My Cardboard Balcony

A Different Kind of Red by Belinda Roddie A different kind of red was stained upon the butler's vest as he lay on the bed stiff and still. The stunned silence did linger on until the mistress nearly lost her head. "Find the culprit!" she barked. "And leave no stone unturned until he's cuffed and behind bars!" Her husband armed himself. Blood in our bones froze in the snow as we searched near and far. Now I, a myst'ry buff, was curious about who the servants thought did the deed. Normally butlers were the ones who must have killed the master for money or creed. Then a thought struck me: If our butler's dead, who in the house would have killed him instead?

Brunch was meatloaf hash and a mimosa, the savory and the sweet. My mother ate a crepe while my dad resorted to French toast, as his sweet tooth was bullying his poor molars and tongue into submission. “So,” my mother said with a raised fork, “when are you going to let us meet your boyfriend?” I swallowed. “Some other time.”