An Unfortunate Death

I was on my hands and knees scrubbing up blood from the entry when the doorbell rang. 

I opened the door and gave Josh and his co-conspirators my most evil eye. “Where in hell have you been?” I said, arms akimbo, hands on hips, Flossie-the-dog by my side.

“We sought sustenance at the deli,” Travis said, “and here’s the evidence.  Snickers.  We were hangry”. He held aloft a crumpled ball of paper.

“Something of an understatement,” I said, stepping aside to reveal the blood-splattered floor and walls, the impaled corpse, and the serrated kitchen knife (of the kind favored in crimes of passion).  “And whose are those?” I asked, pointing at a glossy pool of darkness near the stairs in which lay two severed fingers.

“They belong to Little Lewis,” said Travis, cheerily.

“Belonged, past tense,” said Greta, also cheerily.  

“Very forgetful, very regrettable,” said Josh, “but little Lewis will surely develop enviable and rare competence in octal arithmetic.  Let us say, a firm-ish grip on it, at least.”

The trio filed into the house, briefly examining the lifeless Colin.

I decided to get a firm-ish grip on things too, sending Travis in search of cleaning materials, Josh was dispatched to dig a hole near the rhubarb patch, and Greta was instructed to return the fingers to little Lewis. 

“Finger singular” said Greta, probing a solitary puce appendage with the toe of her two-tone shoe.  One finger had disappeared and so had Flossie-the-dog. 

“It’s not funny!” I shouted, closing the front door on their laughter.

By lunchtime we were done with the clean-up, Colin-the-corpse was buried, and a blurry mosaic was coalescing in the retelling of the morning’s events.  Death had been “more or less” instant, apparently.

“It was an error of judgment, not of principle, ” said Josh. “Colin fell and then the post thingy ran through his dear heart,” he sighed, “It was the post thingy.”

“Known as a newel by architects and designers,“ said Greta, who was beginning to irritate me.

 “But how did Lewis lose his fingers?” I quizzed.

“Truthfully, he only lost one finger,” said Greta, “Lewis is happily reunited with the other.”

“An unrelated incident,” trumped Josh, “and the knife was just a prop, intimate, messy, honoring the crime.  Guns do neither the assailant nor the victim justice.”

There followed a thought-filled pause. 

“Well, I suppose we should let Colin’s parents know that he’s dead and buried.  Perhaps, call the police too?” I suggested. 

“Mother, they are very busy people,” said Josh.

“The Police?” I asked, incredulous.

“No, Colin’s parents.  Moneymaking, politicking, do-gooders,” he said, “They live down by the river.”

“Errors of judgment are generally forgiven,” suggested Travis, lightening the mood. 

I later noticed Flossie-the-dog tunneling under the rhubarb patch in the backyard in the half light of dusk.

I was improbably back on my hands and knees shoving dirt into a makeshift grave when the doorbell rang for the second time that day.