wrod.
More Buffista Redball:
Scheiner and the rest of the guys from the ME’s office were wrapping up their initial exam when Kay and Munch arrived. Dr. S. was a cranky old pain in the ass, but Kay was relieved to be spared the spectacle of Munch and Alyssa Dyer flirting over another vic. That was just disgusting.
“What’ve we got?” she asked.
“So far there’s no reason for this woman to be dead,” the veteran coroner said, “No marks or exit wounds. We’ll have to wait for the toxicology."
“Well,” Munch said, “Scheiner. Obviously, she isn’t using the same crystal ball as you are, because we’re all here. Although the jury’s still out as to whether your ‘here’ and my ‘here’ are the same place, metaphysically speaking.”
“Munchkin,” Kay said, patiently. “Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable with that crowd in there? Jeez, they talk more than a billy who swallowed a dictionary. I think they’re a cult.”
“Really?”
“I’ve fended off two indecent proposals. One male, one female, and three sets of haircut tips. And it looks like we’re going to Redball Country, USA."
"Damn. What kind of shindig is that, anyway?"
"Bunch of people meeting off the internet. Almost all tourists.And that's not all. Glitter, little crowns, perky breasts...maybe we oughta give Vice the heads-up, huh? Maybe they're looking for trouble.
Billies tell cops their life stories apparently...I hesitated about using it as it's short for "hillbilly", but Kay would probably say that.Glad you like it though.
“Damn,” Munch said. “My condolences. The vic is a Deborah Grabien, mystery writer and member in good standing. Kind of a firebrand too...this could have been a Company job, if you ask me.”
“You’ll notice I didn’t, huh? Right. The CIA takes out mystery writers at freak conventions in Balmer.”
“Well, it wasn’t Miss Scarlet in the conservatory, babe. In the interests of national security, people have ‘accidents’ sometimes.”
Kay waved the suggestion away. “Who’s she here with?”
“She has a husband. “
“Now he’s somebody I want to have a little chat with.”
“I’m sorry,” Betsy said, from the hallway, “but the door was open, so I couldn’t let that pass. The sentence you want is “He is someone with whom I want to have a little chat.” Because otherwise you end your sentence with a preposition. And that’s just wrong.”
“So that’s what ‘whom’ is for. Thanks. You don’t have confessions in there do you?”
“Afraid not.”
“Look,” Munch said. “I’ll talk to the husband, because I can tell he is someone with whom you’d like to exchange stray bullets.”
This might just be more entertaining than actually being at the F2F. Thanks, erika.
Aw, shucks. Just trying to deal with my loss and maybe carve out a place in Buffista History.
maybe carve out a place in Buffista History.
You have already achieved that.
A little bit from Frankentim.
Meanwhile, on the road someplace in Charm City:
”Don’t you think it’s sad, Frank?” Tim Bayliss asked, getting that pensive look his partner loathed.
”Death is always sad, Tim. Hence the lack of party favors as funerals.” Pembleton said, his gaze laserlike on the road in front of him.
But it didn’t help. “No, no, more than that. She’s bright...went to school in England or something. Survived things that would make most people head for the hills...and yet...”
“What’s your point, Bayliss?”
“What was she doing talking to people from a box in her office?”
“But she wasn’t. She’d met most of these people. Sent them cake.”
“Why was she sending cake to strangers, Frank? That doesn’t seem sad to you?”
“Not really, Tim. People like cake. And you’re the one who’s bitching that we don’t break bread together.It’d be worth a pastry or two to get that to stop.”
“I still think that kind of isolation contributed to her death.”
“Let me get this straight. Out of all the motives in the world, you’re going with ‘quiet desperation’...It doesn’t wash.”
