- - - - [The following excerpt comes from Issue No. 10: McSweeney's Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales.] - - - - T H E M U R D E R E D C O U P L E I found the dead bodies face to face, cold, on the living room carpet of the suburban household. One was a husband, sprawled in a fetal position; the other his wife, tilting forward, her head butting into his stomach. The carpet beneath them was soaked through with blood and saliva. I took the necessary samples and marked off the area while the usual team came in to check for fingerprints and clues. I myself have never been a proponent of walking around and instead sat quietly in one of the taller chairs and tried to take in the room. Ivory-colored carpet, ivory walls, brown sofa, wooden chairs. Ordinary. The faintest smell of rosemary drew my focus to the kitchen, visible through an open countertop, and lining its walls I could see copper pots and pans, a hanging chain of garlic, and rows upon rows of salt and pepper shakers. Fourteen pairs in total. While the team used their equipment to make sure every piece of furniture revealed its underbelly, I wrote down one word on my yellow pad: Shaker. I have a feel for such things; it's the only reason I've held onto this job for so long since I have no patience for the details and am clumsy with the props. I made ten calls that afternoon. My phone manners are fair to poor. To my surprise, no one I spoke to seemed particularly shocked by the double murders. No windows were broken, I told them. No key was forced. They sat silent as schoolchildren, on the other line, waiting for me to push the issue. "Any idea of suspects?" I asked. "Motives? Suspicious behavior?" No, no, no. "Might you know," I asked at the end, "why these two collected so many salt and pepper shakers?" I spoke with the neighbor, the bosses, the doctor and a friend, but no one could explain to me why they were dead, or why two people who paid a live-in chef to the very edge of their budget, and whose blood pressure kept climbing up the ladder into the red zone, would collect so many salt and pepper shakers, in ceramic, wood, glass and metal. "I ate there for dinner several times," said the friend, "and as far as I can recall, they only used one ordinary set." I spent that night in their house while the bodies were being examined at the morgue. The cook was away for the night, and I slept in the guest bedroom, on top of the comforter, not moving any evidence but just resting and listening, as the only way to get a true feel of a house and its residents is to stay in it overnight. This model was fairly standard for the neighborhood: one story, ranch style, two bedrooms and an office. The pictures on the walls were easy landscapes, and in the guestroom, I slept beneath a watercolor of horses running. Every piece of furniture and decor was slippery to the mind and would not stick. I can hardly recall the sofa or the chairs, so unobtrusive was their style, and so involved was I with examining those shakers. Several pairs were masterfully crafted, with zig-zag patterns of mahogany and oak, or cut diamonds of crystal, and must have cost quite a pile. One was a humorous set, each a green ceramic frog: salt with a cane, pepper with a hat. One pair was built of very modern and angular chrome and glass. Each held varying levels of grain. The house grew so quiet I could hear the movement of cats next door, paws treading softly on the sidewalk.
BE AMAZED AND ASTOUNDED BY THE TWISTING AND TURNING CONCLUSION, AVAILABLE ONLY IN McSWEENEY'S MAMMOTH TREASURY OF THRILLING TALES. - - - - Aimee Bender lives in L.A. and is the author of two books: The Girl in the Flammable Skirt and An Invisible Sign of My Own. She read her first Agatha Christie mystery in eighth grade and practically dropped the book on the floor when the twist got revealed, it was so amazing.
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