Every meeting of the Plagiarists’ Guild is almost exactly the same, at least according to the minutes.
Which is all fine as an inside joke but it does make solving a locked-room murder difficult. “What are the chances that the witnesses all tell the same story?” says Detective McMeel.
Showalter gives him dead eyes. “High,” she says.
One guildmaster is pantomiming a strangling. “And I’m next! They’re picking us off, one by one!”
“There was that other case across town,” murmurs McMeel. “Liars’ Guild. Similar. Could be a serial thing. Or a copyc–”
“Don’t,” says Showalter, tight as a garrote.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
“Detectives McMeel and Showalter, Precinct Nine and Three-Quarters,” says Showalter. “We’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
“मैं मà¥à¤¸à¥€à¤¬à¤¤ में हूà¤?” ask the suspicious yellow eyes in the crack of the door.
“We just need to know if you saw anything on the night of September… forty-eighth,” says Showalter, checking his notescroll. “There was an incident.”
“मैं सà¥à¤…रों से बात नहीं है!”
“We’re going to have to continue this downtown,” sighs McMeel.
They drop through a manhole and into a mine cart, whose blue-and-reds flicker on stalagmites as they hurtle toward the sub-sub-substation.
Monday, November 17, 2008