Murder is no laughing matter, authors Joe Nelson and Eva Newcastle attest. And yet, on this dark and stormy night, amid the hors d’oeuvres and aperitifs, a murder shall happen and even the great and stoic Poirot would be hard-pressed to suppress a chuckle at this twisty and absurd tale.
What’s in vogue? The best typewriter improv on the planet! That’s right, flash fiction fans. It’s time for the next installment of #GenresNotIncluded. Cinematic Fiction meets Hard-boiled Pulp. Five tweets each and Joe over @BooksPointof kicks off tonight’s story. Ready? Go.
Tom McGuffin lay very dead, the knife in his heart a signpost of his new existence as a corpse.
Dame Edwina Fulsome marched right into the dining room, over his body, slapped both of her 70 year-old palms on the table and declared, “There’s a bloody murderer in this room!”
The family matriarch’s words could always be heard no matter the volume. Dressed in Friday evening dinner regalia, Dame Edwina took the last handsome swig of her dry martini, waiting for the butler and her three grown sons to come running.
“Well?” she sneered down at the body.
“Oh god, not another one…” sighed Theo, her eldest son.
“Tell me you called the police?” begged Basil, the middle child.
“Mother has another crime to solve!” gleefully stated the youngest, Dave.
Dame Edwina would admit she drank a little much when pregnant with Dave.
“You three,” she motioned to Tom’s body with a red-polished index finger, her sun-spotted hand gripping the Baccarat crystal glass. “Stop complaining as though I were one of the nannies and clean up this mess.” She decanted another martini. “And Dave?” she paused. “Never mind.”
Dame Edwina was well into her third martini when Inspector Suave Lefleur arrived. He was French.
“Shit,” he said as he surveyed the body and the crowded dining room. “Not again.”
“Don’t worry, Inspector. The murderer hasn’t escaped. I made sure of that.”
The men were silent at her declaration, eyeing each other and the Empire table draped in lace, the table she guarded with her presence. Inspector Lefleur took two steps forward.
“That close enough,” she instructed.
A faint meow. A tension. Tom peeked and played dead again.
“Did any of you kill this unfortunate man?” Lefleur asked of the dining room.
Eight heads rapidly shook in the negative.
“Dame Edwina…is this one actually dead?” Lefleur was very patient. He watched French movies.
Dame Edwina ground her teeth. This was not going as planned.
“Eight,” Dave thought, confused. “Eight?” he said aloud, counting those in attendance, including the corpse.
“Oh, for Christ sakes,” Basil complained, indignant. He yanked the knife from Tom’s chest.
The corpse let out a gurgling scream. Basil adjusted his cuff and gold link.
The scream went on for five whole minutes before Tom started coughing. That went another five.
“Dame Edwina,” Inspector Lefleur said carefully, “I am an officer with Scotland Yard. I am not to play host to your dinner parties! Next time there is a body…it had better be dead!”
Basil took a damask napkin from atop a the table. “Watch your tone, Inspector.” Basil wiped the blade clean, holding it up to the soft light cast from a chandelier.
The thrust up into to LeFleur’s gut was unexpected. Terrorizing.
“There’s a murderer in the room,” Dame lamented.
FIN.
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