THIS IS FICTION! NOT TRUE. A STORY. NOT A REAL EVENT.
Homage to MidSomer Murders from Garry Armstrong, the show’s current number one fan. And with a nod and a wink to Sunset Boulevard and Philip Marlowe. On the occasion of our granddaughter’s 20th birthday, a lovely little murder.
Photographs (mostly) by Marilyn Armstrong, except for the first one, which is Garry’s, aka “The Victim.”
Shock waves are still reverberating throughout our pastoral valley. Some call it a loss of innocence for this small town. Usually, the biggest news is about roadwork tying up traffic on main street. Burglaries or car break-ins top the police blotter. No one worries about big city violence. Everyone knows everybody. It’s that kind of town.
My granddaughter’s birthday party murder was the game changer!
State police are still sifting through the testimony of party guests. Records are being checked for previous criminal activity. Cold cases are being unwrapped, searching for clues or patterns.
Reviewing party guests, no one stands out as an obvious suspect. Everyone seems pleasant, amiable. Perhaps not overly friendly, but polite and civil. No blatant hostility was evident. No obvious suspects stand out from the crowd.
THE SUSPECTS
Profilers are looking at the gathering, breaking them down into age groups and backgrounds. Motive is the big question. Everyone is so vague in their answers. This case calls for someone with expertise.
And, that would be me. The victim. This is my case, my story. I will tell it best because it revolves around me. It always did, in life and now, in death.
A retired, award-winning TV News reporter, I was checking out suspicious things before my demise that warm summer’s day. Now I know it was no coincidence, but at the time, I was bemused by the variety of possible weapons I found in the shed. All so readily available to anyone with a grudge and an opportunity to commit murder.
I’d covered so many murders in my forty plus years on the job, I knew something was amiss. Something was strange, wrong. Creepy. Unfortunately, I was right. Pity I didn’t realize the object was … me.
I didn’t say anything to anyone. It was pleasant party. I hoped we could avoid family squabbles and enjoy the festivities and go home with nothing more than mild indigestion to deal with. Everyone was focused on food. Hot dogs, burgers, salad, coke and beer. Good stuff. Classic American cuisine.
I was on my third or fourth hot dog. Feeling pretty good. I discreetly eyed the other guests, trying to put those weapons I’d seen out of my mind. Conversation was light. Restrained. Most guests kept their distance. Something was amiss, but I couldn’t put my finger on precisely what.
It fell on me to make some toasts, I suppose because of my professional background. I looked at the faces as I offered some light banter. No one seemed offended — but no one really laughed. I must’ve touched someone’s hot button — but who?
I turned around to get some water. I felt a whack on the back of my head. The world went blank.
On the ground unable to move, I could still hear the people gathered around me. I hoped someone was calling for help, but it seemed everyone was taking pictures — of me — or selfies with my body as background.
I heard giggles and laughter. Then nothing. Nothing but The Big Sleep.
To be continued … as soon as we figure out what happens next!
And since that was indeed a gather together of friends and family in celebration …
Categories: #Photography, Fiction, Garry Armstrong, Humor
Note the time on the town hall clock. The posting of water restrictions, and apparent timing of the victim’s search for water prior to collapse after consumption of one too many thirst-producing hot dogs. Note the dryness of the victim’s protruding tongue. Do I see a glimmer of the Uxbridge Water Protection Association badge beneath that ghillie suit on the dog…curiously it is not nighttime. “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
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It was the little stone frog. He has a shifty look about him…
Loads of fun 🙂
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Dral, I think the frog is part of the French Connection.
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Or, at least his legs are … (sorry, couldn’t help myself).
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Maybe one too many hot dogs? FBL (full belly laugh).
Leslie
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The dogs may have been poisoned by a dog (hint).
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Or maybe Cornell Mustard with the barbecue utensil?
Leslie
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Major Ketchup with the barbecue fork?
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On the back deck?
Leslie
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They all look suspect to me!
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Ha, haha
Leslie
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Chet – at the barbeque – with a hamburger.
The envelope please …
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Chet has a sheet.
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Ooooh, I do hope the continuations come soon and we don’t have to wait an entire season to find out whodunnit! This is great! I’m going to get some old scoresheets from the game Clue and play along. I’m already suspicious of that flamingo…. Fred, that’s gotta be an alias.
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Fred is being tailed.
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In true Midsomer fashion will there be more victims before the culprit is apprehended?
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Thinking more bodies before this thing is wrapped.
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Defo need an expert mystery solver to take on the case
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May call in Leroy Jethro Gibbs and NCIS since the victim is a retired Marine.
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I hope NCI are called in I love those characters
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Sheila, I’m counting down the days to next Tuesday and the NCIS season opener with its new cast members. We’ll also check out “Tony’s” new show “Bull” which will follow “NCIS”.
On your 6!
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Call Sam Spade.
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Sam’s busy. Something about a jaded falcon.
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He was really jaded when he found out his dreams were made of that stuff
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Too bad for Sam.
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It was the carved figure on the barn and the frog — with the mallet — in the back yard!
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It could be. I’ve always suspected that the frog was up to no good. He always has a sly grin.
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One of the usual suspects. Checking the rap sheet.
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