly’s Cold Chili! It’s NOT Gazpacho!™
Second things first: before this incident, have I ever claimed to be a puppet maker, puppet owner, or puppeteer?
No. Well. Sort of. Sure, you may have overheard some synonym of “puppet” that I’ve tossed around once or twice. But in answer to any question regarding puppet-related crimes or puppet-related conspiracy, I offer an emphatic not yes.
Let’s get to the more important issue: “voodoo.” We can clear that up right away. I don’t recall ever mentioning in casual conversation, “Oh, I also handcraft beautiful dolls in a variety of materials to be used in evil occult practices, among them, voodoo.” If you can find someone who can remember I said that, I’d laugh. I’d give a hardy-har-har (a particularly disdainful form of laugh) if you can find someone who could claim that I’d ever threatened, “Raid my fridge again, and you’ll meet your demise at the hands of a wondrous figurine imbued with your soul, you Terrible Hot Sauce of All Things Awful. Because I never forget anything.”
Do you have such a witness? If so, please bring him forward. Good luck to you.
Besides, only a very angry person would accuse a guest of raiding his refrigerator. My fridge is a bountiful treasure chest of chilled soups, up for grabs to anyone I invite over. Not that I don’t stock other food. Like sour cream, for instance. And frozen cheese. And those yummy little croutons. (Best served ice-cold! ) Granted, I never technically “invited” Mr. Mildew to my home in the first place. The point is: I am a very happy person, unlike this poor murder victim you’re hounding me about. So why would I freak out if he devoured the last of my delicious cold chili on a day so hot that all my wax effigies melted? Happy people don’t do that.
Back to this supposed “evidence” against me. It may interest you to know that countless credible websites offer incontrovertible proof that aliens reproduce fingerprints, retinal scans, DNA, scrumptious frozen crudité, sporks, and Eternal Bliss—among other incriminating flotsam and jetsam—at a moment’s notice. Still, like typical members of the mainstream law enforcement community, you deny what’s staring you in the face. (A face I’m happy to reproduce in your choice of stunning three-dimensional formats, by the way, once these charges blow over.) Ever been to Roswell, New Mexico? Of course you haven’t.
I rest my case. You’re not thinking logically.
In fact, I’m feeling so generous right now that I’ll leave you with a gift. If you do ever visit Roswell, there’s a great chili stand near the crash site. Stick that chili in the freezer for twelve hours, and then eat it. When you’re stuck in the hot desert, discovering the truth about aliens and lamenting a jerk who’s better off dead, you’ll thank me.
First off, let me explain my reaction upon hearing of Mr. Mildew’s demise because it has been blown out of proportion. I take issue with the allegation that I was caught “dancing on his grave.” There are many reasons why this isn’t fair: (1) He hasn’t even been buried yet, hence there’s no grave to be danced on; (2) I wasn’t aware that it is a crime to dance on a table; and (3) Since I’m under oath (like that would’ve ever stopped Ol’ Milly), I can verify that this was not the first time I have danced on a table. So this really isn’t unusual behavior for me. Ask around.
Okay so yeah, I wasn’t devastated when I heard that Mr. Grumpy Mildew had passed. I mean, have you ever met him? I doubt there’s a single person on this planet who has ever received even a kind word from him. He certainly hasn’t done me any favors. Just off the top of my head: he refused to learn my name for the first year we worked together and would only call me “You there,” and his response upon reading my first book was, “No wonder you don’t have a boyfriend.” And then there was the cheese incident. I’m still upset about it, but figure you’ll he
ar about it from somebody so it may as well be me.
Please note, this is a very touchy subject and a time in my life that I’d prefer to forget. But alas, the truth must be known. It was three months ago. I went into the community refrigerator in the kitchen to get a snack. I opened the door in anticipation of having my favorite cheddar cheese, which my parents shipped to me from Wisconsin. When I opened the box it…it was replaced with one of Milly’s gross, smelly French cheeses and a note that simply said, “Get some taste.” Let me tell you something, you do not mess with a Wisconsin girl’s cheese. You. Do. Not.
But alas, you aren’t asking me about that. (And last time I checked stealing was a crime.)
Yes, I was nearly fifteen minutes late to the pickle factory. Anybody who knows me knows that I’m nothing if not punctual. That’s a word I’ve heard people use to describe me, along with dependable, honest, non-murderous, lactose-tolerant, embarrassment-prone, sometimes in the wrong place at the wrong time.…
But it wasn’t my fault I wasn’t there on time. I was meeting David Levithan, but he was late. I was waiting for him at our normal meeting place and after a few minutes I started texting and calling him, but nothing. Finally he came running over to me, out of breath (and a little out of sorts). I didn’t really think anything of it at the time (you know how guys can be). But now.…
So yeah, there are like ten minutes that I was alone and don’t have an alibi (save the random people walking past probably wondering what a young, innocent girl like myself was doing all alone in such a seedy part of town).
But if I may just bring up a really good question: where was David? A person can get into a lot of trouble in ten minutes. Not like I would know anything about trouble. I’m not throwing him under the bus or anything, I’m just asking a simple question. I knew they didn’t really get along. I once had to listen to them get in a long argument over the use of “who” or “whom” and honestly, I zoned out because isn’t that what a copyeditor is for? Is there anybody out there who really cares? (Or is it whom.…)