The Missing Stage Shot
“So, my book, in a nutshell, is about—” Mr. Potato cued the music.
A shadow spread over the meadow. He blinked. Someone screamed. The sunlight blazed over a fallen body. Red dripped down the round potato and pooled onto the ground. Mr. Potato’s mouth went wide. “Mr. Cramshaw—”
“He didn’t even see it coming,” someone said.
A woman with a big-flowered-hat fanned herself. “Such a pity, so young.”
“The prime of his life,” another said.
“Another five years and he could’ve been CEO,” Mr. Potato said.
“Tragic.” Big flower hat nodded.
“Such is the life of an author’s friend,” someone said.
Another waved the detective over. “Very dangerous. Very dangerous indeed.”
Mr. Potato drew himself up. “Are you suggesting I had something to do with this?”
“Of course, of course.” Big flower hat gestured to the detective. “An author has to sacrifice his friends nowadays to get any kind of promotion.”
Mr. Potato lowered his shoulders. So the jig was up. The detective took him in his grasp. So much for the New York Times. Maybe he could still get top billing on Amazon. Sell his rights to the mystery. Yeah. That could work.