A cozy whodunnit with a twist of lime

They found Harold in the garden pond doing the backstroke minus the stroke. Whatever could have prompted Harold to go stargazing with unseeing eyes, no one could surmise. Yet, there he was for all the world to see, floating in his pasty naked glory. Colder than a clam. Deader ‘n a doornail.

“What were you doing out here at midnight, Mrs. Harper? Going for an evening stroll?” Detective Randall asked the housekeeper. He set his flashlight on the lawn’s nearby park bench, directed its flickering beam toward the pond, then carried his pen and clipboard toward a lamppost.

“Gracious no!” exclaimed Hazel Harper. “I’d just climbed into bed after the late-night news, and something didn’t seem right. It was quiet. Too quiet. Something was missing. Then I realized it was the frogs.”

“What about the frogs?” Detective Randall swept a few moths, attracted to the dim light above, off the page.

The detective took his time writing on his notepad. No detail, including the scent of damp earth or the heavy odor of pond muck, was too small.

“They were silent. Usually the frogs at the pond croak all night. They only stop for a few minutes when a fox passes by or a raccoon family comes to the pond for a drink. Tonight, they were silent, and they didn’t start up again. So, I came out to see what was bothering ‘em.”

The housekeeper’s filmy nightgown and loose robe fluttered in slow motion with the light breeze, giving her the look of a ghostly apparition bathed in faint misty moonlight. The slender silver moon shone sufficiently to reveal more detail than might be desirable under the circumstances. Thankfully, she had let down her hair before going to bed, and her tresses modestly covered her ample bosom, circumventing embarrassment on anyone’s part should the robe flutter further. The fuzzy bunny-eared slippers were a playful touch, though their color was indiscernible in the moonlight. The detective wondered absently if the slippers and clothing were color-coordinated.

“Is that what the broom was for?” The detective thought all the housekeeper needed was the pointy dark hat to complete the picture. And maybe a black cat, back arched and tail bristling.

“It’s what I grabbed when I reached into the closet by the back door, is all. Coulda just as well been a floor mop. Figured one would do as well as the other. Dontcha think?”

“Depends on what you expect to encounter, I’d say.” Evidently, she had expected something small and timid, he thought. A dust bunny, maybe.

“What did you expect, Mrs. Harper?”

“I’d no notion a-tall!” Under stress, the childhood vernacular that Hazel still worked so hard to overcome crept back into her speech.

“Somethin’ the frogs didn’t like, is all. Somethin’ that didn’t just pass by and leave ‘em be. Prob’ly not rabbits. Jest figured something small, though, I guess. Somethin’ nacheral.”

Something natural, thought the detective, as opposed to little faeries dancing a jig around in a circle. He kept this thought to himself. The vision of dancing faeries would have been in keeping with the surrounding garden and its other-worldly feel imparted by the moon playing tag with a few little silver-rimmed clouds. Mrs. Harper, too, appeared silver-rimmed with the moon glinting off her graying hair and translucent gauzy robe rippling slowly in the night air.

“You’re shivering, Mrs. Harper.” Detective Randall took a break from his questioning to fetch a wool blanket from the car and drape it over Hazel’s shoulders. “Here, wrap yourself in this to keep warm.”

“Shouldn’t feel cold on a warm, muggy night such as this, but thank you,” said Hazel as she snuggled into the blanket.

“You’ve had a fright tonight, Mrs. Harper. It’s likely from the shock.”

By now, the scene had been captured for posterity by police photographers with their popping flash bulbs. Two policemen had used a small inflatable raft to tie a rope to Harold’s right ankle and tow him like a derelict barge toward the small group gathered beside a weeping willow. The onlookers squinted at the pale form floating across the dark surface as a small but choppy wake rippled the moon’s watery image.

The coroner’s meat-wagon crunched up the gravel drive as three policemen and a policewoman strained to pull a soggy Harold Hancock out of the water. The bloated body’s considerable girth, in combination with slippery grass tromped into the mud at pond’s edge, caused a healthy number of grunts, groans, splashes, and expletives to float on the night air. An awakened mockingbird accompanied the chorus with a phrase or two from a large elm across the lawn.

The mockingbird was interrupted by Shirley, the policewoman, exclaiming mid-heave: “Gawwd, ‘e looks like a sloop ‘oose mast’s been toppled by a rogue wave!” Shirley was a Brit from “across the pond,” as they say. How à propos.

“Shirley!” responded one of the policemen in a tone disapproving of Shirley’s potentially lewd intent.

“Was that ‘Surely’ or ‘Shirley’?” Shirley inquired.

“Does it matter?” grunted another of the policemen, giving a mighty tug to Mr. Hancock’s left leg.

“What’s the difference?” asked the third.

A cocktail glass, only now glinting from its perch on the park bench as the moon slowly crossed the night sky, remained mum. Suddenly taking notice, the detective pointed, saying, “Bag it and tag it!” Peering more closely, he added, “And don’t lose the twist of lime!”