In a city where even the mimes are silenced permanently, only a goldfish knows the truth—and he’s not talking.
The Big Sleep-ish
The ceiling fan rotated with the lethargic grace of a dying dragonfly, chopping the humid air into stale chunks. I sat behind my desk, nursing a glass of lukewarm scotch and a grudge against the city of Oakhaven.
Then she walked in. She was wearing a trench coat twice her size and carrying a goldfish bowl like it was a ticking bomb.
“He’s dead, Mr. Marlowe,” she gasped. “My husband. Murdered in the bathtub.”
I leaned back, the springs of my chair screaming in protest. “Usually, people call the cops for that, sweetheart. Unless the husband was a toaster.”
“He was a mime,” she sobbed, setting the goldfish on my desk. “The police say it was an accident. They claim he tripped on a silent banana peel. But look at Barnaby.”
I looked at the fish. Barnaby looked back with the vacant intensity of a hitman. In the bottom of the bowl, nestled in the neon blue gravel, was a miniature, waterproof revolver.
“The fish did it?” I asked, my brow furrowing. “That’s a new one, even for Tuesday.”
“No!” she hissed. “The fish is the witness. He’s been blowing bubbles in Morse code all morning. He says the killer is still in the house. He says the killer is…”
Suddenly, the office lights flickered and died. A shadow loomed against the frosted glass of my door—a silhouette wearing a tall, striped hat and holding a very real, very silenced pistol. The goldfish started thrashing, splashing water over my case files.
I reached for my desk drawer, but my hand met a cold, slimy pair of handcuffs instead.
The Final Chapter is Yours…
The shadow is turning the knob. The mime’s widow is screaming in silence. Does the fish hold the key, or are you just bait? How does this absurdity end?
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