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 51325 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.

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