Tuesday, April 3, 2018

The Cocktail Fork Killer

It was the diagram that did it, he said, lighting another cigarette. It was just dinner. It was just Dave and Jenny — nothing special.
            He leaned forward, and hid his face in his hands. You have no idea, he said haltingly, his voice muffled. She pointed to a diagram, for Heaven’s sake. There were so many circles showing where everything had to be. She was insistent.
            He sat up, tipped his ash. His eyes were red.
            Monogrammed napkins. Candles. We were out of candles. I don’t even know what a cocktail fork is.
            Do you know what a cocktail fork is? he asked the detective. Me neither, he reiterated, getting no reply.
            He paused.
            She was all about precision. She followed those books by the letter. The recipes. She didn’t start out that way. We wouldn’t be here if she’d been like that all along. Never would’ve married her. I don’t know what happened.
            He sighed.
            So here we are, the detective said.
            So here we are. The man looked at his blood-spattered sleeve. I couldn’t take it any more, he said. I just snapped.

Poor bastard, the Chief said, watching from behind the glass. The Cocktail Fork Killer. Whatever’s next. At least there’s no kids.

Rumford Common Sense Cook Book, The Department of Home Economics of The Rumford Company, 1930
Pin It