Oh my. Please excuse me. I get…overwrought at times. It’s my delicate constitution, you understand. I absolutely cannot abide ugliness, and to that end, I fill my mind solely with images of angels and butterflies. No doubt it’s because I’m southern, where ugliness is tucked neatly away into the dark place, and where appearances still matter. You know what I mean. Where a lady is a lady and a man is a man, and…oh, my! Have you been working out, Mr. Investigator? Those biceps! You don’t mind if I give those fine, strong muscles just the teensiest little squeeze, now do you?
Pardon me? Why…why, I never! You, sir, are two sandwiches shy of a picnic, and that is my sleeve brushing up against you, for heaven’s sake. I suppose I could forgive your confusion, since my skin is as soft as silk (and don’t bother inquiring about my moisturizing regime, as that’s a secret I’ll take with me to the grave!). I refuse, however, to dignify your crass allegation regarding my “attempt” to flirt with an investigator of crimes because sweetheart? I don’t “attempt” anything. What Mama wants, Mama gets.
And since you insisted on going there—write this down, now—your biceps are hardly swoon-worthy, unless one happens to fancy pigeon eggs, which believe me, I do not. I’m sorry for licking the red from your candy, Mr. Investigator, but I was merely boosting your ego. Isn’t that what men want, affirmation from a blushing beauty such as myself? It’s certainly what Hermie wanted, and so yes, I played his little game again and again. I, the cooing ingénue; Hermie, the wizened editor. Oh! The wise editor, I mean! Gracious, the heat must be getting to me. Is it hot in here? Do you suppose I could have a glass of iced tea? Sweet tea, obviously. I don’t drink it any other—
No? Not even a glass of water? Not even a shot of Southern Comfort? Kidding! I’m kidding, Mr. Investigator, but you’re right. It’s neither the time nor the place, just as it was neither the time nor the place for dear Hermie to tease me the way he did. At his party, I mean. After all, I performed my role perfectly. I admired his suit, although, shhh, a man as short as a fire hydrant shouldn’t wear horizontal striping, now should he? And frankly, pleats are not an ideal choice for anyone with a pear-shaped bottom. But no matter. I am a writer! An artiste! Creating fiction from fact is my job, and I do it well. I even complimented Hermie’s thickly gelled pompadour, and I told him with wholehearted conviction that women are indeed drawn to men with full heads of hair.
Did I clarify that follicular transplants don’t count? No, but why would I? That would be like shooting my own foot, which I would never, because Mr. Investigator, I wear a size seven triple A. Shoot all the wide-soled size tens you want, but remember, it is a sin to kill a foot as slender and delicate as mine.
At last, after lathering Hermie with flattery, I asked him what he thought of my latest work: a novel-told-in-ori-gami of which I’m exceedingly—and justifiably!—proud. Do you know how many paper cuts I suffered during my grueling week of drafting?! How weary my eyes grew as I slaved away in front of the TV? And my tongue, afflicted even now with dozens of small but painful sores, the result of consuming what may have been, in retrospect, too many bon-bons! How could an artiste consume too many bon-bons, you ask? I have no answer. I can only agree that it is the greatest tragedy imaginable: a genius such as myself, dependent on high-grade chocolate for creative sustenance, yet doomed for all eternity to suffer for my art.
I’m sorry…what? Ohhh. Yes, I suppose one could argue that death, too, is tragic, but—
Well, aren’t we putting on the dog? I do have a point, and yes, I will get to that point. I’d be there already if you hadn’t interrupted, don’t you know?
Back to the party. I had praised Hermie, and so it was his turn to praise me. This is the agreement all authors and editors live by. The ones who stick around for the long haul, that is. But Hermie—may his soul rest in peace—chose instead to toy with me, telling me that…that.…
Do you have any tissues? It’s my delicate constitution, acting up again. Quite a trial. Quite a trial, and I’m getting to it, all right?! I know you want to hear what Hermie told me. I understand that. But do you understand that before I can share the details of Hermie’s feedback, I must at the very least tell you the title, price, and pub date of the work in question, sure to be an instant classic? It’s called Dances with Paper Cranes, soon to be e-pubbed exclusively on paper tablets called iSpirals, copyrighted by yours truly. So take that, Hermie! I’ll be dancing with dollar bills…thousands of them! Thousands on thousands, all folded into dollar bill cranes! I’ll be dancing with the origami equivalent of The Period of Evening Between Daylight and Dusk, while you—my “friend,” my “editor”—will dance only with coffin bugs and worms!
Oh dear. Did I, ah …?
Gracious. That was disturbing, wasn’t it? That voice, saying those deeply deeply disturbing things? Not my voice, and I’d be much obliged if you struck those remarks from the record, since clearly we were, ah, visited by a poltergeist just now. Either a poltergeist or—not to tell tales, a lady never tells tales—but…come a little closer, please…it could have been Sarah Mlynowski, projecting that pure-as-berries voice of hers through a hole in the wall. Have you checked these walls for holes, Mr. Investigator? I ask because I did not intend to disclose the sordid details I’m about to share. But that voice…those horrible dreadful things.…
Well, it brings me back, sure enough. Back to the night of the party, back to that golden time when dear Hermie still graced us with his presence. Are you writing this down? Because I know for a fact that Sarah Mlynowski saw Hermie only moments before I did. She will spin a different version of her nocturnal activities, of that I am sure. How do I know? Because she is a caution, bless her heart. Also because she—like me, like all great artistes—writes her little stories in front of the television, only unlike me, she doesn’t watch Glee or Suburgatory or How to Hide a Body: A Discovery Channel Original. Sarah watches one show and one show only: Law & Order. And do you know why she watches nothing but that one crime show? No? Well, then you’re as useless as teats on a boar hog, aren’t you?
All right, Mr. Investigator. Perhaps this will help you put the pieces together. May I point out how terribly convenient it is that Sarah rustled up not one but two “character witnesses” to defend her innocence? And did I mention that the two witnesses are sisters? As if sisters can be trusted, especially with one of them so tall and the other so short. (Are we sure they’re really even sisters? I, myself, would think long and hard before trusting the testimony of such a Jekyll-and-Hyde pair, Mr. Investigator.)
And consider this, if you would be so kind. Right as I was approaching Hermie to discuss my magnum opus, I heard Hermie invite that Sarah into the janitor’s closet for “an editorial meeting.” And what did she do? She followed him in willingly, Little Miss Peaches and Cream! Even knowing his temper! Even knowing the foulness of his breath! And afterward, did she emerge red-eyed and sniffling? If only!
But no, she did not, which is why I would keep an eye on that one if I were you. She’s a wild one, a she-devil in Bruno Maglis, and don’t let those pouting lips of hers fool you. And that Ziploc baggie of fingernail clippings you found tucked into my brassiere? She put it there. She stuffed that baggie right down my blouse, that’s right. Sarah Mlynowski, M-l-y-n-o—
Pardon? Oh. That. He wasn’t in his right mind, clearly, but I will admit that Hermie wasn’t as taken with Dances with Paper Cranes as I expected him to be. What, exactly, did he say about it? He called it…well, he called it snoreigami, if you must know.
So I stuffed him into a pickle barrel, nailed shut the lid, and shipped him off to my uncle’s pig rendering plant in Tennessee. It’s called We Render While You Wander. Clever, don’t you think? Same day service, and free pig chuckles to anyone with red hair.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, now I’ve gone and gotten your feathers all ruffled again! I was kidding, you silly ol’ silly! Such gullible creatures you men are. If I put on my sweetest voice and asked you to climb on into this here pickle barrel,
would you say yes? Really? Well, shut my mouth. Even a blind hog finds an acorn now and then, I suppose. Climb on in, then. That’s right. One leg and now the other…scrunch on down, you cutie…just a weensy bit farther so I can get this lid on tight.…
Good Lord, you big baby. Quit hollering like a stuck pig! Of course I’ll let you out…just as long as you swear on your mama’s grave to have a nice long talk with Sarah Mlynowski. Do you? Do you swear, now? That’s right, Sarah Mlynowski.
M-l-y…n-o-w…s-k-i.
Yes, I killed Herman Q. Mildew.
• I ran over him with my car after we’d left a sales conference where he proceeded to tell everyone I couldn’t turn a phrase if it had power steering.
• I dropped a safe on his puny head when he refused to pay me for a manuscript I delivered one day late—my daughter’s birth being “no excuse.”
• I strangled him in his office where he belittled me in front of Philip Roth, making me fetch coffee so they could insult my “writing” behind my back (but not out of earshot).
• I poisoned his glass of Château Mouton Rothschild after we went to the most expensive restaurant in New York and when the bill came, he claimed to have forgotten his wallet.
• I pushed him down 102 flights of stairs after he refused to hold the last elevator for me at the top of the Empire State Building, saying “Maybe a bit more suffering would improve your verse.”
• I suffocated him with my birthday cake after he tweeted my fans that I was now too old and out of touch to write YA because I didn’t own an iPhone or know why birds were angry.
• I stabbed him with my special pen after he failed to point out that my contract gave him final say on my novel—and yes, instead of black cowboys from the inner city, could I make my heroes white girl scouts from Poughkeepsie?
I killed him a thousand times in a thousand different ways. An arrow through the heart (alas, he didn’t have one). A bullet in the brain (ditto). I drowned him in a vat of melted cheese. I threw a toaster in his bath and watched him fry. I told the Mossad he was a former Nazi hair stylist. I strapped him to a chair and blasted endless reruns of The Suite Life of Zack & Cody till his head exploded. I refused the Heimlich maneuver when he choked on a pickle. I told a busload of teenage girls he was Justin Bieber’s dad (the one who grounded him). I slathered him with honey and dropped him into the bear exhibit at the Bronx Zoo.
All these, and hundreds of other fantasy nightmares—wasted! Because the final insult by this loathsome liar of literature was his real death. This human abomination of an editor, this manipulator of mayhem, this odorous ogre of destruction left this earth not of my doing!
Such is the life of a writer. All that work, then someone beats you to the punch!
For me, Jennifer A. Nielsen, and my partner in crime—er, writing—Lisa Sandell, the question is whether we are guilty in the death of our editor, that evil twerp, Herman Mildew? The answer, of course, depends on what your definition of “cold-blooded murder” is. If you mean it in the bad way, then no, we are almost entirely innocent.
Now, did we try to kill him? Well sure (except for some key parts of the plan, it was all Lisa’s idea), but anyone could understand our reasons.
Typical. Jennifer would try to pin it all on me. I mean, I am responsible for the most brilliant plot the world may ever have seen. Plot as in storyline, that is—certainly not a plot to murder a foul-breathed, mealy-mouthed editor who claimed said plot was implausible and then refused to publish our masterpiece. An implausible plot. Hah, as if such a master of the pen as I could even dream up an implausible plot. Editors…such squidgy, unimaginative know-nothings.
We slaved away at our crime novel for seven years, three months, thirteen days, six hours and twenty-four minutes. And, as I said, I, erm, we hatched the most brilliant plot the world could ever have known—genius, if I do say so myself. And very, very lethal.
In our manuscript, the murderer kills by tipping over a bookcase at the New York Public Library. Like dominoes, the next one falls, and the next, and the next. Until finally it lands on the victim, smashing him as flat as…as flat as…um, a round thing that just got smashed flat.
Once Herman rejected our so-called “implausible” draft, we had no choice. Lisa said, “What should we do now?” I said, “Go for pizza?” She said, “The only way to get published is to prove that our plot works. Let’s give Herman Mildew death by bookcase.” I said, “Okay fine. But let’s do it after we eat.” Because by then, I was hungry.
He didn’t reject us. We rejected him! We rejected his whiny-editor-crybaby-complaining about “logic” and “sense.” Herman was not fit to edit our novel! He was not fit to occupy the same city, state, universe as our glorious manuscript. So, I—I mean, we—vowed to flatten him, right then and there. Quite literally. Except Jennifer wouldn’t stop complaining about her pathetic empty stomach—I mean, who can think about hunger at a time like this? Honestly! And greasy pizza to boot. At the very least, the situation called for indulging in a wickedly sinful chocolate mousse cake or pineapple upside down cake or…Ahem, sorry, lost my train of…or even a terribly rich hot fudge sundae! Well, we postponed our plan for a few hours while we ate some pizza and cake. And ice cream.
Then we wrote Herman a letter. A most devious letter that drew him out and lured him to the library for the flattening. “Fancy yourself an editor, eh?” we asked. “Well, Mr. Know-It-All, why don’t you show us some books that are more ‘plausible’ than ours? Why don’t you meet us in the stacks at the New York Public Library? We’ll be waiting.…”
Only, when we arrived at the library, which was exactly as described in our manuscript, with its soaring columns and grand, wooden bookcases, we found the bookshelves were bolted to the floor. Oops.
Herman—that conniving editor with his cheesy toenails and bony fingers that have drawn the very spirit and life-blood out of who knows how many hapless authors—was right. Alas, our plot was…implausible.
AND IT’S ALL JENNIFER’S FAULT! She didn’t research the library!
It’s true, it’s true—Lisa gave me only one job (“Don’t mess up”), and I ruined it!
In the end, we learned three very important rules. First, research is more important than eating hot fudge sundaes. Second, listen to your editor, even if he makes Voldemort look like a kitty cat. And third, capital murder is probably not the best way to get published.
Sure, it looks bad, what with the blood and all. It’s all over me. I think you even have a little on you, from when we shook hands just now. And yes, I look guilty: sweating profusely, wringing the blood from my cuffs, and not once looking you in the eyes.
Look, I’ve seen the cop shows. I know what you’re thinking:
I had the means, the most obvious of which is this pistol here—nice, right? Careful, it’s loaded—but don’t sleep on this switchblade. It’s too choked with congealing blood to flip open right now, but I can assure you that wasn’t the case a few hours ago.
I had the motive. It was no secret how much I hated that man. My death metal song “Scrub You, Mildew” was a minor hit in Turkey. That album, Mildeath, contained eleven songs, all about his gruesome and untimely demise.
And, of course, I had the opportunity. As I’m sure you know, my name is written prominently in his calendar. He has an entire hour blocked off for me: the hour when he died.
But I didn’t kill him. I couldn’t possibly have. I was killing someone else at the time, you see. And Mildew? Well, he was supposed to be my alibi!
The first part is easy enough to prove. The blood on my knife, my clothing, my, well, everything, should be enough. Here, I will give you some for the boys in the lab. You think I’m wearing red underpants, but they were white this morning. I’ll just…take these off…and…here you are. They’re a bloody mess now, but they were the fruit of someone’s loom once. If you have a plastic bag, that would be ideal. Gives a whole new meaning to the term legal briefs, doesn’t it? Chilly in here.
Y
ou will find that this blood is an exact match for that of one Babcock T. Spooneybarger, whose mortal remains can be found under a bridge in the next town over. He should be pretty easy to find. I thought there was water under there when I pushed him over, but it turned out to be an old railroad bridge.
Not that there’s much blood left in him, mind you, but there should be enough for the tests required to clear my name. Which is spelled N-O-R-T-H-R-O-P, by the way. Some people put “U-P” at the end there. That was Spooneybarger’s mistake.
As for the part about Mildew being my alibi, allow me to point out two things:
1. That rat never set aside an hour for anyone. I heard he scheduled fifteen minutes for his own mother’s funeral—and it was out of state! A full hour for me, a mere writer? Ha! He was obviously up to something.
2. I know what that something was. He had big plans for that hour, big and very, very bad plans. Let’s just say that, for Mildew, the words “puppy” and “smuggling” were nearly synonymous. I know because I was supposed to be his alibi, too. I, his; he, mine—the perfect crime!
Or so we thought.
Do you have to keep saying that word—murder? You must have used it at least seventeen times since I sat down. What happened to all those colorful, vivid euphemisms you used in the introduction?
Let’s see…what were your words then? Herman Mildew took a long walk off a short pier, he kicked the bucket, he shuffled off the mortal coil! Glorious. Variety is so important when it comes to language; otherwise, you’re in danger of losing your audience.