by Dewey Flynn

Detective Len Brokoli surveyed the grisly scene laid out before him: a carrot and a turnip, sliced open from neck to groin, still entwined in the lovemaking they'd been enjoying. Pieces scattered across the bed and floor. Sauce dripping off the walls. Scrawled above the bed, in raspberry vinaigrette, was the phrase, "Die cheating scum!" Obviously a case of a jilted lover making a cheater pay, and pay hard.

Brokoli rose from a crouch, his new boots creaking as the leather strained. "Well, boys," he said, in that odd Boston-meets-Kentucky slur he had, "guess we better find Mrs. Turnip, huh?"

Just then, Detective Pedro Jalapeno stepped through the door. "We already found her, Len. She was run through with a kabob in the kitchen, pinned to the wall. There was a note stapled to her forehead. Said, 'Gotcha, bitch!' There was even a smiley face drawn on it. In purple glitter."

"Damn shame, that," Brokoli said. "Sad to see glitter go to waste. Any suspects?"

"Nope. We're checking the computer, phone records, office e-mail, and searching the bedroom for anything. How 'bout here?"

"Same. All we got are names: Eddie Turnip and Sasha Carrotino."

"Sasha Carrotino?" Jalapeno exclaimed. "The Sasha Carrotino?"

"Um, I guess," Brokoli muttered. "Know her?"

"Well, sorta." Jalapeno put his head down. "She was a nude model and escort. I . . . may have, you know . . . looked her up a few times."

"And?"

"And, if he was using her services, she wasn't cheap."

"How not cheap was she?"

"Like, fifteen hundred skins a night."

"For how much time?"

Jalapeno thought about it for a moment. "Coupla hours, I guess. I mean, I never called her or anything!"

"Sure ya didn't, Pedro." It was easy for Brokoli to make fun, knowing that Jalapeno hadn't had any actual, real girlfriend since the eighth grade. Brokoli looked again at the bodies. She was attractive; at least, she used to be. Silky smooth orange skin, the kind of green hair that makes a veg wonder how it looks in the morning spread out on the pillow next to you, legs for miles. And those breasts, man, those breasts. Perky green nipples protruding ever so seductively from the raw orange swell of her bosom.

Brokoli imagined how they'd felt in life . . . better than a bag of sand. He'd bet his badge on it. He pulled his long coat in front of him a little, to compensate for his . . . intuition.

No wonder she could charge so much for a night of whatever she sold.

"Aright, so we got us a dead hooker-"

"Escort," Jalapeno corrected.

"Sorry, Pedro. So, we got a dead escort, and her client, who was married to a lady we found dead at about the same time. The obvious place to start is with any boyfriends, stalkers, lovers, or fans of Ms. Carrotino. Jalapeno, take a search team to her place, find her black book and day planner. Confiscate her computer, too. We'll finish up here, and meet back at the station house in two hours to go through this stuff with some forensics mooks."

* * *

Back at the station house, Jalapeno spoke first. "Here's what I don't get: Who killed the wife? It seems pretty straightforward that someone obsessed with Sasha Carrotino killed her and Eddie Turnip, but who would kill Mrs. Turnip? It just doesn't make sense."

"Yeah, it does," said Maxwell Azparagoos. He pointed to a computer screen projected on the wall. "See, here we can see that the appointment with Carrotino was made on the Turnip home computer at 4:41 p.m. yesterday afternoon." He clicked a few buttons, and the image changed. "But tracking his cell phone activity shows us that, at 4:41 p.m. yesterday, Mr. Turnip was at a diner on 45th Street."

"Twelve miles from home?" asked Brokoli.

"Yep. And, as you can see here," Azparagoos clicked a few more buttons, "Mrs. Turnip was on her cell, talking to Mr. Turnip."

"She arranged it for him?" Jalapeno was stunned.

"Looks that way."

"But . . . why?"