![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The beginning of a story just jumped into my head, though I have no idea where it will go.
Do you know that sort of person who, if you accidentally slip something into their mail slot instead of the one under it will walk it all the way back to your office and spend ten minutes berating you about how they "don't have the time to deal with this" instead of just moving it down to the correct slot?
Josie was that person in our office. Actually, she took it a step further. She would then spend the rest of the day gossiping about how stupid you were. She, of course, never did anything wrong. Partly because she never did anything, but if she accidentally accomplished something it was inevitably the correct move, on account of her boinking the boss.
No one liked her, not even her gossip buddies. And the fact that she was universally hated made it nearly impossible to narrow down the suspects when she was found dead in the office that Monday morning.
...oh, that's where it's going. Why, in everything I write these days, does someone croak? I have murder-mysteries on the brain.
Do you know that sort of person who, if you accidentally slip something into their mail slot instead of the one under it will walk it all the way back to your office and spend ten minutes berating you about how they "don't have the time to deal with this" instead of just moving it down to the correct slot?
Josie was that person in our office. Actually, she took it a step further. She would then spend the rest of the day gossiping about how stupid you were. She, of course, never did anything wrong. Partly because she never did anything, but if she accidentally accomplished something it was inevitably the correct move, on account of her boinking the boss.
No one liked her, not even her gossip buddies. And the fact that she was universally hated made it nearly impossible to narrow down the suspects when she was found dead in the office that Monday morning.
...oh, that's where it's going. Why, in everything I write these days, does someone croak? I have murder-mysteries on the brain.