I like to read are old style English Mysteries. Dorothy Sayers and P.D. James are my two favorites in this genre. I've read all of Sayers' books multiple times. I think there's a couple of Baroness James' books I haven't read yet. Dorothy's stories are more intoxicating. Lord Peter and Harriet Vane are much more real to me than Adam Dalgliesh and Kate Miskin. But Baroness James does a superior job of creating her myriad of characters.
Anyway, I started to wonder if there are any situations in my life where if a murder occurred I might be a suspect? Of course, having a loved one, or someone you lived with (there are often distinctions between the two...) killed under mysterious circumstances could throw a suspicious light on the survivor. And statistically, in a population of non-gang members, a person is more likely to be murdered by someone he/she knows, than by a stranger.
Very few of us are in the kind of multi-layered situation where some figure central to all the layers is murdered and then some of those who stand to profit (or exult) end up with either no alibi or a very weak alibi. That's when the coppers have to sniff around after different suspects. That's when you have a genuine mystery, a la English drawing room...
But the depressing, boring truth is that, no, I will never be a suspect in a murder mystery. It's depressing because I'm very good with the spoken word and I would have a real blast dueling verbally with the coppers. Unless I was guilty. If I was guilty I would probably try to pretend I was innocent and screw it all up. At this point there is no one I know, up close and personal, that I want to kill. I think I'm lucky that way.
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3 comments:
Hi Bert!
This is the Lindbergh baby writing to you from baby pergatory. I didn't make it to heaven on account of making poopie in my pants and not going to confession. Bert, I know it was you. Everyone knows that Bruno Richard Hoffman has too dumb to commit such a crime, and you have had it our for me ever since my father laid claim to lazitheism.
Confess, old man, confess!
The REAL Lindbergh baby would know it's Laztheism, not Lazitheism. That's a whole different ball of wax on, wax off.
That's what papa and I couldn't understand. You would angrily stake-out our house, screaming obcentities, chipping golf balls, and telling anyone who would listen that we stole Laztheism when what daddy invented was lazitheism.
I had to die as a toddler all because you wouldn't take the time to read carefully. For shame on you, Bert!
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