Mystery Story

Jack was the last one in the office. As usu­al, as soon as the door cut off the view of Ms. Cramer’s mini-skirt­ed back­side, a stream of mut­tered exple­tives issued from around the cig­a­rette in his mouth. Too many dis­trac­tions. Jack spun in his chair and glared out the win­dow at the lone street­light illu­mi­nat­ing the park­ing lot. Ms. Cramer walked out to her coupe and then bent over in quite unla­dy­like fash­ion. It was amaz­ing what an extra half-inch of thigh could do to his imag­i­na­tion.

She is teas­ing me; always teas­ing me.

‘Oh, just her keys.’

Ash from the cig­a­rette fell onto his tie. The waspy smell of burned poly­ester brought Jack­’s fist into con­tact with the mahogany desk. He had to do some­thing about that bitch. That bitch and the god­damn Thomp­son account. He set­tled down, but as soon as things became qui­et, it began. A ten­dril of parme­san stench seeped into his cube. A sense of fore­bod­ing filled his chest. Then he heard it. Some­thing drip­ping. From Ms. Cramer’s desk.

Jack approached slow­ly and then was vicious­ly mur­dered by an anony­mous egg fork.

The next morn­ing Ms. Cramer slipped her stilet­to-tipped legs from car to pave­ment and coy­ly ran her fin­ger under the edge of her miniskirt and along her fish­net­ted thighs. She inef­fec­tu­al­ly tugged it down, and her troll­ish 5′1″ 325 pound frame was sud­den­ly even more appar­ent because a falling anvil struck her square­ly on the head. A head which explod­ed like a ripe grape in the mouth of a con­cu­bine.

The but­ler did it.