This was yesterday's surprise/mystery: a humongous deposit of dead branches in front of my house. Now that the temp has officially hit 100 degrees, I hid inside the house all day. But look what I found when I ventured outside:
Me: WTF is this?
Husband (Ray): Looks like our neighbors trimmed a tree.
Me: Not just ANY OLD TREE. Clearly these leafy layers have been liposuctioned from one of OUR trees.
Ray: Can't be. I compared leaves and they're not ours. Must be our neighbor's.
Me: Did you do all the forensics? That bleeding corpse is ours, and I bet DNA would prove it. Why else would the killers put it in front of our house? Obviously the murder took place near us, not on our neighbors' acreage. Ours was both the kill AND the dump site.
Ray: You're watching too much "Forensics Files" on Netflix.
Me: That's irrelevant and, if I may so, just bad detective work. It Looks like we may have a serial killer on the loose silently hacking up innocent trees and leaving them in plain sight. He even arranged it in a sexually-stimulating pose.
Ray: Come on, you're not implying a "bush" comparison, are you?
Me: You bet I am. And the perp must have the build and strength of a lumberjack. He did it in the dead of the hot afternoon without any witnesses except a few cactus wrens and quail. And he strangled it with his bare hands--no electric saw.
Ray: How do you know there weren't any witnesses?
Me: No way a witness could deal with this disgusting hack job and not tell anyone. The killer must have assaulted our victim at least five to ten times. Look at the jagged branches and the bleedout. One thing I can tell you; this guy is no surgeon. This is the work of an early serial rapist.
Ray: Oh so now, it's rape too.
Me: Yeah, I'd throw the book at him if I were investigating this case. There's definite signs of rape. Look at that denuded limb.
Ray: You're nuts. The heat has finally penetrated to the gray matter.
Me: The least I can do is call 9-1-1. Maybe there's some grafting that paramedics could do. Maybe it's not just hairy limbs decomposing in the hot Arizona sun; maybe the EMTs could bring the body back to life.
Ray: Change the channel, please.
Me: I think I saw it move. Did you see that?
Ray: I'm going inside now to call the city to come take it away. Why don't you come inside too?
Me: You're right. I need to get the luminol to look for the blood spatter.
Ray: Right.
In the Scottish dialect of the old New Year's Eve song Auld Lang Syne, the composer posits the question: Should old acquaintances be forgot? The short answer to this is "Sometimes." One example will suffice. A "friend" of mine emailed me the other day and although she is not a writer, her words spoke plenty. Her first rebuke was that I don't answer her calls, and this is a claim I cannot deny. But the accusation was caustic, mean-spirited--it was as if I had neglected to visit her in the hospital, that's how grievous my omission was. She insinuated so much by those few harsh words. Why did she call? Purportedly to inform me of her physical status and that of her dog Murph. Being the obedient child I still am, I did call her afterwards, and we spoke. Mostly S spoke of her new illness--osteoarthritis of the spine--and her dog's possible diagnosis of valley fever. I listened and listened and listened until I just couldn't take it any more. The...
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