Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  Wearing my cleaning gloves and a respirator I found in the garage, I enter the bathroom. The bottle of toxic bubble bath has fallen into the tub, and floats next to Gloria. Her mouth is open, and her face is shocking pink, almost purple—her favorite color.

  I scoop the bottle out of the tub, open the new bubble bath, and pour a stream into the water, so the bottle appears used. Then I knock the container of ammonia over, spilling the contents on the floor.

  Fumes rush toward me as I hurry from the bathroom and shut the door.

  Gloria’s is finally in Another World.

  Giggling at my joke, I rush around the house, closing the windows I opened earlier, so nothing looks suspicious, then I blast the AC.

  After changing my clothes, so I don’t smell like chloramine, I go outside and throw my rubber gloves, the respirator, and the empty bottle of bubble bath into the sewer drain, then head to Jason’s house.

  My brother will find Gloria when he gets home from swim team practice.

  Meanwhile, to seal my alibi, Jason and I share a cheese and sausage calzone at Joey’s Pizzeria then we go to the movies. The local theater’s playing Fargo. It’s rated R, but the 2:00 PM show is almost empty, and Jason knows the cashier. The movie is so inspiring, we watch it twice.

  Love that wood chipper scene.

  Advice from L’il Sadie

  10 Useful Household Poisons

  Most of us have someone in our life we’d like to kill: a demanding boss who shows no appreciation, that annoying coworker who takes credit for your hard work, a parent who just won’t die and leave you that inheritance, conversely a parent who won’t die and is eating up your hard won savings. Don’t despair, many people have overcome challenges like yours with easy to obtain poisons. I hope this list inspires you.

  If you’ve been paying attention, you know mixing ammonia with chlorine bleach can come in handy for eliminating pests. Just be careful that you don’t asphyxiate yourself.

  If you enjoy gardening, you’re in luck. Many common plants will enhance your landscape design and get rid of unwanted guests. The bluish flowers of aconite create a lovely border, and just touching the leaves can lead to asphyxiation, the only telltale sign of poisoning, which makes death by aconite wonderfully difficult to detect.

  If you’re impatient, nothing beats cyanide. Found in apple seeds, almonds, and peach kernels, don’t get too excited, because you’d have to eat a lot of those to get results. A more reliable source is pesticides. One good dose and death will occur between one and fifteen seconds. Great news: cyanide pills are available online through Amazon.

  Getting a little Botox for those wrinkles? Next time you’re at the spa, pick up a bottle (chances are you’ll have to steal it), and add it to your victim’s favorite food. That’s right, Botox = Botulism. If not treated immediately, it leads to paralysis and death.

  Once known as The King of Poisons, arsenic has no taste. It was used widely in the past, because it was undetectable. These days, arsenic has lost favor thanks to the Marsh test. Arsenic is the lethal ingredient in rat poison. Buy some today at your local hardware store.

  Turpentine is readily available, but it has a distinctive and pungent smell. However, if you can get your victim to ingest the stuff, he’ll be dead in minutes. An autopsy will reveal damaged kidneys, swelling of the brain and lungs. In order to escape detection, I recommend that the victim inhale the poison. Death is not quite as reliable, but inhaling turpentine is more plausible than downing the stuff.

  Nothing says spring as prettily as Lily of the Valley. Brides often include sprays of this bell-shaped flower in their bouquets … just in case the wedding doesn’t go as expected? (If you throw your bouquet, be sure to hold some flowers back.) People have been known to confuse Lily of the Valley with wild garlic and toss it into soup. The result will be nausea, clammy skin, possible coma and death due to heart failure. Romantic, isn’t it?

  Spiders can be helpful when coping with an enemy. Just be careful, because spiders multiply, and control may become an issue. The brown recluse, also known as the fiddle back, is most reliable. The spider’s bite is painless, but one bite will lead to agony … fever, chills, vomiting, and eventual delirium. The poison will be most effective if your victim remains isolated without access to medical help. And, as with many spiders, the female’s bite is more potent than the male’s.

  Mushrooms can be abundant in summer months, and they lend themselves to stews, soups, and omelets. Many mushrooms are harmless, so pay attention to what you’re picking. Among the most potent are those in the Amanita family, easily confused with small, edible puffballs. You’ll know the difference when you cut them open and find gills, also when you eat them. Chances are, symptoms (nausea, vomiting, ultimately kidney failure) won’t develop for at least six hours and up to forty-eight. The longer the victim fails to seek medical attention, the less likely will be his survival. Perfect for a tryst with that lover who betrayed you.

  Medical poisons abound, and these days with so many available over the counter and online, it’s easy to double or triple doses and receive excellent results—especially if your victim already takes the drug.

  Choosing the perfect poison is personal. Some like to be creative, others prefer the tried and true. Determine your style, consider your subject, and you’ll know which poison is for you.

  Murder Three

  (1999)

  What is murder?

  A lot of people think murder is physical, the death of a body, but there are all kinds of death. The death of a dream, the death of a belief, the death of a friendship. Is the death of a body worse than the death of hope?

  These are things I ask myself.

  Please let me know if you figure out the answer.

  I’m sixteen and far from sweet, despite my diet which consists mostly of sugar. School sucks. The cool kids won’t talk to me, and I don’t want to hang with the other fat girls. Since I gained fifty pounds, Jason won’t look at me, so my sex life exists between the covers of steamy novels.

  I’ve been reading a lot lately. Who knew books were so awesome? You can learn so many interesting things—like how to commit murder and get away with it. Maybe I should write a book. Anyway, in school when they gave us a questionnaire asking what we plan to study in college, I wrote: major in reading, minor in masturbation.

  My guidance counselor had a fit, but I bet she would have liked it less if I put down major in murder. Actually, she may have preferred murder to masturbation. Have you noticed that many people have less of an aversion to violence than they do to sex? I think that’s why the school principal made me talk to that social worker. I told her about my theory, murder versus masturbation, and I think she saw my point, especially when I demonstrated my favorite method.

  It’s not like I’m going to college, anyway.

  Daddy says I’m an idiot.

  I say, takes one to know one.

  After school, unless I’m at the movie theater (I saw The Matrix fourteen times), you can find me in the Murder section of the library. I buy erotica online from this cool site called Amazon. I always check the mailbox before Daddy gets home. Murder is hot, don’t you think? Not that old-fashioned Agatha Christie stuff, but innovative killings. Everyone knows guys like Dahmer, Manson, Bundy—the rock stars. But what about Rodney Alcala? In the middle of his killing spree (one hundred thirty people), Rodney took time out of his busy schedule to appear on The Dating Game—a 1970s TV game show. How cool would it be to win a date with him?

  Talk about erotic.

  Or do I mean, neurotic?

  (I get those words mixed up.)

  Of course, there are loads of ways to kill people if you’re creative. The most obvious is physical, but I believe murder exists in many subtler forms.

  According to the dictionary: Murder = eliminate = slaughter = massacre.

  In my book, no murder should go unpunished.

  You may ask, What about Gloria? Did her death go unpunished?

  Glo
ria’s death was not murder. Her death was justified—not only did she run over Donnie’s cat, she stole Daddy, ordered me around, and destroyed my childhood.

  In case you’re wondering, Donnie didn’t kill Daddy. My brother’s too sensitive to kill anything. Neurotic. After the Doggie Muffy incident, instead of punishing our father, Donnie set fire to the woods behind the elementary school. The town took that opportunity to build a new strip mall and a bigger parking lot. How could the conservationists object when there was no woods to conserve?

  My brother never got caught, but I know he did it, others guessed—and Donnie is now known as a political activist.

  I never got caught for killing Gloria, but no one considers me an activist.

  Most people think I’m weird.

  They have no idea who I really am.

  The cops called Gloria’s death an unfortunate accident. (Doubly unfortunate, since she croaked in the same bathtub as Mommy.) The local newspaper did a story about the dangers of mixing cleaning products. They even printed a useful list of household poisons. For example, did you know air freshener contains formaldehyde—that smelly stuff used to preserve jars of frogs for dissection? You spritz air freshener so your bedroom smells like lilacs, roses, spring rain, but in reality you’re embalming your boudoir.

  Since Gloria’s accident, Daddy’s hoarding habit has accelerated. Saturdays he gets up early and hits all the garage sales. Now we have two couches in the living room (the old beige couch and a paisley orange one), a loveseat (matches the orange couch), the same old coffee table (barely visible under years of Cosmo magazines), and a beat-up purple ottoman. The décor is best described as grunge psychedelic. (I’m beginning to wonder how much acid Daddy dropped.) The living room has become so crowded, you can barely walk through it. The good thing is, when Daddy gets home from Hooters, he passes out on the paisley couch and doesn’t bother me and my brother.

  He’s there now, snoring through another episode of Walker, Texas Ranger.

  I get home around 11:00 from my job at the movie theater. I’m the one behind the counter selling candy, popcorn, nachos. That’s how I gained fifty pounds. Weekends, I work the matinee and evening shift to make extra money. I have nothing else to do.

  I saved enough money to buy a cell phone and PC. (PC for Personal Computer, I’m not into being Politically Correct.)

  I absolutely looove the Internet. It’s the best place to learn everything about anything, including sex. For example, fetishes. Have you heard of agalmatophilia? (People who get off on statues.) How about formicophilia? (That’s what you are if insects make you horny.) I’ve changed my dating profile: looking for a hunky guy who’s turned on by cockroaches.

  Good conversation starter, huh?

  I visit these dating sites, lie and say that I’m eighteen. I call myself Supergirl.

  I’m on a site now, typing a message to Hot4U. He says he’s a wealthy international playboy and professional spy—just the kind of guy I want, so I can make Jason jealous.

  I type:

  Sweat yung thing, lucking 4 a gud tim. How but yu? – SupperGurl

  He types:

  A good time, meaning what? Chowing down?

  I type:

  Sunds lick fun.

  He types:

  Are you a fatty, or just stupid?

  I type:

  No. Am big bonned.

  He types:

  Big bunned or big boned?

  I type:

  Big boner.

  (OMG, I didn’t mean to send that!)

  He types:

  Got a photograph?

  I shoot him a picture of Winona Ryder. I liked her in Girl Interrupted.

  For some reason, Hot4U doesn’t write back. Guess Winona’s not his type.

  Douche bag.

  I should have sent Angelina Jolie.

  I power down the computer, call Jason. Thanks to Caller ID, he never answers, so I leave a message.

  “Dude, I scream for your Tasty Squeeze.”

  I got his number off of Donnie’s phone. I guess they talk or something. Strange, since Donnie’s in eighth grade and Jason’s a senior, but my brother looks older. He had a growth spurt and now he’s as tall as Daddy. My brother’s a big fan of soft ice cream, always hanging around Tasty Squeeze.

  I pull out my Nokia 8210, red and sleek (not like those early models), and punch in Donnie’s number.

  “Where are you?”

  “Tasty Squeeze.”

  “You see Jason?”

  “Yeah.”

  On Friday nights, through September, Tasty Squeeze closes at midnight.

  “Tell him to call me.”

  The sound becomes muffled, like my brother’s hand is covering the phone, but I hear laughing.

  “Later.”

  The connection dies.

  Sometimes I could kill my brother.

  Apocalypse Now

  November, and everybody’s talking about the new millennium. There’s supposed to be an apocalypse and we’re all gonna die. That might be fun.

  I just hope I have sex again before the world blows up.

  In fact, I hope someone stuffs my turkey before Thanksgiving.

  I hate the holidays.

  They suck when you’re a fat girl. No one invites a blimp, buffarilla, heifer, lardo, to cool parties. Come holiday season, there’s food everywhere, so forget dieting.

  Gazing through my bedroom window, I see Jason pull his car into his driveway. Tasty Squeeze made him a manager, gave him a big raise, so he bought a red 1990 Ford Fiesta.

  Donnie jumps out of the car, runs across the street to our house, turns back and waves at Jason.

  I hear the front door open, hear it slam, hear my brother stomp into his room—right next to mine. We share a wall. I hear him moving around, opening the closet. Then it gets quiet, because Donnie wears headphones when he listens to his music. I don’t know what he listens to … Gangsta rap or hip hop, I guess.

  I keep watching Jason. He’s standing in the middle of his driveway, staring at the Christmas lights he strung along the roof last weekend, or maybe, he’s staring into space—if he and Donnie just smoked something.

  He’s sooo hot.

  Jason stretches his arms over his head, and his tee-shirt rides up, displaying his six-pack. He reminds me of Eminem, except his hair is turquoise. Tonight, he’s wearing black jeans, a black leather jacket, and a studded collar. I keep trying to Friend Jason on MySpace, but he ignores me.

  He glances toward our house, and I drop from the window, hit the floor. Hoping he didn’t spot me, I crawl across the carpet, move my hand up the wall searching for the light switch, snap off the overhead. I don’t want Jason to think I’m stalking him (even if I am).

  I think he’s still hung-up on me, even if he doesn’t know it. I’m smart—even if my grades suck. How many girls, or guys for that matter, could off someone and get away with it? (Like Neo in The Matrix, you have to believe in yourself.)

  If I weren’t chubby … okay, fat … Jason would be all over me.

  I slink into the bathroom, strip off my sweats, and force myself to study my body in the mirror. Sucking in my gut doesn’t help much. OMG, I look like Gloria. That scares me so much, I make an early New Year’s resolution.

  “I promise to exercise every day and give up junk food.”

  Just saying it makes me feel better.

  I walk down the hallway to the living room.

  Daddy’s snoring on the couch.

  I turn off Sabrina, the Teenage Witch, and plug one of Gloria’s Jane Fonda videos into the VCR. Then I sit on the paisley loveseat watching Jane workout.

  After half an hour, I abscond to my bedroom with a bag of Cheetos, slip on my hot pink onesies, and crawl into bed.

  When I wake up my sheets are orange. So are my fingers. My onesies are unzipped, and stray Cheeto crumbs cling to my pubes.

  The alarm clock says 11:23, and sun shines through my window, so I figure that means morning. Daddy’s truck is
gone, and today is Saturday, so he must be hitting garage sales. Gloria’s Buick still sits in the driveway, where it’s been for the past year. Guess Daddy didn’t have the heart to sell it, or maybe he plans to give the car to me for Christmas, since I’m enrolled in Driver’s Ed.

  Fat chance.

  I lie in bed staring at the Terminator 2: Judgment Day poster I stuck on my wall—my left hand fingering the empty bag of Cheetos, while my right hand dips into my cheese flavored honeypot.

  Arnold sure was buff back then.

  A moaning noise comes through the wall from my brother’s bedroom, and I figure he’s pounding his flounder too. Not that I have a flounder to pound; I’m thinking about Arnie and auditioning the finger puppets, feeding the bearded clam, paddling the pink canoe.

  My brother and I moan in unison.

  Then I hear another voice.

  He’s not alone!

  He’s snuck a girl into his room.

  I stop doing what I’m doing and listen.

  Something isn’t right. I roll out of bed, press my ear against the wall. The other voice sounds familiar.

  I zip my onesie, stick my phone into my pocket, just in case.

  Quietly, so I won’t alert my brother, I open my door and step into the hallway. I listen at Donnie’s door, but the moaning doesn’t stop.

  I knock.

  No answer.

  I pound my fist.

  For once, I’m glad our bedrooms have no locks. I twist the knob, shove the door open, burst into Donnie’s room.

  Screeeeam!

  Jason is in bed with my brother, doing things he used to do with me.

  “Pervs!”

  They look at me.

  Donnie’s face is red, but he’s not embarrassed; he’s mad.