Yes, Fiorella has written a fair number of short shorts, and you're going to be subjected to three of them in a row, so put your reading glasses on and settle down in your favorite chair.
Betsy's eye's bulged like ping-pong balls as she lifted her hand to her throat, but only a few choking sounds emerged. Before anyone around her could react, she fell off her chair sideways, her large body hitting the floor like a sack of potatoes.
The speaker for the evening, an emergency room nurse, raced over and checked for pulse, then announced, "She's dead. Call the police."
There was a smattering of applause, then guilty silence as the women looked around at each other.
Who killed Betsy Bigmouth? Was it. Meagan, whose first critique session had been her last because of Betsy's ruthless application of red ink? Was it popular Jenny, whom Betsy had tried to drive out of office? Was it Gloria, the elder stateswoman, who saw Betsy as a continuing threat to the cohesion of the chapter? Or was it someone else Betsy had bullied along the way?
Three uniformed officers and a woman in a white lab coat came to the door of the Chinese restaurant, this this month's meeting place of the romance writers.
"Nobody leave the room!" commanded the tall, dark, and handsome sergeant with the wide shoulders and narrow hips. The romance writers' professionally salascious eyes sized him up as the woman in the lab coat knelt down to examine the body.
"How did she die?" Officer Studmuffin asked. "Gunshot? Knife to the heart? Poison pen?"
The medical examiner shook her head and stood up. "It's an open and shut case. Bile--she choked on her own bile. But I don't think we've seen the last of her......."
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment