Tuesday, January 3, 2012


Dear Readers, with the exception of one snitch,

The cops almost hauled me in today. They know about Lola. They found her deflated body while making routine garbage checks for uneaten pastries.

I told no one except you, you, and YOU what I had done to her. Obviously, someone is a snitch, a rat, a tattle-tale, an informer, a squealer, a blabbermouth, a stool pigeon. And yes, I used my Roget's Super Thesaurus to find all those synonyms because I am a word-loving woman.

My first guess for the rat's identity: She who appears the most innocent.

Now who might that be?

I was talking to Melynda earlier this evening about a cute little bundle of energy and joy we know. That person's name starts with "E."  She shortened her name from Elisabeth to the highly suspicious Elisa. I fell in love with her the minute I knew she used my Norwegian grandmother's name. She is the only other Elisa I have ever met. I think she shortened her name to throw me off balance, catch me off guard, just plain fool me into thinking she could be as sweet as my little Nana was the last time I saw her in a nursing home -- before she died.

Now I'm even more suspicious. Did Elisa steal Nana's identity?

I don't have time to investigate her completely right now, but the woman claims she's been a homeless street musician. Yeah, right. And she gives birth every ten months, yet she looks perfect. Whose children are those, Elisa?

And have you ever seen a cuter avatar?

But wait, look at this actual photo from her Facebook page:

It's always the pretty one. She was probably a cheerleader in high school.

Oh, the horror I experienced today when they broke into my house. "You'll never take me alive, Coppers," I screamed. "How'd you get past the guard dogs?"

"The door was open," the chubby one with Dunkin' Donuts chocolate smeared on his mouth said. "The black and white dog invited us in."

Oh, Franklin, how could you? You must be in league with a devil's food cake, and that cute little cake is named Elisa.

She's tried to fool us all, but the jig is up Elisa. I told the pigs police officers about you. One of them is divorced from a former head cheerleader and homeless street musician. He took my side immediately.

"Obviously the good-lookin' dame is trying to frame our sweet little Janie here," the tall, good-looking gentleman of an officer said. "Now don't you worry, ma'am. We would never arrest the Queen of Grammar. After all, your son repairs our automobiles for free. Our motors purr after we visit David. And your daughter helps our kids with their math homework. We couldn't possibly do algebra. We're dependent on Katrina. "

I sighed with relief. I was safe thanks to cars that sound like kittens and the astonishing ineptitude of the police to figure out which train will arrive in Philadelphia first. They wouldn't know a polynomial if it slapped them in the face.

But Elisa?

Sam Spade: I hope they don't hang you, precious, by that sweet neck. Yes, angel, I'm gonna send you over. The chances are you'll get off with life. That means if you're a good girl, you'll be out in 20 years. I'll be waiting for you. If they hang you, I'll always remember you.
Baby, you can run, but you can't hide. You'd better come up with a story, a very good story about why you decided to be a naughty tattle-tale.

And tomorrow, I'll try to explain why I had to kill Lola.

Detective Tom Polhaus: [picks up the falcon] Heavy. What is it?
Sam Spade: The, uh, stuff that dreams are made of.
Detective Tom Polhaus: Huh?


Velma Noir  a.k.a. The Junebug

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