I’m a Secondary Character on Murder, She Wrote, and I Have to Solve This Crime
I’d like to say that murders at the circus are uncommon, but truly they are not. Traveling around the country in this, the year of our Lord 1989, we probably lose a couple of dozen a year on that long, dark, three-ringed highway that cuts through the heart of this beautiful country. There is a saying in the circus business, and that is, “To make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs.” If you ask me, it should be “Don’t fuck the monkeys,” but I don’t run the show. Hank Kerrinza does, well, he did, until they found his dead body in the elephant pen. This wasn’t a strangled showhand, some drifter who had fallen prey to everyday bloodlust; this was the owner of the Drasitias Traveling Circus. I knew his death would drag every circus freak and head clown up and down the eastern seaboard, but one person I didn’t suspect was the accomplished writer and amateur sleuth, Jessica Fletcher.
She didn’t come alone, of course. The town’s overbearing mayor and useless sheriff were already on the scene, bumbling about, complaining that the body at their feet would be the death knell in their election hopes. Jessica quickly took charge, checking the bottom of the elephant’s mighty feet and comparing the wounds on the body. She seemed to be really into this, and it made me uncomfortable. Hank was no saint; frankly, he’s the reason I’d have the “Don’t fuck the monkeys” saying, but…
