An Apology for Mystery Writers

By G.M. Malliet

My husband and I have a small pond at the back of our patio. It’s a legacy from the man who previously owned our house. The pond is about five feet long, three feet wide, and two feet deep. About the size of a shallow grave, in fact. A small concrete turtle sits on the edge of this pond and picturesquely regurgitates water from a tube in its mouth.

I’ll admit, it’s a charming idea to have this thing around to create a Zen-like tinkling background noise all day long. The gurgling turtle serves as a daily reminder to us of mankind’s mysterious and eternal connection with nature, and so on. Birds and even raccoons often stop by for a quick bath. Cute.

But. The maintenance is nonstop. It’s painful to spend every weekend cleaning out the leaves and assorted gunk that collects in our little pond, and unclogging the turtle’s stopped-up tube for the hundredth time.

The other day the pond’s electric pump gave out, the turtle spat no more, and we stood looking at our bacteria-infested, mosquito-breeding pond water debating if it wouldn’t be better to just fill the thing up with dirt and be done with it. Plant rosebushes or an evergreen there, instead.

Or, better yet, pour concrete inside and top it all off with something useful, like an outdoor fireplace.

The latter option held the most promise. But as we weighed our choices, not to mention our chances of finding a bricklayer who would show up as promised, I said, thinking aloud, really: “Damn. It’s too bad we don’t have a dead body we’re trying to hide.”

It is at moments like these my husband gets a startled, wary look in his eyes, like Joan Fontaine when she realizes Cary Grant has probably just done away with his best friend Binky. You’d think Bob would be used to it by now. Any man who at least once a week finds a cryptic, scrawled note in the kitchen that says something like “Nightshade -- fatal dose? Cowbane better?” should really have learned by now to shrug off these mystery writer moments.

So I hastily added, “Just kidding, dear. You’re too large to fit in there. But what if…”

I wandered away, a glazed look in my eyes that he now recognizes as a sign I’m off to kill someone on paper.

This kind of thing probably does keep spouses on their toes.

But Bob has nothing to worry about.

Really.