one // dead bodies, dirty dishes, and dreams come true
A limp body lies helplessly on the cold floor in front of me. I can tell that it’s a woman from the curvy figure and long auburn hair spread over her most likely pulverized face. I’m glad it’s covered, but I can still see the dark blood causing the strands to stick together in syrupy clumps.
I spin around the room, searching for any signs of foul play. There’s an expensive-looking television set planted on the wall behind the corpse. A small armchair is pushed into an odd angle at the far left corner of the room. I lift the piece of furniture and notice four circular indents are carved into the carpet from where the legs were standing.
“Couldn’t have been used to kill the victim,” I explain to the crime scene photographer, “It has to have been sitting here for at least a day in order for the legs of the chair to make such deep marks in the carpet.”
The photographer nods and snaps a photo of the floor.
“The kitchen has no evidence. Any theories, rookie?” my fellow detective says as he walks in from the hallway.
“Nothing,” I reply, then quickly add, “yet.”
He looks at me skeptically.
Why do they never trust the women?
A deafening BANG goes off in the room and I’m just about to turn around to see what it is when another horrifying sound enters my ears.
“Beverly! Get off that computer right now and come help me with the dishes!” my mom’s voice screeches from downstairs.
I contemplate the option of being the obedient child for once, but I decide playing the deaf one is much more in my favor. I unpause the computer screen, but before I can do anything--
“Beverly!”
“Ugggh,” I moan loudly enough for my insistent mother to hear. Pressing the spacebar to once again pause my game, I admit defeat and get up off my butt.
When I walk into the kitchen, I do so most sluggishly to show my parents what kind of disaster they caused by forcing me to come and wash some measly little dishes.
“Don’t give me that look,” Mom demands as she hands me the soap and sponge.
“I hope you’re satisfied with yourself, Mother. Some poor woman’s family is mourning their beloved daughter’s death, and you won’t even have the decency to let me find out who murdered her, because apparently dirty dishes are a bigger priority for you than justice.”
“Oh, hush.” Mom tries not to smile as she walks away.
“People are murdered every day,” my dad teases. "This one will just be another name on the list."
“I think someone might have just shot me so just add my name to that list of yours as well.” I pour the liquid soap onto the dirty sponge and start scrubbing a bowl covered in tomato sauce. A drop of the red paste flings onto my arm and I flinch and swat it off.
“You take that dumb game too seriously,” Jazza, or Queen of the Goats, as I like to call her, says as she saunters into the kitchen.
“Inspector Ruins: Murders in Madrid is not dumb. It’s riveting.” I stop scrubbing and give Jazza my best scowl.
She returns the favor by putting another dirty plate in the sink. “It was made for twelve-year-olds.”
“Okay, I know it says that on the box, but it is way too challenging for even me. And you know how good I am at riddles.”
YOU ARE READING
The Misadventures of Basil and Beverly
Teen Fiction"Hi, my name's Basil Olivier. My mom named me after the herb because she's kind of a psycho botanist-slash-cook. Olivier is French. My dad is French-Canadian and loves for me to tell people that, even though he was raised in Vancouver. I lived there...
