The butler did it.
The fact that he did is so completely and utterly obvious, he might as well have traipsed around the detectives in a blood-soaked blouse with ominous music playing in the background and a dozen neon signs pointing at him from different directions. But this is a small town and you know what they say about small-town cops: They’re small town cops.
Connie and Blyde (names changed to protect the stellar image of the police force) investigated the crime scene in much the same way an unsupervised five-year-old would investigate a Van Gogh: they had no idea what they were looking at or why they were looking at it and at one point I’m certain I saw Blyde pop something into his mouth that had been erstwhile on the floor. Of course, I could have told them who did it but it was a sleepy Wednesday afternoon and this place is not exactly Vegas when it comes to middle-of-the-week entertainment.
This story was written as part of The Ray Bradbury Project. I’m writing one story a week for a year (or as long as I can keep it up). You can read the previous installments by checking out the tags on the right!