I think she was a country singer. I really didn’t know anything about her, except that she was a real southern lady- generous, hospitable and kind… and that I was a guest in her large southern home. They had found her lifeless that morning, the workers of her estate. It just didn’t add up. Who would want to kill such a wonderful woman? Well it seemed, as her houseguest, I should at least look for clues. I felt like I owed that to her. The home was full of dark wood walls and carvings, the very height of fashion about fifty years ago when it was built. It had felt so warm and full of life just last night. Now, it all seemed dated and cold, like artifacts in a museum. As I went into her bedroom, nothing seemed mysterious or out of place. But wait, why was there a red handprint on top of that bookshelf? It seemed like a print left behind from a cheaply dyed glove that had gotten wet. Could that be evidence left from the killer? (Cue the music: dun dun dun) All of the sudden, I got an uneasy feeling that I wasn’t alone. Was it possible the killer had come back to the scene of the crime to tie up loose ends? Just then, I heard the hallway door start to close. I knew it was the murderer, and I couldn’t let them get away! I reached out my hand to grab the suspect, but all I got was a cold hand as they tried to push the door shut. I felt her long sharp nails as she pulled away and ran. It was too late. She was gone.

Later in the day, I had gathered my things to leave. It didn’t seem right to stay. I wanted to help, but I really didn’t have much to go on and couldn’t imagine getting another opportunity. It was driving me crazy. Who was that woman and why would she do it? It was day one, and already everyone had given up on a search for any suspects or reasons why. But I just couldn’t. I still had time. There was a large gathering in a room outside of my door. They were employees, friends and family who had assembled to process their grief and remember a special lady. I went out into the room and struck up a conversation with a woman with short, red, curly hair, sitting alone in the corner on a built in bench. Her name was Trixie. And I couldn’t help but notice the detailed flowers painted on her very long nails. As the conversation went along, I just came out with it. “Why did you do it? I asked. 

“Do what?”

“Why did you kill her?” I grabbed her hand to look for stains leftover from cheap gloves, like the print on the bookcase. I wanted to catch her red handed. But, when looked at her palms they were clean. Darn! She must have washed them. As she pulled her hand away, there was no denying that scratch, the very same one I felt in the hallway. She was the culprit! But how could they convict anyone with so little evidence? Nails weren’t enough, I’d have to get a confession.

“I didn’t,” she replied. 

She was going to be tough to crack. “Was it because of her boyfriend?” I prodded.

“She had a boyfriend?” she retorted.

“I don’t know.” I had to admit. “I was just trying to get a motive.” I could tell this was going nowhere. “Well, I have no proof and no evidence. No one, would believe me anyway. Why don’t you just tell me why? I really just want to know. I won’t tell anyone.” I declared.

“I did love her boyfriend” admitted Trixie.

“So it was you! I knew it!” I said with satisfaction. But she had trusted me and my vow, I couldn’t turn her in now. I quickly thought it over. Surely, this was an isolated incident. It was a crime of passion, not to be duplicated… and besides, it was done. But (I reasoned with myself), what if she did strike again? How could I ever live with myself, knowing I had let a murderer go free? “I’m sorry, I lied to you” I said as I grabbed her and held her toward the large assembly in the room. “It was Trixie!” I stated loudly to everyone, realizing that I didn’t know her last name. “Trixie… “ I said again in such a lingering way as to let everyone know that I needed help filling in the blank. As I looked around the faces in the room, it was evident nobody else knew her last name either. “No one knows her last name?” I questioned. The room stayed quiet as I tried to meet all of their eyes one by one. A few people swiveled their heads from side to side indicating they did not. Awkward. At least I had the villain in hand, or did I? I looked down in my arms to realize I wasn’t actually holding Trixie, but a bag of pita chips. How did she escape? That slippery scoundrel! I caught her out of the corner of my eye making an escape out the front door. I quickly darted after her. I couldn’t let her get away again! Of course, it was raining outside as I gave chase. Naturally, I wasn’t wearing shoes… so I braced myself for the cold wet plunge as I lunged at her. And that was it. I had her in custody and the police would be coming to take her away soon. (I assume.)

That was when I woke up. My son was calling my name from his bunk bed on the other end of the camper. His mosquito bites were itching and driving him nuts. And since I was up, I figured I might as well jot down the caper.

Ben & Jerry’s gives me the weirdest dreams…

It had been raining all night, and my feet were cold since they had come uncovered. But the pita chips? That was a mystery.

The end.