Who Done It?

by Jon Scieszka

  No, I am not saying I would have killed him for that. Fortunately for Mr. Mildew, I happen to possess inhuman restraint. Did I kill him when he accidentally on-purpose deleted my entire collection (341 VCR tapes collected over a period of sixteen years) of Saturday morning cartoons? Or when he (“Oopsie!”) reprogrammed my DVR to record only educational shows about sewage treatment plants, quilting, and cheese?

  No I did not.

  Mind you, that wasn’t even the worst of it. You know what really stuck in my craw? Not just that he kept interrupting, not just that mountain of flesh blocking my view, but that this supposedly great cultural arbiter, this man in whom I’d entrusted my entire creative future, this…this editor had no appreciation for Art. I’m going to tell you something now, something that’s going to make you want to pack up this entire operation and leave the corpse to stew in its own foul juices as a monster like this deserves.

  Herman Q. Mildew didn’t even own a television.

  I didn’t kill him for that, either. Tempting as it may have been.

  All I’m saying is that if I had killed him, I wouldn’t have bothered to prepare a statement for the cops, because I’ve seen enough TV to know how to kill someone without the cops ever getting a whiff of a clue. For one thing, I wouldn’t strike him down in an abandoned pickle factory filled with his nearest and dearest. More likely I’d contrive to bump into him outside his office on his way to his weekly knitting class. When I passed him I would be wearing a wig and a bright pink skirt suit that I happen to know from a distance would make me resemble (and thus cast suspicion on) one of his other authors who shall remain nameless but who once made the mistake of turning off my favorite show to watch a basketball game. I’d inject him with an untraceable chemical agent that acted on a time-delay. Then I would make sure I had an alibi for the rest of the day, so that when he dropped dead I could tell anyone who asked that I was snug at home on the couch, watching TV.

  Well, yes, of course I realize that sitting home alone watching TV is a classically poor alibi for most people, but anyone who knows me would tell you that I would never, under any circumstances, miss my shows. (Why do you think I became a writer? Do you know how hard it is to spend all day watching TV when you have a real job?)

  As you can see, I know exactly what to do if I want someone dead, and I know how to do it without getting caught. So I’m by no means afraid of getting tripped up by any of your sophomoric interrogation techniques. But even so, and even though I’m innocent, I’m going to tell you what I long ago promised myself I’d tell anyone who asked, what I’ve learned to say from watching one TV criminal after another fall prey to constabulary and legal minds far brighter than yours: I want a lawyer.

  And until I get one, I’m not saying a word.

  Well if you must know, on the night in question I was having a quiet evening alone. I did not speak to or see anyone. I did not answer my phone. I was in a meditative mood, you know, gathering my thoughts and all. So I sharpened my knife collection, which really I find very soothing, and then I went out for a little stroll. Then I spent some time dissolving some old steaks in my bathtub, which I had filled with lye. After that I burnt a pile of clothes in the backyard, buried the ashes, and cooked myself a dinner of quinoa and roasted root vegetables. I had been experimenting with a new recipe. And I must say it was quite a success.

  But I, of all people here tonight in this pickle factory, should not be considered as a suspect in connection with this tragedy. In lieu of a “provable alibi,” I would like to present you with this heart. No, not literally a bloody heart. HA HA! A figurative heart. Mine. Heavy with sadness over the loss of this man who was so terribly, terribly misunderstood. But aren’t so many of us?

  So yes, perhaps you too have heard the stories:

  1. That Mr. Mildew liked to make writers sit in his office and watch him mark their manuscripts, which he would often do with the help of a giant, novelty Welcome to Wisconsin pen just to make it more humiliating;

  2. That Mr. Mildew kept a gun inside his desk drawer and sometimes when writers were late delivering manuscripts he’d take the gun out and point it at them while saying something like, “Well I’ll show you a real DEADline;”

  3. That he only ate very smelly ripe cheeses and especially enjoyed bringing them to long meetings on hot days in rooms where the windows wouldn’t open;

  4. That sometimes while he ate the cheese he’d take his dentures out because his favorites were soft enough to gum;

  5. That while his dentures were out, he’d make his editorial assistant brush them;

  6. That his dentures, by the way, were made of sharks’ teeth, or endangered panda bones, or implanted with tiny webcams and the only reason he ever smiled was to give them an unobstructed view;

  7. That his teeth were bought from a tribe of cannibals and so, no, he’d never eaten a person himself, but he did like knowing that his teeth had;

  8. That he spread all those rumors himself just to mess with people;

  9. That he’d sometimes set up incredibly earnest Internet dating profiles for his authors, filled with the authors’ desires for “a partner in crime” who “loves to laugh as much as I do!” and then would leave these profiles open on computers all around the office;

  10. That he had many fake accounts on Goodreads which he would use to give one-star reviews to books he had not even read;

  11. That—remember Mr. Mildew’s gun that you heard about? It wasn’t actually a gun at all, just a very realistically gun-y-looking camera with a lens in the barrel, and while he was threatening to shoot his writers, he was also taking photos of them looking terrified, which he would sell prints of through the Etsy shop he had set up solely for this purpose.

  Contrary to all of these rumors—entirely baseless unless you count the notarized photographs, certified videos, DNA evidence, a couple of lawsuits, a signed confession, and a small FBI file—here is truth: Mr. Mildew was a good and decent man who was horribly and unfairly judged. The only thing he ever did wrong was not dispelling these rumors when he had the chance, so that more people could have known and loved him like I did.

  A hem. I’m here to offer my alibi.

  No, HERE. In front of the line. Quit motioning the people standing behind me forward! I’m next. I don’t care if my nose barely comes to the top of the counter. I’m still standing here. Please don’t make me jump up and down to get your attention. It’s humiliating. No! Person-so-tall-I-can’t-quite-see-your-face, don’t you dare cut in front of me! He was—I am—oh, for the love. Fine. Just a second.

  NOW I AM A STANDING ON A FOOTSTOOL. YOU CANNOT IGNORE ME. IT IS MY TURN.

  What do you mean an alibi isn’t necessary? Don’t you wave dismissively! You demanded everyone give an alibi, and I’m here to give mine. It is airtight; if it were a color it would be sparkling white and it would smell like jasmine tea. I’m fully prepared to give you a minute-by-minute account of my whereabouts during the murder.

  I—excuse me? I must be hearing you wrong. Did you say I’m too short to be a suspect? No, no, your exact quote was, “Someone as adorably wee as you couldn’t possibly have committed such a heinous crime.” You’re not even going to interview me just because I’m the size of an average (okay, maybe smaller than average) eleven-year-old? Do you have any idea what eleven-year-olds can do?? Clearly you have forgotten sixth grade entirely.

  No, I will not step out of the way so the woman behind me can explain the surgical gloves she has been wearing all evening! Since you’re not interviewing me, you probably also don’t want to know about what’s in my purse. Allow me to dump it out on the counter for you. Well, on second thought, allow me to ask the person behind me who can actually reach the counter to dump the purse out on my behalf.

  See that? It’s the hot pink Taser that I did not knock him out with. Oh, and underneath it, the pepper spray that I did not use to stun him before knocking him out. And next to those, the iron knuckles that I use merely as a paperweight, and not
to deliver a few key blows to the abdomen in retaliation for one-too-many times being patted on the head by his big, sausage, pickle fingers. And to your right, those are not the keys to his car (which reeks of despair, past-due checks, and cat pee, and has a conveniently body-sized trunk). No, those are merely clever replicas.

  Yes, that is a clothing receipt from a Gap Kids store. Shut up. It’s completely irrelevant. Moving on.

  Shouldn’t you be writing this down? And shouldn’t you also be wondering why no one can account for my whereabouts from the time I arrived until twenty minutes ago? (Though I will inform you I was merely placed in the coat closet by mistake because my coat was too large so they thought no one was in it.) And shouldn’t you—wait a minute. Are you humming “Short People Got No Reason to Live” under your breath?

  THAT’S IT, MISTER. YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME THAT VERY SMALL PEOPLE CAN BE CAPABLE OF VERY BIG VIOLENCE? You’ll never doubt I’m the murderer again! Even though I’m not! But you should at least do me the dignity of suspecting me! YOU. ME. NOW. I’m going to leap over this counter and show you exactly how murderous I can be!

  Well, just as soon as someone brings me a stepladder so I can actually climb over the top to strangle you.

  Yes, you can interview the next person while I wait.

  You’re welcome.

  MY ALIBI KILLS

  by Mo Willems

  I couldn’t have done it, because at that exact same time I was busy murdering someone else.

  Oh.

  (I probably shouldn’t have said that.)

  Yes, I know I’m not helping my case by laughing but I can’t help it. Just give me a moment and I’ll pull it togeth—

  Sorry. Sorry. There! It’s out of my system.

  Okay, Okay. I know how it looks, with a witness seeing my Subaru parked outside Mildew’s townhouse earlier and me banging on the door. And yelling. Cursing. Threatening? Mr. Lonelyhearts Busybody caught that too?

  Mildew wouldn’t take my calls. Why lie about that when you can easily check the phone records? Yes. I called him seventeen times the night before. Another thirty, give or take, in the morning. But the wormy soul crusher owed me a face-to-face. He owed me!

  No. I won’t calm down. You don’t know what he did to me. You can’t possibly understand the incalculable loss. You can’t—

  You know about that? Didn’t think it was public, but it was a matter of time. And digging.

  The bastard bought my book proposal on the spot. No waiting, no editorial suggestions. Just a big fat check and a contract within weeks. Unheard of. My critique group said they’d heard things about Mildew. “Be careful. Get an agent.” I chalked their caution up to veiled envy. I should have known better.

  He didn’t just buy one book. He offered a three-book series contract with an “exclusive clause,” but with one caveat. I was to deliver all three manuscripts at once. Lo and behold, I write, deliver, and then receive the balance of the advance. All’s ducky, right? Well, instead of a book launch, I get my twenty author’s copies of each book, along with a notice from the remainder department saying I’m invited to purchase the stock of 10,000 copies each at a dollar and a quarter a piece. I have until Friday to courier my check because thereafter, the stock will be grounded into a pulp and donated to Urban Outfitters to make journals for aspiring writers.

  It gets better. Herman’s house then releases a killer wombat series—not similar to mine, but a killer wombat series nonetheless—yes! That killer wombat series. Your child already has the Killer Wombat lunchbox?

  As much as I’d gladly take credit for the demise of Herman Mildew, I can’t claim that honor. What Mr. Lonelyhearts Busybody didn’t tell you is, since I couldn’t get in through the front, I ran around to the back. I was about to climb over the iron gate when I saw, blooming in the garden, rows of hyacinth.

  Do you know what happens to me when I come into contact with hyacinth? I can’t breathe. Mildew might as well have his hands gripped around my throat. And my eyes swell to pillows.

  The minute I saw the hyacinths in bloom, I raced to my Subaru and sped to the nearest pharmacy. The pharmacist can attest to filling the emergency prescription from my allergist.

  And do you know what the pharmacist said as he handed me the prescription? Do you? He said, “With your eyes puffy like that, you slightly resemble that popular killer wombat.”

  Wait: Herman Mildew is dead?

  Herman? Sweet, stern, misunderstood Herman?

  Look, I know it’s fashionable to trash your editor. And Herman was, admittedly, a nut job. Did I ever tell you about the time that he circled my every use of the lowercase letter m in a manuscript and told me to revise the whole book to get rid of them? “Hideous letter,” he explained. “Reminds me of a bad experience I once had with an ill-tempered dromedary.” Of course I knew he meant camel. Dromedaries have one hump, not two. But that’s exactly the sort of factual boo-boo I’d expect Herman to make. He was that kind of editor: a stickler for error.

  Still, I loved the guy. How could you not love someone who called you hourly, every night starting at 2 A.M., wanting to know how the book was coming along? I had my number changed, twice, but somehow he found me. Then there were the royalty statements full of suspicious deductions. “Tahitian expenses,” one read. I asked him what that was about; he said he had to take my first draft to Tahiti so he could concentrate properly on his line edits. “The light was better there,” he explained.

  I didn’t argue. How could I? Herman Mildew made me what I am today: an insomniac cab driver with a box of unpaid bills and unfinished manuscripts riding shotgun in my taxi, and a prescription for industrial strength Xanax stashed in the glove compartment. “Yeah, I used to have a publishing contract,” I tell the rearview mirror, as I check my eye twitch (it’s getting worse, thanks for asking). “Herman Mildew was my editor. ‘Sign here,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you the next J. K. Rowling! I’ll get you on Oprah!’ But things didn’t quite work out that way, did they, Hermie old bean?” That’s when people start honking at me from behind.

  Anyway, forget all that. Water under the bridge. I liked him. I liked his “every day is casual Friday” sweat suits, and that comb-over that swirled around his scalp like the Milky Way. I liked how he took me out to lunch and then pretended to have forgotten his wallet, so I’d have to pay. What a joker! I wouldn’t have killed him even if I’d had a chance, which, to be honest, I did.

  Yeah, I could have killed him. I could have circled his office in Midtown, day after day, until at last I got lucky and picked him up as a fare. Then I could have waited patiently for him to recognize me as I drove him to the river. He wouldn’t notice where we were going until it was too late. Herman and his Blackberry, right? Then, finally, I could have reintroduced myself as one of his former literary stars-to-be. Imagine it: the shock of recognition, the thud of the trunk slamming shut, the horrible sucking, slurping sound as the car tipped forward and sank to the bottom of the Hudson.…

  But I can prove it didn’t happen, and here’s how: see this receipt from Costco? I just put new tires on that car a week ago. So tell me: What kind of lunatic would kill his editor by knocking him out with a blow to the head (staplers make good weapons, by the way, but only the heavy-duty kind), putting the body in the trunk of a 1988 Chrysler LeBaron, and then pushing it in the river, a mere week after paying for new tires for that very same car? Not me, buddy. I may be creative, but I’m not stupid.

  Glad that’s settled. Say, are there any pickles left in this joint? I haven’t eaten for a while, starving artist and all that, and I sure could go for a gherkin. You’re not an editor, are you? Mind if I pitch you a few books? I have the manuscripts right here. I know the pages are a little wet—long story—but trust me: the plots are airtight!

  How could I kill Mr. Mildew? He was my dad!

  Not my actual dad, of course. Mr. Mildew doesn’t have any blood-related offspring that I know of. The women he managed to wrangle, bribe, or trick into a relationship
never stuck around long enough to give him children. Most of them now live in a special ward at the hospital. They shuffle around in their nightgowns and make lanyards. One just keeps saying “nougat” over and over.

  No, I was his adopted daughter. I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering why super editor Herman Mildew would adopt a grown woman who still hasn’t mastered the rules for comma usage. At first I assumed it was because he was fond of me. “I think of you as a daughter,” he’d say, and it made me feel all glow-y inside. Because mainly he shouted at people until they wet their pants. When he proposed making it official and having me live with him, I figured he thought I’d be a worthy heir.

  And I said yes because…um.…

  Have you seen his penthouse? It’s awesome. It’s got a pickle-shaped pool on the roof and a balcony that overlooks Central Park with a giant, mounted slingshot.

  It’s true that our arrangement didn’t exactly turn out the way I’d hoped. Mr. Mildew made me study grammar all the time and never let me chat with friends. He also had to approve my outfits before I left the house. That’s why my wardrobe became nothing but dirndls and high-collared blouses. I didn’t get many dates, and when I did he would scare them off with his passionate discourse on pickling and preserving body parts.