Murder. There you go again! Even the word gives me the chills. It has such an ugly ring to it, don’t you think? Do you know what word I prefer?
Karma.
I’m not saying that Mildew deserved to die, exactly. I just think that almost anyone who has ever come into contact with that despicable insect of a man would—
I’m not getting upset. I’m being descriptive. Please remember, I’m a writer. Writers describe, and we strive to describe accurately. And Herman Mildew had all the kindness of a hollow bone. He was a roach dressed up as a human being. He wasn’t even a roach. Cockroaches have families—large ones, in fact. I should know; I live in Brooklyn.
Think about it: even a cockroach can find another cockroach to love! But not Herman Mildew. Isn’t that interesting? I’d even say it was significant.
I have another question for you. Did you ever wonder just how long it must have taken him to draw in mustaches on all my author photos? Did you ever stop and consider that? Do you know how many thousands of photographs that represents?
I do. 10,457 to be exact. I had to find and destroy them all, so that my readers wouldn’t think I was in desperate need of a wax.
This is a vicious business, my friend. Appearances are everything.
But just because I hated him doesn’t mean I killed him. I have another favorite term: probable cause. It’s a beautiful thing—especially when, as in my case, the police don’t have any, and detain a completely innocent young woman on her way to a dinner date with her friends—who I’m sure will be absolutely furious by now—and all in order to bark up a tree that isn’t going to yield a single, solitary bloom.
That’s a metaphor, by the way. I’m supposed to be the tree, and what I mean is I didn’t do it. How could I have? At the moment of Mildew’s death, I was happily ensconced on my couch at home, sipping red wine and watching a movie with my fiancé. He’ll vouch for me—call him.
Of course no one else saw us together that night! It was a date. We don’t exactly live stream our romantic episodes. I’m an author, not a reality TV show actress! Look, we ordered Bridesmaids from On Demand. That proves I was at home. What thirty-something-year-old male do you know who would choose to watch Bridesmaids on his own? Be reasonable.
I don’t mean to sound condescending. I don’t pretend to know more about this than you—after all, this is your job! I’m just a writer. And it’s obvious that the literary view of the justice system has very little in common with police proceedings in the real world. For example, in books, detectives are always so sharp, so absolutely clever. They can solve the most complicated murders based on only the thinnest shreds of evidence—an abandoned cigarette and a misplaced lampshade, for example! Clearly, the detectives of fiction are quite different from their real-life counterparts.
No, no. I’m not calling you stupid. I’m just engaging in literary criticism.
Trust me. I’m a writer; it’s just part of my job.
I, (name of person in the room), being of sound mind and body, do hereby (adverb) attest to a plea of not guilty in the murder of the most (adjective) editor in the world, Herman Mildew.
In the interest of offering the truth, the (adjective) truth, and nothing but the truth, I will say: Mr. Mildew was not my favorite (noun). Though I have yet to glimpse him with my own two (part of body [plural]), most everyone knows of his legendary temper, his paranoia, and his more (adjective) habits: namely, collecting (adjective) cheeses, and toenails from (type of animal [plural]). Surely you can understand why I tried to avoid (verb ending in ‘ing’) with Mildew too often.
But kill him? Certainly not! You can ask any (noun) that knows me: I am a kind, caring, (noun), not capable of violence against any person, no matter how (adjective) he or she may be!
However, if you need specific proof as to my whereabouts on the evening in question, I can provide it. In fact, I could offer (a number) alibis to you, but these are the five most persuasive:
1) I was walking my (type of animal).
2) I was washing my (body part).
3) I was in bed, reading a very (adjective) book and having a glass of (adjective) milk.
4) I was at the latest (name of celebrity) movie, by myself. (I prefer to see movies alone so no one bothers me with their (verb ending in ‘ing’) or their (verb ending in ‘ing’).)
5) I was organizing my (noun) collection.
So, there you have it. There’s no way I could have killed Mr. Mildew! My defense is as airtight as the day is (adjective). What’s that you say? You find it (adjective) —and mighty suspicious—that none of my claims can be corroborated by other (plural noun)? Well, now that you mention it, I can see how that may not look good. Alas, this statement is all I have to offer, and I will swear to it (adverb).
Indeed, all of the above is true and (adjective), or my name isn’t (name of another person in the room).
Whoops.
I didn’t do it. I couldn’t have done it. And while I don’t have an alibi per se, I can tell you that I was writing. I can assure you that I was working hard at being a worthy author. Worthy. Just the kind of author that Herman, that horrible, horrible editor, wanted me to be.
This is how it happened. I sat down at my desk with my revisions. The revisions that Herman had given to me. I opened up my laptop and my document and I got ready to revise, even though, really, I had a hard time wrapping my head around any of the improvements, if you could really call them that, that Herman had suggested. Like when he writes in the margin in red pen, “We got it!” what does that mean? But still, I soldiered on.
But then my contact felt funny. And so I had to go have a looksee. I resolved my contact issue but no sooner than I had, I became aware of an eyebrow situation. I got out my tweezers. In life, I believe it’s important to know when your eyebrows need attention vs. say when you just don’t want to write. Sometimes it’s hard to know the difference. I returned to my desk. I entered the creative phase I like to think of as bargaining. I told myself that if I finished chapter sixteen and started on chapter seventeen, I could leave my desk and go for a run, or I could do my yoga DVD. It was my choice.
I spied my dog, there in her bed, across the room.
“Hi, Carlie,” I said.
“Who’s my gorgeous, gorgeous girl?” I asked. Perhaps because the question was so obviously rhetorical, Carlie did not answer.
I felt a bit peckish. A look in the kitchen confirmed my suspicions: there was nothing interesting there. I decided to venture out for a snack.
I walked several blocks to get a snack. I may or may not have passed Herman’s apartment en route. I returned home, a while later, with my snack. I sat at my desk and ate it there. I thought about the penthouse apartment that is available in my building. It has a terrace as big as the apartment. I’d like to move there. I chewed a piece of gum and returned to my revisions, determined, as ever, that I was going to finish strong. I observed that an almost empty yogurt container can entertain my dog for the better part of an afternoon.
I then had a slight sense of malaise. I moved, with my laptop, from my desk to my couch. I wondered aloud if my book was very boring, and then, if the changes Herman had suggested would make it even more so. Because at that point, I was a little bored. I wondered how Lady Gaga had wound up on my Pandora station. I didn’t get a lot of work done that day. But I consoled myself as I sometimes do, with one of my favorite quotes: “The work goes on, the cause endures, the hope still lives, and the dream shall never die.” Ted Kennedy.
And also: my dog can vouch for me.
I did not kill Herman Q. Mildew. That’s what you want me to say. That’s what you expect me to say.
It is also the truth. (Let me interject here that truth is a squirmy bastard with a tendency to get stuck in life’s drain like a clump of soapy hair. Look in your own tub if you don’t believe me.)
You wouldn’t even be questioning me if it weren’t for the cheese. Yes, that cheese. Doesn’t everyone carry a black Prada microfiber to
te of cheese just in case? You’re investigators. Detectives. Private eyes. Gumshoes. You’ve seen it all. You and your trench coats and fedoras and shoes that never squeak. Your tiny storefront offices and your secretary named Millie or Effie or Gertie or Roz. She’s a tall broad with seams down her stockings and a swell hat she wears at a rakish angle and sensible thick-heeled black shoes. Secretly she loves you, but you’re married to your job. She’ll drink her cup of joe at the corner diner and curse the day she fell for a wise-cracking palooka like you.
But I digress. I did not bump off Herman Q. Mildew. But I wanted to. And the reason is in that Prada tote of cheese.
Go ahead, take inventory. That’s right, one at a time. Careful now, coppers. You may want to grill it after you’ve grilled me. Take those shocked looks off your mugs. A girl has a right to save cheese memories. Herman Q. Mildew wouldn’t understand this. But I know you do.
I snatched the wedge of Stilton the night he made me stay late to organize his toenail collection. I knew I’d be in Dutch with him, but I couldn’t help it. It sat oozing on his desk, clots of blue mold like diamonds. I shoved a hunk in my mouth while I sorted. Mildew wanted them organized by toe. I argued that time of clipping was a better arrangement. I should have kept my mouth shut. The Stilton was lingering on my tongue.
The next night, it was the Limburger. I caught him using it to wax his head. He threatened to sock me in the kisser if I said anything. “I’m no stoolie,” I told him. But when he took off his shoes and thrust his dirty feet out the window trying to make the squirrels go nuts, I swiped the cheese.
Good cheese should not be wasted on someone like Herman Q. Mildew.
“They’re gonna send you over for this,” Mildew told me. We were taking turns spitting into the pickle juice and then tightening the lids. I swear it wasn’t my idea. He promised if I helped him, he’d stop leaving footprints in the mascarpone. He lied.
Brie. Munster. Roquefort. Camembert. I admit it. I took them all.
Ask yourself this before you throw me in the hoosegow: What would you do?
You’d save the cheese, that’s what you’d do. No dairy product deserves to be manhandled by the likes of Herman Q. Mildew.
But plug him full of lead? No way. Ask some other tomato. I’m not your girl.
I would never kill Herman “The Mouth” Muttonhog Mildew—how could I want to rid the universe of the International Lord of the Lamb Champion, who held the world record for consuming twelve legs of lamb in ten minutes (even if I did see him illegally toss slimy wads of gristle into his secret pocket)?
We were a team for years. Serious athletes. Nobody trained harder than us. The practice, the endurance, the psychology—most people don’t know what it takes to excel in the sport of Professional Competitive Eating. The Mouth captained our team of five: Fred “Frydaddy” Horsencrantz; Peter “Ritz Bits” Goulstein; my little brother, Igor “Sweet Cheeks” Smith; The Mouth; and me.
We each had our own specialty. The Mouth’s was meats. Lamb, hamburgers, pot roast, hot dogs, sirloin, cold cuts, meatballs, honey baked ham, sausage, bacon, T-bones, cow tongue, pig’s ears, bison, goat belly, chicken feet, bone marrow—he held the title for all of them.
Winners in each division got a crown and some cash. Frydaddy got five hundred bucks when he won the Cheese Fries Championship. Ritz Bits won a thousand in the Uncrustables Eat-Off. Sweet Cheeks wowed us with five grand from the Boston Cream Pie Smackdown.
I was the pickle girl. I did pretty well too, if I say so myself. I won ten thousand kroner in the Norwegian Pickle Playoffs, five years in a row.
All was fine and dandy for a while. Our team was the best in the world.
Then The Mouth changed. Meats weren’t enough for him, he decided. He encroached on our territories. He beat Frydaddy at the Fried Okra Festival. He clobbered Ritz Bits at the Cheez Whiz Bowl. He poisoned Sweet Cheeks at Chocolate International, putting guinea pig poop on Sweet Cheeks’s plate where the chocolate chips were supposed to be.
Then he set on the pickles.
Now, let me tell you a thing or two about pickles. You say “pickle,” most people think pickled cucumbers. Not true. For the Pittsburgh Picklefest I achieved top ranking in pickled carrots, green beans, olives, lemons, cauliflower, eggs, and my coup de grâce: herring.
The Mouth decided he wanted to hold the world record for herring, too.
We faced off.
Herman The Mouth Muttonhog Herringphony did his usual trick of sticking half the herring in his secret pocket. In his underwear. Pickled fish in his underwear. “His tush smells like a swamp,” my mother said when she sat next to him at the World Crown Ceremony.
We complained to the authorities, but they didn’t believe us. I even told them about his secret pocket. Just once, I said, I’d like to see The Mouth eat a leg of lamb or a pound of herring in forty seconds with someone else’s pocket-less underwear on.
I’d like to see him eat lamb and herring until he could no longer breathe.
After ousting us from our titles, The Mouth told us he was quitting the professional eating circuit to become an editor. A food editor, he said. And he said he was going to write.
The portrayal of Picklepuss in his memoir The Magic of Mutton, the Magic of Mildew is not loosely based on me. There’s no relation to me whatsoever. It’s not true that my greatest wish in the world was to beat him. My greatest wish was to expose him for what he was: a fraud, a poor excuse for an athlete, and a pox upon the great Professional Competitive Eaters of the world, Major League Division.
But, I digress. This is the truth: I was not the one who sent him the sixty-pound barrel of rotten herring that he almost drowned in. And I have no idea how this leg of lamb got in my purse.
Lisa: Check Yahoo mail.
Laura: Can’t. On a run.
Lisa: Eeew. Stop being so athletic and check our email. Immediately.
Laura: Fine, fine. I’m checking.
Lisa: Do you see it? Do you? Freaking Mildew hated our manuscript. He called us hacks!
Laura: But at the end he says he’s just going to send it to print, so that’s good news at least.
Lisa: Oh you haven’t read the P.S. yet. Read the P.S.
Laura: Wait, he can’t do that right? He can’t put an adverb warning on the cover of our book. That’s absolutely, completely, entirely, ridiculously nasty.
Lisa: He can. He will. The adverbs are your fault, you know. You love a good adverb.
Laura: You’re not pinning all those adverbs on me. Remember when I tried to delete all of them and you claimed it was cramping your stylistic voice?
Lisa: Everyone knows “firmly believes” sounds better than plain old “believes.” It just does.
Laura: Yeah, everyone except Stephen King.
Lisa: Well, we’ve got to do something. No one will ever take us seriously with an adverb warning on our book.
Laura: Seriously.
Lisa: Well, you’re just going to have to kill him. Come over when you’re done with your run, and I’ll let you borrow some of my rat poison. You can bake him a cake or something.
Laura: Why do I have to be the one to kill him? Why can’t you kill him? You’re the oldest.
Lisa: God, you love reminding me of that, don’t you? It’s only two years! It’s not like you’re 23. We’re both in our mid-thirties.
Laura: I’m still in my early thirties.
Lisa: I hate you. Also, you’re baking that cake. He’ll never believe that one of my notoriously amazing cakes tastes like rat poison. Luckily your baked goods almost always taste poison-y.
Laura: Fine, fine. I’ll immediately bake the dastardly cake.
Lisa: Right. Bake the cake quickly. And put a few adverbs in icing. Make him think we’re having a good laugh about this whole thing.
Laura: Ooh, new mail from John Scieszka. Shiny!
Lisa: Well, that’s kind of random.… Oh, whoa. Not shiny. NOT shiny.
Laura: Someone already killed Mildew. Yay! I really didn?
??t feel like baking that cake.
Lisa: Betcha it was Stephen King.
Laura: You really haven’t read On Writing yet, have you?
Lisa: Yeah…no. Sure haven’t.
Laura: Unbelievable. By the way, do you often have email access when you run …?
I can smell decay.
Don’t believe me? All the coffee on your breath, and the Wrigley’s gum you chew to mask it, can’t hide the two cavities in your lower molars, blackening their way into your dental plan. I smell them, just like I smell your patience dying as you interrogate yet one more person with motive to kill Herman Mildew.
Oh yes, I had motive. He made me inspect his cheeses: the stinky ones, the runny ones, the mottled blues, the patties coated with a light fur, which, he claimed, “gave texture.” You can imagine what happened with a nose as sensitive as mine. Nosebleeds. Blood running over my lips and chin. Dripping onto the cheese in an abstract pattern that made Mr. Mildew laugh. He would laugh and I would know that this was why he had cajoled me into his office: for the joke of taking my gift and turning it into a curse.
You may well ask why I let him.
Was he not my boss?
Was he not the sort of person people loathe so much they loathe themselves, and thus go to great lengths to disprove their hatred? To agree to favors, however unreasonable? I gave him a card on every birthday. When I signed my name I signed away that squirm of shame for wishing he had never been born.
But that is different from murder. And trust me, murder would have been redundant. Mr. Mildew reeked of decay. He had a waterlogged wood odor to him, the sort of rot that swells before the end. He already smelled like a grave. I didn’t need to push him into one.
And I have an alibi. You see, I met a man in the grocery store. I took him home with me. He was in my bed when Mr. Mildew was killed.
Don’t blink like that. I may be the beak-nosed secretary of a hated waste of a person, always at his beck and call, but I stole moments for myself. I am not so unattractive as you think.