Mr. J’s Bronze Buddha

This is my third attempt at a one day mystery. However, I got halfway through the first draft and was completely unhappy with it, so I started over. Thus, it took more than a day to write it.

Mr. J’s Bronze Buddha
©2020, Joseph L. Thornburg. All Rights Reserved.

(contains language, violence)

“Now, now, Mrs. Busch. You made me promise never to let you eat more than two pastries in one day.”

“I never bleedin’ said pastries, I said cinnamon rolls!” cried Mrs. Busch, as she reached for her third pain aux raisins. Curls of fiery red hair with white roots drooped on her head like a comatose Komondor. It was remarkable she was able to walk in her lime platform wedge mules without keeling over. And though it was the middle of a hot and humid August, she had wrapped her cylindrical figure in a brand new mink coat, which had been dyed a blinding shade of fuchsia. A recent immigrant from London, where it was rumored she had won a fortune in the National Lottery, she moved to East Kingsley to be near her daughter, who had married an American. What she lacked in height she compensated for in volume, and hers was the type of British English where words like “eye” are pronounced “oy”.

“And I told ya before, Julius, none of this bleedin’ ‘Mrs. Busch’ nonsense.” She drew herself up in a regal manner. “Call me Dainty.” she said with mock pretension, then cackled at her own joke.

“Yes, Dainty.” said Mr. Campbell. She knew his name was really Caesar, but he gave up trying to dissuade her from calling him Julius.

“You’re very busy again t’day!” she said as she dropped a ten dollar bill on the counter.

“Yes, as ghoulish as it seems, business is booming.” He rang up the pastry, put the bill in the drawer, took out seven dollars and tried to hand it to her, but she grabbed his hand and shoved it into the tip jar. “Everyone wants to see the coffeehouse where all the murders took place. We expanded into what used to be Licoricia’s candy shop and made it a second dining area.”

“It was nice of you to call it ‘Licoricia’s Lunchroom’. And ooh, I liked watchin’ those sexy worker men.”

“I can’t keep up with all the changes. The bakery closed since Kneady’s in jail. Peccari is running the deli while Collops is recuperating, and she’s hired a helper. What was his name? Ignatius?”

“Ichabod.” corrected Dainty.

“Ichabod, yes. And there’s a psychic now by the cigarette shop and a jewelry store, too.”

“And that new Japanese curiosity shop.”

“Speaking of which, Benjy and I were about to head over and check it out. Want to come with?”

“Ooh, any chance to see that young man who works there!” She cackled again and licked her lips.

The three of them made their way over. A big sign over the window said “House of Hashisaki / Grand Opening”. They stepped inside.

“Welcome! I’m Ari.” said a handsome young Japanese man. He shook hands with Benjy and Caesar. He tried to shake Dainty’s hand, but she seized him in a bear hug, patting his butt as she did. “Mmm, firm!”

Ari blushed. An old man in an expensive looking tweed suit hobbled up to him and said something in Japanese. Ari shook his head hurriedly and peeled Dainty’s arms from around him and said, “Everyone, this is my grandfather, Junnosuke.”

“I’m Halo.” said a woman behind them. All but lost in a whirlwind of shawls and beads, she wafted her way over to the group. “I am the proprietress of the psychic sanctuary a couple doors down.” She handed business cards to everyone.” Benjy looked at his. It read, “Halo Prairieflower, Psychic and Clairvoyant”, and listed a phone number, address, and website. It smelled faintly of patchouli incense.

Junnosuke looked at his card in puzzlement and nudged Ari. “Halo.” said Ari, slowly and deliberately. “Hay-Low-san” said the old man, and he bowed formally to her. As everyone introduced themselves, Junnosuke repeated their names in a heavy accent and bowed.

“May we ask about that statue?” said a new voice. A woman and a man, arms linked and wearing matching blue suits, approached. Her free arm was gesturing toward the register, where there was a bronze statue on a pedestal. There was also a sign on the front that read Do Not Touch, with presumably the same message in Japanese underneath.

Before Ari could answer, there was a loud thudding sound. Everyone looked toward the door. A young delivery man had dropped a large box which was now at his feet. Despite his fragile appearance, Junnosuke got right in his face and began yelling in Japanese. The group was amazed such a frail looking senior could deliver so much vituperative invective. Even more amazingly, the delivery man seemed completely unperturbed by this.

“Tough old geezer.” said Dainty admiringly. She let her gaze fall to his butt and said, “Ooh, I see where Ari gets it!”

Ari put himself between the two men. “Eric,” he said, seeing the name tag of the delivery man. “We get a lot of very delicate merchandise here. Please be more careful.” Over Ari’s shoulder, Junnosuke grumbled to himself, with every third word being “Eric”, which he spoke like a profanity.

“Yeah, whatever.” said Eric. “Where do you want this?”

“Behind the counter will do.” Eric started to pick up the box, then decided it would be easier to shove it along the ground. He grunted and swore while he did so.

“Anyway,” said Ari. “That statue is a reproduction of the Buddha at Asukadera in Nara. It’s about 1300 years old. My grandfather brought it with him from Japan.”

“A family heirloom?” asked Halo.

“Not exactly. It’s just for display; he doesn’t want to sell it.”

“A shame; it must be worth a fortune.” said the man in the blue suit.

Dainty cried out—Eric had shoved the box against her leg.

“Bloody cheek! Watch where you’re goin’!”

“It’s not the first time.” said the woman in the suit after Eric was out of earshot. “Oh, my husband and I run the jewelry store. I’m Jocasta Payne, he’s Haemon.” Introductions went around again, and Junnosuke repeated their names. “Eric is always dropping our parcels. We’ve complained to his company before.”

“I’d love to have that statue in my space.” said Halo. “Think of all the spiritual energy and history it contains!”

Eric finished his task and thrust a clipboard at Ari. “Sign here.” Ari signed and handed the clipboard back. “Thank you for choosing NPS.” recited Eric in a bored monotone. He headed for the door, where he collided with two people coming in. “Watch where you’re going!” he snapped as he shoved past them. In walked Peccari with another young man.

“We’ve closed the deli for the day.” she said. “Oh, everyone, this is my new assistant, Ichabod. He’s helping out while my dad recovers.”

“Hi everyone.” said Ichabod. He saw Junnosuke, bowed, and said, “Ichabod desu. Hajimemashite.” The old man didn’t seem surprised but he bowed in return and said, “Junnosuke to moushimasu. Hajimemashite.

“Ichabod,” said Benjy. “You speak Japanese!”

“Not really. When I was in high school I went there as part of an exchange program. I only remember tourist sentences now. You know, ‘my name is Ichabod, nice to meet you, where’s the bathroom?’”

“So tell us about your shop.” said Caesar to Ari.

“Well, I wanted to go into some kind of imported goods business after I got out of college but didn’t have the capital. Then, my grandfather moved here and put up the money about six months ago.”

“Why did he move here?” said Benjy. “I mean … he looks … well, only that such a move would be difficult for someone of his age.”

“He never said. It was kind of a surprise. He never even said anything about wanting to visit America, much less move here. One day he was in Japan, the next he was on my doorstep asking if he could stay until he got his own place. Oh, excuse me.” Ari reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell. He stepped away to take the call. Junnosuke bowed to everyone and busied himself behind the counter, unpacking the parcel Eric had brought. The group began exploring the store. Ari finished his call and was talking excitedly to Junnosuke. He came up to Benjy and Caesar, who were still taking to Ichabod. “Hey, you two are right next door, right?” Benjy nodded. “Listen,” said Ari. “I hate to ask, but I need a favor. I’ve got to leave town for a couple of days to handle an emergency. I don’t want to shut the shop when we’ve just opened. I’m going to leave my grandfather in charge, but can you guys keep an eye on him? He can run the register and everything but his English is pretty nonexistent.”

“Sure.” said Caesar. “Tell him to come get me if he needs help.”

“Me too.” said Ichabod. “My Japanese sucks, but I can try.”

“Great, thank you all.” said Ari. “We’re closing soon, then I’m leaving right after. I’ll be back Thursday.”


The next day, Dainty was finishing her third profiterole when Benjy came up to her table. “Dainty, would you like to go with me to check on Mr. J?” He hadn’t quite got the hang of pronouncing Junnosuke.

She gulped down the rest of her tea and wiped her mouth. “Ooh, that would be nice. If I can’t ogle that handsome son, I can at least look at his grandfather. He’s quite dishy himself!”

They stopped in the deli to see if Ichabod wanted to accompany them. Peccari said he was out on an errand, but should be back in a few minutes. “I’d wait,” said Benjy, looking at the clock on the wall, which read 11:58am. “But we’re getting busy at the coffeehouse and I need to get back as soon as possible.”

They entered Ari’s shop. It was empty. “Mr. J?” said Benjy. “Hello?”

“Looks like he sold the statue.” said Dainty, pointing toward the now empty pedestal.

“I thought he didn’t want to sell it. I wonder where he is?” Benjy headed toward the backroom, the door to which was past the counter. There on the floor behind the counter was Junnosuke, lying face up, a patch of blood under his head. “Dainty!” Benjy cried out as he knelt by the body. She joined him and looked.

“Bloody hell! Is he dead?”

“No—he’s breathing, see? Call 911! Mr. J? Can you hear me?” Then he noticed Junnosuke was holding a pencil in one hand and a sheet of note paper in the other. On it was scrawled a capital letter H.


A crowd of proprietors, customers and curious passers-by watched as the paramedics loaded the still unconscious form of Junnosuke in the ambulance. “The paramedics said he’s in a coma.” said Benjy. “Someone bashed him on the head pretty hard.”

“And probably stole that statue!” added Dainty. “Poor Mr. J!”

“Ari left is such a hurry we forgot to get his phone number.”

Halo, her fingertips pressed to her temples, said “I’ve been trying to reach out to his mind, but he is not responding.”

Caesar rolled his eyes and said to Benjy, “You said there was a note in his hand?” Benjy handed it to him. “The letter H—did he write that before or after he was attacked?”

“I suppose he could’ve written it after. Someone tried to steal the statue, Mr. J caught him, they fought, Mr. J got clobbered, but had time to write H before he lost consciousness.”

“May I see the note?” said Halo. Caesar handed it to her. She closed her eyes and pressed the note against her forehead, then made an odd cooing noise. “It wants to speak to me. Oh, note! I ask you to yield your secret!” She cooed again.

“Maybe he was trying to identify the attacker?” said Ichabod.

“That would mean he recognized him!” said Peccari.

“Someone whose name begins with H.” said Caesar. They all slowly looked at Halo, who still had her eyes closed. She finally opened them, then noticed their stares. “What?” she said. “I sense suspicion in your hearts.”

“You had your eye on that statue.” said Dainty. “Said it would look good in your shop!”

Halo sputtered indignantly. “What? Do I look like the type that would conk an old man on the head and steal a statue? I mean, go look in my shop. It’s not there!”

Jocasta eyed her. “Well, I’m sure you wouldn’t be so stupid as to display it right after the crime.”

“Or ever! But I didn’t take it!” Halo looked just over Jocasta’s shoulder. “Besides, I’m not the only one here whose name begins with H.”

Jocasta turned to follow Halo’s gaze and saw her husband. “You mean Haemon?” she said. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Why not? You were talking about it being worth a fortune.”

“I think that’s pretty obvious to anyone!” blurted Haemon. “I mean, anyone might’ve taken it for that reason!”

“Anyone whose name begins with H, that is.” said Halo.

“That still includes you!” Haemon took a threatening step toward Halo, who raised her arms in a poor imitation of a martial arts posture. And if there were anyone capable of staring daggers, it was Jocasta, who was sending a steady stream of trench knives toward Halo.

“Everyone, please calm down!” pleaded Peccari. Halo put her arms down, while Haemon took a deep breath and stepped back to stand by his wife, who had put all but one dagger away. Best to maintain a defensive stance, just in case Halo got out of hand again.

“Anyway,” said Haemon, clearing his throat. “I would not be so stupid as to try to sell something so unique and valuable. It would be like trying to sell the Mona Lisa.”

Peccari said, “Did anyone notice Mr. J was missing his left pinkie?”

“Uh oh.” said Ichabod. “I wonder if he was Yakuza?”

“Yacker-what?” said Dainty.

Yakuza. Japanese organized crime, like the Mafia. In Yakuza culture, if you screw up, you have to cut off your little finger and give it to the boss as a show of penitence.”

Halo shuddered. “My goodness, couldn’t they just quit?”

“You know,” said Caesar. “Ari was saying Mr. J came to America rather abruptly, and gave him all the money to start his business. Maybe he had to get out of Japan for a reason.” He tilted his head coyly and made a “hmmm?” sound.

“And maybe this robbery was Yakuza related.” said Ichabod. “You know, revenge or something. But I don’t see how that’s connected to the letter H.”

“Maybe he was writing a note to Ari.” offered Peccari. “H for Hashisaki.”

Ichabod shook his head. “He wouldn’t address him by his last name, would he?”

“Are we so sure it’s an H?” said Benjy. He took the note from Halo and looked at it. “Mr. J was about to lose consciousness, I’m sure he wasn’t trying for neatness. He turned the note around so everyone could see it, and rotated it a quarter turn. “Maybe—it’s a capital I.”

Everyone then turned to face Ichabod. “Oh, no.” he protested. “It wasn’t me. I wasn’t here. I was on an errand.” Not everyone looked convinced. “I went to the bank to drop off yesterday’s take for Peccari, then I went to have lunch.”

“He did.” said Peccari.

“You only know he was away from the shop. You don’t know where he actually went.” said Jocasta.

“Now that I think of it,” Halo said, pausing for dramatic effect, “isn’t Jocasta sometimes spelled with an I?” Jocasta brought all her daggers back out. Haemon was about to object when Ichabod said, “Look, I can prove it. After lunch I was heading for the deli when I ran into Eric. Literally. He was running down the sidewalk with a package and bumped into me. He said, ‘Fuck, man, I’ve got to make this delivery!’ and kept going. And then I walked into the deli shortly after that.”

“Well,” said Benjy. “He’s due here in a little while to make his deliveries. We can ask him to verify that then.”

“Look, we don’t know whether it’s an H or an I, so we can’t just blame Ichabod.” said Peccari. “At least he seems to have an alibi.”

“Unlike some people.” said Halo, as she tipped her head toward Jocasta and Haemon.

Haemon spoke: “Well, what about you? Where were you when all this was happening?”

“I gave a Tarot consultation at 11:30, then I took a nap. I have to recharge my soul after communing with the spiritual world.”

“How long was your consultation?” said Caesar.

“Half an hour. I have another appointment at 1:00 so I figured I had enough time for a quick nap and lunch.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, it’s almost one!” She trotted back to her shop, leaving a trail of frankincense perfume in her wake.

“We should get back, too.” said Haemon.

“Just a minute.” said Benjy. “Where were you two just before noon?”

“You know, we’ve already given a statement to the police. But just to make you happy, we were both in our shop. We had a customer buying a particularly expensive emerald necklace. The register data will back that up.” He smiled in smug satisfaction.

Benjy was about to point out that it only takes one person to run a register, when a young man in an NPS uniform came up. He was holding a small padded envelope. “Are you Mr. Payne?” he said to Caesar.

“No, but I wish I were.” smiled Caesar.

The man smiled back and said, “You could be.”

Haemon cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt your date, but I am Mr. Payne.”

The man winked at Caesar then turned to Haemon. “Nobody was in your shop and this is signature required.”

“Ah, thank you.” Haemon signed the clipboard then took the envelope. “What’s your name? Where’s Eric?”

“Innocenzio, at your service.” said the man, more to Caesar than to Haemon. “Eric, well, he got fired yesterday.”

“It’s about time.” said Jocasta.

“Fired? Why?” asked Caesar.

Innocenzio affected a dramatic pose and said grandly, “Why should we fire thee? Let us count the ways.” He chuckled. “I’m surprised he lasted this long. That imbecile was always screwing up. Anyway, they changed my route today so I could do his packages until they could get another driver. And now I’m running late. Ta-ta, my friends!” He winked at Caesar again. “See you soon.” He jogged away down the street toward an NPS truck.

“Fired?” said Peccari. “Why, that means …”

“He wasn’t making a delivery today.” finished Benjy.

“He was there yesterday when we were talking about the statue.” said Jocasta. “Maybe he got fired and thought Mr. J reported him, and he stole the statue for the money.”

“It would be the just the sort of stupid stunt he’d pull.” said Caesar. “Stealing something too valuable and important to sell. It’s probably on G-Bay right now.” He pulled out his phone and said into the microphone, “G-bay.com, search, Asian statue.” A minute later he showed an image to everyone. “There it is.” He scoffed. “His reserve price is only two hundred dollars!”

“What a bloody idiot!” said Dainty. “And to have beaten poor Mr. J for it. Makes me blood boil!”

“Let’s show this to the police.” said Caesar.


“So the doctor thinks my grandfather will be okay.”

“I knew he was a tough old geezer.” said Dainty as she munched on her third spanakopita. Ari had come back and they were all in BaxCam Coffees.

“He finally came out of the coma and yeah, he said it was Eric.”

“That’s great news,” said Benjy. “But I’m puzzled. What was he trying to write when he was attacked? Was it an H or an I?” He showed the paper to Ari, who looked at it and smiled.

“Neither. It’s a Japanese character that makes an ‘ehh’ sound. He was probably trying to write ‘Eric’.”

“Well,” said Dainty, sucking up a bit of feta cheese from her thumb. “You tell your grandfather I’m goin’ to pay him a visit soon! He needs a little tender lovin’ care and I’m just the one who can give it to him!” She tried to wink suggestively, but ended up looking more like she was about to sneeze.

Ari leaned closer to Benjy and Caesar. “I think he’s going to wish he’d stayed in that coma.”

The End

2 Victims, 1 Shot

I decided to try writing a murder mystery in one day again. The first one is here.

2 Victims, 1 Shot
©2020, Joseph L. Thornburg. All Rights Reserved.

(contains violence)

“Champagne?” Mr. Campbell didn’t wait for a response and handed the glass to the man who’d just entered.

“Thank you. I’m Collops Pancetta. I run the deli about three doors down from you.”

“I’m Mr. Campbell. Glad you could make it!”

“I’ve been meaning to stop in but we’ve been so busy lately, what with the holidays upon us.”

“We? Mrs. Pancetta?”

“Well, no, it’s my daughter Peccari. Mrs. Pancetta died eleven years ago of the swine flu.”

“Oh, I am sorry.”

Mr. Pancetta looked around. “I’m glad this is a coffeeshop. We haven’t had any place nearby to get coffee since Koffee-normous …” Mr. Campbell choked on his quad, five-and-a-half pumps vanilla, sugar free syrup, extra hot, extra whip, extra large soy latte. “… shut down.”

A young woman half-skipped through the door. “Oh, what a mess you’ve made!” she cried out. She reached for a couple of napkins on the counter. She handed one to Mr. Campbell so he could wipe his face and used the other to clean the mess on his vest. “I’m Licoricia McTaffy. You must be Mr. Campbell. I met your partner Mr. Baxter this morning. Hello, Collops! How’s business?”

“Busy, busy.” he said. “But not nearly as busy as yours.”

“Isn’t it wonderful? I can’t believe it.”

“She opened her candy store six months ago and ever since there are lines around the block.” said Mr. Pancetta.

“Oh!” giggled Ms. McTaffy. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Not at all. Licoricia is the sweetest woman on earth, full of love, and that love comes through in her candies. How many varieties now?”

“I’ve lost count.” Turning to Mr. Campbell, she said, “My little store offers candies in any flavor imaginable, and everything can be customized. The kids just love it.”

“She’s also the queen of social media.” said Mr. Pancetta.

“And commercials on local TV! Well, I just want everyone to come down and try some candy. Sometimes the world can be such an awful place, but if I can make someone smile with my treats, then at least I’ve made a little difference. And speaking of treats …”

She gestured towards the door where another man with an apron was entering. “They can’t compete with yours, Licoricia!” he said. He held out a hand to Mr. Campbell. “I’m Kneady O’Dough. I run ‘The Yeast Infection’.”

“Ah, the bakery.” said Mr. Campbell.

“Except for yourself, Licoricia is the newest member of our happy family.” said Mr. O’Dough. “Most of us have been here for several years on Merchant Road.” He gave Ms. McTaffy a little hug. “I just can’t compete with her.”

“Oh really!” blushed Licoricia. “Candies and pastries are two different animals.” She looked around. “Where is Mr. Baxter?”

“Right here.” Mr. Baxter walked in from the backroom with a plate of cocktail wienies.

“Maybe a vegan snack exists?” said a voice. They turned around to see a woman in an enormous rainbow colored poncho. “Jewels Trinkette.” she said. “I’m from a gift store five doors down.”

“I do have some vegan food,” said Mr. Baxter. He handed the plate to Mr. Pancetta and returned to the backroom.

“I’m Mr. Campbell. That’s my partner Mr. Baxter.”

“It’s so bracing to see LGBT community members opening a business nearby.” said Ms. Trinkette.

“Oh no, he’s only my business partner. I’m gay, he’s not.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” said another voice from the doorway. Everyone turned to look. Long legs carried a tall woman across the floor; she moved like the most elegant of spiders. She might have stepped off the pages of Vogue. It was as if the air around her held its breath for fear of disturbing her royal promenade. Her golden earrings shimmered and the people upon whom the reflections fell imagined they could feel an invigorating warmth.

She held out a hand to Mr. Campbell. “Paige Byndyng. I’m the owner of Kente Books and Crafts.”

Even Mr. Campbell found her bewitching. “Very … very nice to meet you. I’m Mr. Campbell.”

“Yes, I know. I met Mr. Baxter earlier. I hope he is here.”

Lucky dog, thought Mr. Campbell.

Lucky dog, thought everyone else.

“Here I am.” said Mr. Baxter as he returned with a silver platter of almond coconut brittle. He handed it without looking to Ms. Trinkette. “Welcome to BaxCam Coffees!” He gave a little bow.

“You seem familiar.” She paused. “You owned a coffeeshop here in East Kingsley before.”

“Yes, indeed but it didn’t succeed, but my friend Mr. Campbell and I decided to go into business together and try again.”

“You won’t have any competition, now that Koffee-normous is gone.” said Mr. Pancetta. This time Mr. Campbell managed not to choke on his quad, five-and-a-half pumps vanilla, sugar free syrup, extra hot, extra whip, extra large soy latte.

“The less competition, the better.” said Mr. O’Dough.

“Well, everyone,” began Mr. Baxter. “Thank you so much for coming this evening. We’d been here about a week and have been too busy to meet our neighbors, so we sent an email to all the local shop owners for an impromptu housewarming …” He heard a gasp and saw a glint of light from the corner of his eye. Ms. Trinkette had dropped the tray. But Mr. O’Dough’s right hand, faster than humanly possible, caught the tray and the almond coconut brittle, all without spilling the champagne in the glass in his left.

“My goodness!” said Ms. McTaffy. “How did you do that?”

“I could say I was in the circus as a much younger man—a tumbler—but that sounds too far-fetched.”

“Yet it’s true.” said Ms. Trinkette. “In an office in back of Yeast Infection is suspended on a wall a print of Kneady juggling and doing a somersault.”

“You should do that for a MeTube video!” exclaimed Ms. McTaffy.

Another man stepped into the coffeehouse as Mr. O’Dough reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “Am I late?” asked the newcomer. Ms. Trinkette rolled her eyes at him. Mr. O’Dough mouthed “text message” to the group and stepped away, moving to behind the counter.

The man didn’t seem sure whom he should address, so he just smiled and said, “I’m Ammo von Rikochet.” and waved at everyone.

“Gun store owner.” muttered Ms. Trinkette to Mr. Campbell, who stepped forward to shake hands with him. They were all lined up along the counter now, sampling the various hors d’oeuvres. Ms. Trinkette was standing alone, giving Mr. von Rikochet dirty looks. She could overhear snippets of conversation. “Do you play golf, Mr. Campbell?” said Mr. Pancetta. “Kneady and I play about twice a month. “May I refresh your drink?” said Mr. Baxter to Ms. Byndyng. Foolish man, thought Ms. Trinkette. She’s way out of his league and he’s acting like some horny schoolboy. “You should join us sometime.” continued Mr. Pancetta. “We aren’t very good, it’s just an excuse to shoot the breeze and gossip.” “You didn’t come by this afternoon.” said Ms. McTaffy. “I wanted you to try my new kimchee cheesecake truffle bombs.” “Was I supposed to?” said Mr. von Rikochet. “I forget so many things these days. My son Melee—he usually runs the store—keeps wanting to put an app on my phone to remind me of things but I tell him it’s a waste of time. I can hardly figure out how to make a call.” “There’s a nice golf course not far from here, with a good clubhouse.” “I forget to make receipts, forget to take my pills. I’d forget my head if it weren’t screwed on!” Ms. Trinkette downed her champagne in one gulp and rolled her eyes again. Stupid gun nut, she thought. Stupid meat vendor. Stupid everyone!

Before she could stupid anyone else, the door crashed open and a man stepped through, wielding a gun. “Smoky?” cried out Ms. Trinkette. The man took two steps in and pointed the gun at Mr. Pancetta. “Screw around with my Nicotina, will you?” He pulled the trigger. There was a bang. Mr. Pancetta let out a loud wail and fell to the floor, clutching his right shoulder.

And Ms. McTaffy also fell to the floor. A red stain spread across her chest.

The gunman looked shocked, though it was hard to tell whether it was because he had shot Mr. Pancetta or from seeing Ms. McTaffy fall unexpectedly. Everyone else stood paralyzed and silent, except for Ms. Byndyng, who knelt beside Ms. McTaffy. Ms. Byndyng picked up her arm and felt for a pulse in her wrist. She looked at the group. “Dead.” Mr. von Rikochet said, “She can’t be.” He grabbed Ms. McTaffy by the shoulders and shook her. “Licoricia! Wake up!” Ms. Byndyng finally took his hands in hers and pulled him gently away from Ms. McTaffy.

“Someone call 911!” said Ms. Trinkette. Mr. O’Dough was breathing hard but dialed on his cell. Ms. Byndyng looked towards Mr. Pancetta, who was also breathing hard. Mr. Baxter and Mr. Campbell were kneeling beside him. Mr. Baxter had grabbed a towel from the counter and was wrapping it around Mr. Pancetta’s shoulder. “Just lie back.” said Mr. Campbell. “The ambulance is on its way.”

Ms. Byndyng then looked at the gunman. “Smoky, put down that gun.” The man looked at the gun in his hand, as if he hadn’t seen it before. He threw it on the ground and stared at Mr. Pancetta. “Collops … I’m sorry! I … I didn’t mean to.”

Mr. Baxter left Mr. Pancetta to stand next to Ms. Byndyng. “Who is he?” he whispered.

“Smoky Laudlikoff. He owns the little tobacco shop at the end of the block.”

“Oh yes, he was on the invite list. But why did he shoot Collops?”

Ms. Byndyng faced Mr. Laudlikoff. “Tell us why you did it, Smoky.” she said.

Mr. Laudlikoff swallowed hard. “He … he was fooling around with Nicotina.” “Wife.” whispered Ms. Byndyng to Mr. Baxter.

“I didn’t know you owned a gun, Smoky.”

“I … I don’t. I found it, just now.” He looked at the gun, as did Mr. von Rikochet, who said, “That’s a 900 Bolt Andalusian. We had one just like that in my shop.”

“Had?” said Mr. Baxter. “Someone bought it? When?”

Mr. von Rikochet suddenly frowned. “You know, I don’t know now. I seem to remember selling it recently. But when was that?”

“To Smoky?”

Mr. von Rikochet studied Mr. Laudlikoff. “No, I don’t think so. A different man.”

“Excuse me, but aren’t we missing the big question?” said Mr. Campbell. “How does one bullet shoot two people?”

“Maybe it went through Collops and into Licoricia?” said Mr. O’Dough.

“No, she was standing beside him, not behind him.”

“It bounced off Collops’ bone and altered its trajectory.” ventured Ms. Trinkette.

“No, no,” said Mr. von Rikochet. “Not a 900 Bolt Andalusian. Look at the wall behind where Collops was standing.” And sure enough, there was a hole in the wall.

“But who would want to shoot Licoricia?”

They continued to ponder this silently as the sound of sirens drew nearer.

= = = = =

“I see business did not suffer.” said Ms. Trinkette, bypassing the line of customers and stepping towards the counter where Mr. Baxter was finishing with a woman buying tea. Mr. Campbell was manning the espresso machine with cups lined up like soldiers on parade.

“Hi Jewels. Yes, surprisingly. I thought we were doomed. Who wants to have coffee where a murder took place? But—here’s your change—it seems to have had the opposite effect. We had to hire an extra clerk.” He gestured towards the other register, where a young woman in a BaxCam Coffees vest was handing a plate of cookies to a father with three young boys.

“Fiends. Vampires. It’s just a circus. Anyway. Is Collops doing okay?”

“He said the doctor said he’ll be fine eventually but it’s going to take a while. Peccari is doing most of the work in the deli now, but he tries to help out the best he can.”

“And Mr. Laudlikoff?”

“Arrested. I visited him in jail. I asked how he found out his wife and Collops were fooling around. He said something funny. He got a text that told him, and it also said ‘look by your back door’. And that’s where he found the gun. He picked it up and rushed over, and the rest you know.”

“Well, Mr. Laudlikoff was always very easily upset. But I don’t believe Collops was Nicotina’s first illicit lover.”

“So,” said Mr. Campbell from the machine. “The question is, who told Smoky? Who knew about this?”

“Collops knew.” said Mr. Baxter.

“Yeah, right. He’s going to go tell a hot-tempered guy, ‘Hey, I’m fooling around with your wife.’”

“Maybe Collops told someone else.” said Ms. Trinkette. “Are any of Collops’ associates also a trusted confidant?”

“And if so,” said Mr. Baxter. “that person then told Smoky. But who? The same person who left that gun for him to use, probably. But why?”

“Mr. X didn’t want to take any rap for murder, so Mr. X got Mr. Laudlikoff to do it.” said Ms. Trinkette.

“But Smoky didn’t succeed in killing him. Does that mean Mr. X will try to kill Collops again? And how does this tie in with poor Licoricia? And how did one bullet strike two people?”

Mr. O’Dough came in. “Any news?” They shared their musings with him. “We’re guessing there’s a Mr. X behind all this.” said Mr. Campbell. “That he wanted Collops dead and got someone else to do it, unwittingly. But we can’t figure out Licoricia’s death in all this. Who shot her?”

“Someone else in the room.” said Mr. Baxter.

“But East Kingsley Police examined and frisked everyone. Nobody was in possession of a gun.” said Ms. Trinkette.

“It did take a few minutes before the police came. Someone had time to get rid of the gun.”

“But nobody left the room until the police arrived.” said Mr. O’Dough. He looked out the window. “I need to get back to my shop. Mind if I use the back way?” He headed into the kitchen without waiting for a reply.

“If only Ammo’s gun’s buyer’s identity was known.” said Ms. Trinkette. As if on cue, Mr. von Rikochet burst into the coffeeshop, excitedly. He shoved his way through the line of customers, his eyes almost bulging from their sockets.

“I think I remember who bought that gun! It was two weeks ago, right after the local merchants meeting. Melee stopped by to say he had to deal with an emergency at home. The customer had on dark glasses and damn it, Melee is always telling me to get their IDs, but I keep forgetting. I was so confused, but I think I know who it was! It was …”

His expression changed abruptly to that of surprise. It coincided with a gunshot. Mr. von Rikochet keeled over onto the counter. Ms. Trinkette screamed. Mr. Campbell tried to roll him over while Mr. Baxter looked around for the killer. All he saw were the shocked faces of the customers. The new clerk was already dialing 911.

Ms. Byndyng ran in. “I heard a shot.” She saw Mr. von Rikochet slumped over the counter.

“He remembered who bought the gun!” said Mr. Campbell. “He came to tell us.”

“Fiends again!” cried out Ms. Trinkette. The customers were all talking loudy and pointing and staring at Mr. von Rikochet, and several were taking pictures with their phones. “A man is killed before your eyes and it’s just a circus!” she sobbed. “Don’t you care? Any distraction from your boring lives!” Ms. Byndyng looked behind the counter and found a large towel, with which she covered the body. She thought for a moment. “The whole business of Smoky trying to kill Collops was a distraction.”

Mr. Baxter saw where Ms. Byndyng was heading. “To distract us from Licoricia’s murder! The whole thing was a set up! Someone told Smoky about Collops and provided a gun, which he bought from Ammo.”

Ms. Trinkette had recovered a little. She blew her nose, and added, “Ammo said it was sold at meeting’s end.”

“I remember that meeting.” said Ms. Byndyng. “We were comparing notes. We were congratulating Licoricia for another great month.”

“Do you think someone there wanted to kill Licoricia?” said Mr. Baxter. “Mr. Campbell and I missed that meeting. Who else was there?”

“Well, all of us.” said Ms. Trinkette. “Everyone at your party, I mean.”

“There must be a motive.” said Ms. Byndyng.

Mr. Campbell suddenly stiffened. “Who would benefit from Licoricia’s death?” He paused for effect. “Mr. O’Dough.”

Only Ms. Trinkette looked surprised. “Impossible. Kneady wouldn’t kill Licoricia.” A pause. “Explain Kneady’s motive!”

Mr. Baxter began. “Licoricia was the new kid on the block, but she had both a good product and a knack for salesmanship. Her business took off unexpectedly like hotcakes. And who would be her biggest competition for sweets? The bakery.”

“Mr. O’Dough made that comment about not needing competition.” added Ms. Byndyng.

“So Kneady talked Mr. Laudlikoff into killing Licoricia?” asked Ms. Trinkette.

“Not at all.” said Mr. Campbell. “He was going to do the dirty work himself, but he needed a cover. He knew Collops was having an affair with Nicotina; obviously Collops confided in him while they were playing golf.”

“But describe Licoricia’s killing’s procedure.” said Ms. Trinkette. “Did Collops fake being injured?”

Mr. Baxter continued: “Obviously, after the merchants meeting, he made up his mind to do away with Licoricia. He knew Ammo had a foggy memory, and that Melee wouldn’t be in the shop. He left the meeting and bought the gun. He already had one of his own.”

“Then when the time was right,” said Mr. Campbell, “He left the gun by Smoky’s shop’s back door. Remember when he stepped behind the counter to answer a text? He was probably texting Smoky right then: ‘Collops is cheating with your wife. Look by your back door.’ Smoky found the gun and rushed over to shoot Collops.”

“Don’t forget, Kneady had lightning fast reflexes. With everyone watching Smoky, and Kneady behind the counter and behind everyone, it was easy to shoot Licoricia at the same time Smoky shot Collops. We were so distracted we didn’t think to look behind us. Collops had just enough time to run out, hide his gun somewhere, and hurry back.”

“He was out of breath when he called the police.” said Ms. Byndyng.

“And just now,” said Mr. Baxter. “He looked out the window and took off in a hurry. He must’ve seen Ammo coming in a rush and guessed Ammo had remembered who bought the gun. He hid somewhere and shot Ammo.”

“So terrible!” said Ms. Trinkette. “Kneady killed Licoricia for being joyful and successful? And Ammo too? I didn’t like Ammo or guns but nobody deserves to die. And Collops’ demise nearly was a possibility, too.” She walked over to a chair and sat down.

“She’ll be okay.” said Ms. Byndyng, and went to join her.

“Well,” said Mr. Campbell looking outside. “Here are the police. We can tell them to look for Kneady. But there’s just one thing still puzzling me.”

“What’s that?” said Mr. Baxter.

“Why does Jewels never use words containing the letter H?”

The End

The Costume Party Murder

Just for the heck of it, I challenged myself to write a whodunit murder mystery in one day. Here is the result; enjoy!

The Costume Party Murder
©2020, Joseph L. Thornburg. All Rights Reserved.

(contains violence, mature language)

“Come in, darling!” said Mrs. Ringer. It was fortunate she had large French doors, for Mrs. Lucas was dressed in an enormous and elaborate hoop skirt. She stumbled and gasped as she crossed the threshold. “Maybe dressing as Elizabeth I wasn’t the smartest idea. I can hardly move in this thing!” She tripped a second time and added, “And with my sprained ankle too!”

“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Ringer. Her own costume was nearly as cumbersome: two enormous wings protruding on either side of a white robe and a golden hoop was held above her head by a wire.

“I like your costume!” remarked Mrs. Lucas.

“Thanks! But I also can hardly move in it. And getting all the wrinkles out …” Mrs. Lucas’ eyes narrowed and she swallowed very hard. “Umm,” continued Mrs. Ringer, “Getting the wrinkles out was a challenge.” Mrs. Lucas looked almost grim. Not knowing how to proceed, Mrs. Ringer looked outside expectantly. “But where’s Mr. Lucas?”

“He had to drive to Wilberville tonight unexpectedly. Business. He sends his apologies.”

“Oh, dear. Still no luck selling his car?”

“We had a couple of emails about it, but nothing definite yet. By the way, I am so looking forward to seeing your flower garden tonight. You simply must show it to me!” Carefully, Mrs. Lucas made her way through the living room. “Am I the first to arrive?”

Mrs. Ringer rolled her eyes and sighed. “No. Mr. Reglof is already here and …” She brought her hand to her mouth and mimed someone chugging down a drink.”

“Who is Mr. Reglof?”

“My next door neighbor. I don’t like him much, actually. Every night, loud parties. He owns half the town and the police are in his pockets. But he overheard me invite Mr. Campbell to the party and he just sort of invited himself. The late Mr. Ringer would’ve rearranged his face by now but …” She paused and somehow absorbed the tear that was threatening to roll down her cheek. “I just don’t like confrontations, you know? And his wife left him too. Had a black eye the day she left, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose he deserves it, but I feel kind of sorry for people like that. I’m sure most don’t really understand why they act so cruelly. Probably an unhappy childhood. Still, it’s no reason to hit someone.”

The ladies jumped at the sound of a bike horn behind them. A clown in a rainbow tunic and curly red hair was honking the horn and winking at them.

“Mr. Campbell, hello! Come in!” said Mrs. Ringer.

“Oh rats. You mean you can recognize me under all this makeup? I feel like I’ve got a mudpack on.”

“Do come in, Mr. Campbell. Do you know Mrs. Lucas?”

“Oh yes, the lady just down the street from me.” Mrs. Lucas held out her hand to shake his, but he just honked at her.

“Silly man!” chortled Mrs. Ringer. Her smile vanished at the sound of “Damnit!” bellowing from the kitchen.

“Who is that?” said Mr. Campbell. Mrs. Ringer mouthed “Mr. Reglof” to him. His smile also vanished. He grew very quiet. There was a faraway bitter look in his eyes. Finally he blinked hard and took a deep breath and muttered “Lovely. I suppose by now there’s nothing left to drink.”

“What’s lovely?” said a voice. There was a loud clanking sound behind them and they all turned. A knight in full armor, armed with a shield and lance, had entered. He raised his visor and smiled.

“What’s lovely?” he asked again. He waved his lance suggestively at Mrs. Ringer and winked, causing her to blush.

“Mr. Reglof is here.” said Mr. Campbell. The knight stopped smiling.

“Well, Mr. Reglof is like a talisman! His mere presence erases smiles.” said Mrs. Lucas.

“You’d stop smiling too if you knew what he had done!” snapped the knight. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so rude. Reglof is just a sore spot with me, that’s all.”

“And me.” said Mr. Campbell.

“Ah yes, you probably have even more reason to despise …” The door to the kitchen flung open and Reglof stomped in. He was not in a costume, just the suit he had obviously worn to work that day. He peered at the group, searching, until his gaze settled upon Mrs. Ringer. “You’re out of gin.” He waved his glass menacingly at her. An ice cube fell out of the glass and onto the carpet.

“Oh dear. I think I have another bottle somewhere.” She lumbered into the kitchen, as quickly as her heavy wings would permit. The ice cube was left to melt. Mr. Reglof glared at the group for a moment longer, then wordlessly followed after Mrs. Ringer. Everyone else sighed. There was an uncomfortable silence.

“So.” said Mr. Campbell and Mrs. Lucas simultaneously. “Ladies first.” he said. She turned to the knight. “I’m Mrs. Lucas.”

“I’m sorry, forgot to introduce myself. I’m Mr. Baxter. I live over in Mercy.”

“What were you about to say?” said Mrs. Lucas to Mr. Campbell.

“About your husband’s car.”

“Still not sold. Are you interested?”

“I took a peek at it on my way over tonight. Definitely interested. I’m not employed right now but maybe we could work out some kind of installment plan?”

“I can ask him when he gets back from Wilberville.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Baxter. “If you’re hurting for money …”

“I’m good for now, but thank you. You’re hurting a bit yourself, though, aren’t you?”

“Oh my,” chimed Mrs. Lucas. “What is the matter?”

Mr. Campbell sat down, but Mr. Baxter replied, “You know East Kingsley?”

“I love it there! All those little shops and cafes.”

“Yes. But not so a few years ago. Bad area. Crime, poverty. I wanted to do something for the community, so I took a chance and opened a little coffeeshop there. ‘Pay what you can’, that kind of thing. Organized the neighbors, started a neighborhood watch. Eventually the area turned around and other businesses opened. Then Reglof came in with one of his chain coffeeshops, right next to mine. Name recognition, big advertising budget. I couldn’t compete. Had to close my shop. I wouldn’t have minded, except you know Reglof doesn’t care about the community, he’s just sniffing for dollars.”

“He owns Koffee-normous.” said Mrs. Lucas. Mr. Baxter nodded.

At that point Mrs. Ringer reentered. “Well, I found the gin and left him with it. Maybe he’ll knock himself out and give us a little peace for a while. Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Lucas?”

“Err, I can’t. Costume is just too big.”

Mr. Baxter had put down his shield and lance and took Mrs. Ringer by the hand. “Might I have a word with you for a few minutes, milady?” He led her up the stairs. She didn’t seem to mind.

A moan suddenly flew out of the kitchen, followed by the sound of footsteps staggering down the hallway. A loud retching noise came forth. Mrs. Lucas suddenly said, “Oh! Mrs. Ringer promised to show me the garden!” and she headed towards the stairs.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” said Mr. Campbell.

“Why not?”

“Don’t you see?” He motioned his head towards the stairs and made an exaggerated wink. Mrs. Lucas just regarded him quizzically. He repeated the gestures, with much clearing of his throat. She was still mystified. Finally he made a circle with the forefinger and thumb of one hand and drilled it with his other forefinger. Comprehension dawned upon Mrs. Lucas.

“I see! I had no idea that …” There was another retching noise, louder than before. “Well, would you show me the garden? I hate to go alone. Please say yes.”

Mr. Campbell shrugged but said, “Of course.” He led her through the kitchen and out the back door. She followed slowly, carefully. There was a little path, then an area enclosed by a low stone wall. There was a wooden gate, only about two feet wide. Mr. Campbell opened it and stepped through, but Mrs. Lucas stopped short. “I’m afraid my skirt won’t permit! But I can admire it from here. Why don’t you show me what she’s done with it?”

Mr. Campbell walked around the perimeter, pointing out the bougainvillea, the chrysanthemums, the rhododendrons. He ignored the hydrangeas, for he loathed them. There was a large hole dug in the center; he said Mrs. Ringer was having an oak delivered the next day. Every now and then he looked over his shoulder at Mrs. Lucas, who wore a rather fixed smile but didn’t seem to be paying any attention. As he completed the circuit he suggested they get themselves something to drink.

“No!” she cried out, so sharply Mr. Campbell was taken aback. Then, in a quieter voice, “I’m sorry. I mean, what’s that over there? Those white flowers?”

“The Shasta Daisies?” She nodded. Mr. Campbell walked over to the flowers and began to speak, but Mrs. Lucas let out a yelp and blushed.

“Just indigestion,” she said. “Let’s go get that drink.”

When they returned, Mr. Baxter and Mrs. Ringer were in the living room. He had the smile of a lottery winner. Her smile was tempered by her blush. She thought she should say something before anyone got suspicious. “So … here we all are.”

“Not quite all of us.” smirked Mr. Campbell.

“Yes, where is ol’ Reglof anyway?” said Mr. Baxter.

“Probably passed out in the bathroom.”

“I’ll go look for him.” said Mrs. Ringer. Mr. Baxter went after her.

“Mrs. Lucas, how is Mr. Lucas?” said Mr. Campbell.

“Oh, fine, fine. Keeping busy with work. It’s a little quiet around the house now, ever since …” There was suddenly a half-scream, choked off, coming from the bathroom. Mr. Baxter and Mrs. Ringer rushed in.

“Oh my god,” gasped Mrs. Ringer. “It’s Mr. Reglof. Dead!”

“Dead?” said everyone else, except Mr. Baxter, for Mrs. Ringer’s announcement was not a surprise to him. They all moved to the bathroom to survey the body on the floor. Nobody spoke. A moment later, Mr. Campbell finally said. “Stabbed … maybe five times.”

“Stabbed?” said everyone else.

“Obviously,” he continued, “Someone here is a murderer.”

“Murderer?” said everyone else.

“But who would’ve wanted Mr. Reglof dead?” said Mrs. Lucas.

Mr. Campbell scoffed. “Who wouldn’t have wanted Reglof dead, you mean.” A pause. He nodded at Mrs. Ringer and Mr. Baxter. “Wait a minute. How do we know you two didn’t kill him yourselves just now?”

Mr. Baxter smiled grimly at him. “Yes, I just happened to have a big knife on me and we went to look for Reglof and decided to stab him in the bathroom in an unexpected fit of pique.” He swooned dramatically at Mrs. Ringer. “They’ve got us. We’re guilty, call the police, arrest us!”

“No.” she cried. “We didn’t do it! Look at all this blood! This couldn’t have happened just a few minutes ago. He’s been dead longer than that.”

“So where were we all between the time he left for the bathroom and the time you two went to look for him?” said Mr. Campbell.

“Wait a minute. I still want to know. Who would’ve wanted to kill Reglof?” said Mrs. Lucas.

“We all have our reasons,” said Mr. Baxter. “Don’t we, Campbell?”

Campbell looked at Mrs. Lucas. “I guess it’s time for my story. I was a junior high school teacher. Reglof was on the board of directors. I don’t know how he found out, as I’ve always been as discreet as possible, but he outed me. Well, people are afraid to have a gay man teaching their children, even in this day and age, so I was dismissed.” He smiled weakly. “Hence the installment plan. I’m just delivering pizzas until I can find something better.”

“But …” started Mr. Baxter. “This is a joke, right? I mean, nobody here liked him but we wouldn’t actually have killed him!”

“Mrs. Lucas liked him.” said Mrs. Ringer.

“I didn’t say that! I only said I felt a little sorry for him, just because his wife left him and he seemed to be drinking himself to …” Her tongue froze on the word “death”.

“Please.” said Mr. Campbell. “Where were we all while he was being murdered?”

Mrs. Lucas spoke first. “Well, I was in the garden with you.” She looked at him and he nodded. “We are each others’ alibis, I guess.”

“And you, Mr. Baxter?” said Mr. Campbell, pretending he didn’t know. Mrs. Ringer’s eyes widened and she shook her head almost imperceptibly at Mr. Baxter, who only said, “I was with Mrs. Ringer at the time.” If possible, her eyes opened even wider and she tried to look innocent. It somehow contrasted sharply with her costume.

“And where were you, Mrs. Ringer?”

With as much nonchalance as she could manage, she replied, “I was with Mr. Baxter at the time.”

“Oh, quit stalling!” said Mr. Campbell. “You were bonking upstairs.”

“Bonking?” said Mrs. Lucas. “I don’t understand.”

“You know,” continued Mr. Campbell. “Hiding the salami. Gettin’ some. Shagging. Wham bam, thank you, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry, I still don’t understand. Mr. Baxter and Mrs. Ringer were …”

“Fucking!” ejaculated Mrs. Ringer. “Fucking! There, I said it! We were fucking! In my bedroom! Upstairs! On my bed!”

“Oh.” said Mrs. Lucas. “So all of us have alibis, and there’s nobody else in the house.”

“No,” said Mrs. Ringer, collecting herself. “Just the four of us, and Mr. Reglof.”

“Maybe it was suicide.” joked Campbell.

“Maybe a thief came in?” ventured Mrs. Ringer.

“Yes!” said Mrs. Lucas. “He came in, and Mr. Reglof surprised him, and he killed him.”

“Maybe,” said Mr. Baxter, “But it seems unlikely. I mean, Reglof was drunk and sick at the time. I doubt he would’ve been in any shape to pursue thieves.”

Mrs. Ringer looked at Mrs. Lucas and whispered to her. “My dear, step over here for a moment.” Mrs. Lucas followed her into the hallway. “Do you … I mean, are you … oh, this is difficult to say.”

“Says the woman who just yelled ‘fucking’ several times.”

“Oh, right. Well … is it that time?” Her eyes glanced downwards at the hoop skirt.

“Time? Time for what?”

Mrs. Ringer decided not to mince words after her dramatic confession a few minutes earlier. “Are you having your period?”

“My period? Whatever makes you say that?” Mrs. Ringer looked down again at the skirt and cleared her throat. Mrs. Lucas followed her eyes to a small blood stain on the front of her hoop skirt.

“Oh!” she cried. She tried to cover the stain with her hand but hesitated. By now the two gentlemen had joined them.

“What’s going on, ladies?” said Mr. Baxter.

Mrs. Ringer laughed gaily. How to spare her guest any embarrassment? “Oh, Mrs. Lucas has … injured herself.” she said, then realized this would only draw everyone’s attention to the bloodstain. The two men peered at it. “My word, Mrs. Lucas, what have you done?” said Mr. Baxter.

“Nothing, nothing!” said Mrs. Lucas, and she tried to run out of the room. However, she tripped on the edge of the hoop skirt and fell over, flat on her face. The hoop, lying on its side, resembled a clamshell stage. And inside, sputtering furiously as he clawed his way out from the confusion of petticoats, was Mr. Lucas. He was clutching a bloodstained knife. There was also blood on his arm and chest.

“Congratulations,” said Mr. Baxter. “It’s a boy!”

Mrs. Ringer was momentarily speechless. All she could do was point at Mr. Lucas and murmur, “But … but …” And then finally, “What the fuck?”

“So this is why you were so insistent on seeing the garden!” said Mr. Campbell. The others just looked at him. “With Reglof alone in the bathroom, this was the perfect chance to kill him! No wonder you seemed so distracted. While you were standing in the gateway, Mr. Lucas snuck out from under your skirt, went into the house, killed Reglof, then came back!”

“And why you wouldn’t sit down!” added Mrs. Ringer. “You were only faking the sprained ankle when you stumbled.”

“Must have been difficult to walk with Mr. Lucas under there.” said Mr. Campbell. “And pretending not to know Reglof. How would you have known he owned Koffee-normous?”

“But why?” said Mr. Baxter. “What did Reglof ever do to them?” They all thought for a moment.

The silence was finally broken by Mr. Lucas, who had broken down in tears. “Wrinkles! Wrinkles!” he sobbed.

Mrs. Ringer looked at her white gown. “Where?”

“Mrs. Lucas,” said Mr. Campbell. “What did you mean when you started to say, ‘It’s a little quiet around the house now, ever since …’ Ever since what?

Mrs. Lucas had climbed out of her skirt and knelt by Mr. Lucas, cradling his head in her arms. “Wrinkles … was our shar pei. Mr. Lucas had him ever since he was a puppy, about five years before we married. He loved Wrinkles.”

“But what does that have to do with anything?” said Mrs. Ringer, looking up from her gown inspection.

“Reglof killed him. Wrinkles got out of the yard and ran into the street. Reglof hit him with his car. It was an accident, but Reglof didn’t even stop. He just kept going. And Mr. Lucas swore revenge. He figured nobody would miss Reglof. And when Mrs. Ringer announced her costume party, we knew this was the perfect opportunity.”

“I knew nothing about this!” protested Mrs. Ringer.

“We knew Reglof would bulldoze his way into the party. We knew he’d be drinking. The costume provided a hiding place. And if I said Mr. Lucas was out of town, and I had an alibi in the garden, we would get away with it.”

“I should’ve realized he wasn’t out of town.” said Mr. Campbell. “I checked out his car on the way over.”

“Yes, not moving the car out of sight was an oversight.”

“So now what do we do?” said Mr. Baxter.

“Well,” said Mrs. Ringer. “None of us care that Reglof’s dead. We can swear, all of us, to secrecy. If you’ll help me hide the body and the knife, perhaps in the big hole in the garden?” She stripped off her angel gown; underneath she was in a t-shirt and shorts. “Let’s use this to clean up the blood, and I’m sure I can find another bottle of gin.”

“But Reglof is a major CEO!” said Mr. Campbell. “Someone will come around asking ques …”

“I said, I’m sure I can find another bottle of gin!” repeated Mrs. Lucas insistently. The others grunted in agreement and headed to the bathroom with the gown. “And toss that gown in the hole, too!” she added. “Now let’s see, where did I put that bottle?”

The End

Roadtrip Playlist

I’m about to embark upon a nearly 1100 mile road trip.  To where?  I’m going to keep that a secret for now, except to say it’s one-way.  😉  To keep me going, I’m taking some CDs along.  These aren’t necessarily my all-time favorite albums, but these will keep me energized, alert, and happy on the long drive.  These should also be enough albums that I can listen to them all without having to repeat any.

Artist Album Title
Björk Homogenic
Chelmico EP
Cibo Matto Hotel Valentine
Matthew Dear Bunny
Matthew Dear DJ-Kicks
Jimmy Edgar Color Strip
Elbow Giants Of All Sizes
Filter Amalgamut
Jamiroquai Automaton
Chaka Khan I Feel For You
King Krule 6 Feet Beneath The Moon
Lush Gala
Erlend Øye DJ-Kicks
Parliament Funkentelechy vs. The Placebo Syndrome
Perfume Triangle
Pizzicato Five Happy End of the World
Robyn Honey
Safety Scissors In A Manner of Sleeping
Siouxsie Sioux Mantaray
various artists Even A Tree Can Shed Tears (Japanese Folk & Rock 1969-1973)
X-Ray Spex Germ-Free Adolescents

An alternative to Kouhaku?

For the past seven years or so, I’ve watched Kouhaku Uta Gassen  (紅白歌合戦 literally, Red and White Song Battle), Japan’s big annual New Year’s Eve musical extravaganza. Kouhaku runs from about 7pm to midnight in Japan, which is roughly 2am to 7am California time. Usually it’s a lot of fun, but the 2018 edition seemed to be a little tedious, and it seemed even more so this year—a combination of spectacle over substance, too many references to the upcoming Tokyo Olympics (and I get it, the Olympics are a big deal), and not enough variety in the music.

After the 2019 show, I was heading for bed (having been awake for over 24 hours) when I saw what seemed to be another music show coming up on NHK, so I taped it to watch later. The show turned out to be Masashi Sada’s Midnight Talk Show (今夜も生でさだまさし). It was held in a large auditorium—possible a sumo venue—with the host and co-hosts sitting in the center. In some ways it was like a town hall, with the hosts fielding questions from the audience.

However, Sada and some guests did perform some music.

1. Sada sang and played guitar, accompanied by a small band.

2. Guest Hiromi Iwasaki (岩崎宏美) sang a song.

3. Sada sang again.

4. Guest Nira Shinji (新羅慎二) sang a song and played guitar.

5. Everyone returned to sing an ondo style song, and were joined by an older man (who was undoubtedly someone famous, but I didn’t catch his name) and four young women in sparkly dresses. The audience also sang and danced along.

I had never heard of Iwasaki or Shinji before—both were good but I was particularly impressed with Iwasaki.

Compared to Kouhaku, Sada’s show was a considerably more laid-back and casual affair. There were no screen captions, not even the usual karaoke style lyrics seen on every Japanese musical show. The guests carried handwritten cards with their names on them to show to the camera, and as each song began, someone off camera held up more handwritten cards bearing the song titles. While these performances weren’t nearly as glitzy as those at Kouhaku, they seemed much more sincere, and I would rather see an evening of performances like these than another overblown Kouhaku spectacle.

Romaji vs. Hiragana

For students of Japanese, unless you’re only learning enough to go on vacation—“Hello! Nice to meet you! Where’s the bathroom?”—you’ll eventually need to learn hiragana.

Japanese uses four writing systems: hiragana, a set of 46 characters and their combinations that represent syllables; katakana, a similar set usually reserved for writing foreign names and words; romaji, or the western alphabet of ABCs; and kanji, logograms that represent words and concepts.

Yokohama written in hiragana よこはま
Yokohama written in katakana ヨコハマ
Yokohama written in romaji Yokohama
Yokohama written in kanji 横浜

Adults typically know 2000-3000 kanji and learn them starting in first grade and continuing through high school. But first, everyone learns hiragana. Kanji found in children’s books, important signs (such as in a subway station), and kanji that’s rare or have nonstandard pronunciations often have small hiragana—known as furigana—next to them so they can be read by anyone.

But after Japanese-language students have learned hiragana, the continued use of romaji creates more problems than it solves, and can be a hindrance to learning new words and speaking Japanese properly.

Japanese uses double vowel sounds in many words. When an O sound is doubled, this is usually represented by adding a hiragana U (such as in the word Toukyou, the phonetic spelling of Tokyo), but there are many times when a doubled O is represented by adding another O (such as in the word Oosaka, which is the city of Osaka).

Japanese language books that use romaji do not always use the same system to represent doubled vowel sounds. You might see Toukyou in some books, but I’ve also seen Tohkyoh, Tōkyō, Tôkyô (or any number of other diacritical marks), Tookyoo (which looks like it should sound like “two cue”), or just plain Tokyo.

When an English-language publication that’s not a dictionary or teaching guide uses a Japanese word—for example, the city of Kobe—I have to look it up in a Japanese dictionary to see if it’s really Kobe, Koube, or Koobe (the answer is Koube) so I do not pronounce or spell it incorrectly. Similarly, bento is bentou, Noh is Nou, ramen is ra-men*, jiu-jitsu is juujutsu, sumo is sumou, tofu is toufu, and so on. A similar situation happens with double N syllables, which may be spelled with a single N. Someone not checking the spelling may say feathers (hane) for half-price (hanne), or ask a store clerk for his or her hand in marriage (kon’yaku) when all they really wanted were some yam cakes (kon’nyaku). And even romaji is not rendered properly in romaji:  it’s really ro-maji*.

But don’t these variations sound pretty much the same? Wouldn’t context tell the listener what the speaker means? It could, but you might still say to your friend that you spent a wonderful afternoon under the clouds experiencing a kuusou (daydream) but he might think you soiled your pants (kuso means shit). Or you may wish to tell the police you were the victim of an oshiiri (break-in) but leave them with the impression someone sat on you (oshiri means buttocks). Even if a mispronunciation doesn’t render an embarrassing word, it does sound odd to the Japanese ear, not unlike Allo Allo’s Officer Crabtree wishing everyone a “good moaning”.

Someone in favor of romaji said to me that each dictionary and study manual usually have guides at the beginning indicating how words are to be spelled or read in Japanese. That’s fine, but different books may use different systems, and many serious students of Japanese will use multiple dictionaries. It takes far less time to learn hiragana than an endless series of romaji systems.

Even if we get past the problem of proper spelling, by seeing words written in romaji, the learner may be tempted to pronounce it according to the rules of his or her native tongue. For example, mitsu (honey) consists of two Japanese syllables, MI and TSU, but seeing it in romaji makes it tempting to pronounce it MIT-SU. Doing so also makes the T sound like a germinate consonant, making it sound to Japanese ears like MITTSU (three). Arimasu (to exist) is A-RI-MA-SU, not AR-I-MA-SU; combining an R sound with the first A gives the speaker a distinctly Western accent, since Japanese R sounds tend to be flicked with the tongue, and it’s difficult to do this with a preceding vowel.

And despite our best intentions, it’s still easy to want to say the English spellings of shogun as show-gunn, Kyoto as KEE-yoto, futon as foo-TAHn, karate as kuh-RODDY, and karaoke as carry-oh-kEE. Seeing words in hiragana, even ones familiar to English speakers, forces one to sound them out and pronounce them correctly.

The more you rely on romaji, the more mistakes you’re likely to make (which can be difficult to unlearn), and the longer it will take to get used to reading Japanese. If you see Japanese words in newspapers or magazines and want to learn them, look them up in a furigana dictionary for the proper spelling and pronunciation. After all, if you work as a consultant for your boss and you make a trip to Japan and you’re eager to show off your new language skills to your Japanese hosts, you definitely do not want to introduce yourself as your boss’s koumon. Komon means consultant, while koumon means gate … or anus.

*In katakana words like ra-men and ro-maji, doubled vowels are often rendered not with a second vowel, but with a line called a chouonpu.

Creating Art with S Memo

In the last year or so, I’ve been creating art—mostly portraits—using S Memo on my cellphone. S Memo is like a simplified version of Microsoft Windows Paint: you get some drawing tools (pencil, brush, marker), an eraser, a text tool, a customizable color palette, and an undo function.

The whole thing began when I decided to surprise my friend Steve with a portrait of him. He has a bright smile and wears John Lennon glasses, so I did a quick portrait and texted it to him. He loved it, so I began doing other pictures and sharing them with him, and he encouraged me to keep doing them. He had a visitor from France and showed her some of my pictures, and she even commissioned me to do her portrait!

Left: the first S Memo portrait of my friend Steve. (Sep 2016)
Right: portrait inspired by Japanese entertainer Akiko Wada. (Dec 2017)

Alas, when I finished Steve’s friend’s portrait, I moved my finger to hit the save button. It got too close to the screen without touching it, but close enough to draw a gash of color right across her face just as I hit save. This is because my phone has a capacitive touchscreen, which relies on an electrical charge in my finger, so direct contact isn’t always necessary. This is also why I can’t use a stylus on my screen, thus limiting precision for drawing or creating custom colors. You can only save one custom color at a time and there’s no eyedropper tool to retrieve it if you need to use it again later. Even if I come close to recreating the custom color, the act of merely lifting my finger away from the screen is usually enough to cause the color to shift slightly.

Anyway, I told Steve’s friend I’d fix the mistake in GIMP and send it to her. After that, I began using GIMP to fix minor errors and mistakes, but Steve insisted that was cheating. The whole point of these portraits, he said, was they were done on a cell phone app with all the its limitations. Fixing them in GIMP was akin to fixing vocals in Autotune. I agreed and stopped using GIMP.

Since then, I’ve had to rethink how I do art with S Memo. I have to plan the order in which elements are drawn. I’ve gotten better at recreating custom colors, though they are never exact. I am much more careful about how I hit the save button. But despite these limitations, I can be more spontaneous and thus better enjoy the process, and not worry as much about creating an exact portrait of anyone.

Recently on Radiopanik (Dec 4 edition)

Here’s a selection of music I heard recently on Radio Panik, an online radio station based in Belgium.

“Grues” by Moussu T e lei Jovents

“Green & Gold” by Lianne La Havas

“Points” by Ruth Anderson

“Neon” by Baleine 3000

“En Léger Différé” by Mickey 3D

“Eight Corners” by Gastr del Sol

“Hot Tea To Tepid Tea” by Inaniel Swims & Sorry Sorrow Swims

“Metatron(ic) Rock” by Richard Pinhas

“Aubade” by Miya Masaoka Trio

31 Days, 31 Horror Films

Inspired by my friend @crisismattie, who tweeted his favorite 31 horror films in celebration of October and Halloween, I’ve created my own list.  Because there are more than 31 horror films I like, I’ve excluded some of the most popular and well-known titles (such as The Bride of Frankenstein, Plan 9 From Outer Space, The Exorcist, and The Omen) in favor of more obscure or lesser-known films.  I’ve also thrown in a few Honorable Mentions at the end.

Click image to enlarge!
Click image to enlarge!

The films are, in chronological order:

1. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari 1920
2. Nosferatu 1922
3. Freaks 1932
4. White Zombie 1932
5. Island of Lost Souls 1932
6. The Old Dark House 1932
7. Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein 1948
8. Them! 1954
9. The Mole People 1956
10. The Giant Claw 1957
11. The Tingler 1959
12. The Manster 1959
13. Village of the Damned 1960
14. Gorgo 1961
15. The Brain That Wouldn’t Die 1962
16. Attack of the Mushroom People 1963
17. Manos: The Hands of Fate 1966
18. Goke, Body Snatcher from Hell 1968
19. Yōkai Monsters: Spook Warfare 1968
20. The Invasion of the Bee Girls 1973
21. Theater of Blood 1973
22. The Incredible Melting Man 1977
23. The Hunger 1983
24. Ravenous 1999
25. Bubba Ho-Tep 2002
26. Ju-On: The Grudge 2002
27. Taxidermia 2006
28. The Host 2006
29. Vampire Girl vs. Frankenstein Girl 2009
30. Rubber 2010
31. Dead Sushi 2012
HR The House in Cypress Canyon (radio play: listen) 1946
HR Beasts (television series) 1976
HR You’re Going To Like Rodney (radio play: listen) 1980

Happy Halloween, everyone!

Eurovision Song Contest 1963

Here are my choices for best songs at the 1963 Eurovision Song Contest, which was held in London, England on March 23. Except for the winning entry from Denmark, I had not heard any of these songs until now.

My Rank Country Title, Artist Eurovision Final Ranking
1 Sweden “En gång i Stockholm”, Monica Zetterlund 13 (tie)
2 Denmark “Dansevise”, Grethe & Jørgen Ingmann 1
3 Austria “Vielleicht geschieht ein Wunder”, Carmela Corren 7
4 Germany “Marcel”, Heidi Brühl 9
5 Yugoslavia “Brodovi”, Vice Vukov 11