“Three thespians.” Sally slowly slid sideways, unsecuring her seatbelt. “These perplexing puzzles are positively peculiar.” She sighed. “This murderer’s MO might make most actors migrate.”
“Chief will be chuffed,” Sybil sneered. “He hates histrionics.”
Sally shook her head. “He despises depravity deeper and the paperwork pisses him.”
Wilma waved from the walkway. “Detectives,” she said. “The deceased died dangling from the doorframe of this dumpy domicile.”
“Time of termination?” Sybil asked.
Wilma wiped her whiffer. “Three thirty.”
“Three thirty?” Sally sighed. “The twin termination time as the other three thespians. This is getting thick!”
Low laughter lifted the ladies’ eyes. Sharon’s head hung happily from a second story skylight.
“Sharon the malicious murderer!” Sybil snapped. “We should have suspected.”
Sharon cackled corruptly. “You yodeling yankees! Your useless understanding won’t outwit me. I’m impervious!” Sharon slammed the skylight shut. Loads of loony laughter lilted downward.
Sally stared solemnly skyward. “She’s so strange,” she said.
Sybil shrugged. “Someone should send some slugs sailing swiftly southward. Sharon’s skull should shatter soon. She shan’t stop sans some intersession.”
Sally smirked slyly. “Thankfully I trump at trick shots.” Sally stood still, her handgun hoisted heavenward. Three slugs slid speedily south. Sharon shrieked. Sybil hurriedly opened the hatch. The two flatfoots fleetly flew forward almost falling up the flight of steps.
Blood radiated round Sharon’s wound in red rings.
“Definitely dead,” Sybil said.
“I always accomplish my aim,” Sally sniggered. She glided her gun guardedly into its grip. “Mission mastered. Let’s leg it.”
“Don’t donuts sound scrummy?” Sybil said.
The two friendly flatfoots went westward down Downing Street. The sweet smell of Dunkin’ Donuts wafted their way.
© Rachel Svendsen 2014