Hello, again, Fictioneers. An interesting confluence of stumbled-upon links while researching other, unrelated stories led to this mayhem. Thanks as ever to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting the party, and Luther for the prompt. Any translation errors I’ll be happy to fix, but in the meantime, I’m blaming Google.
If you’re near central Florida next fall and interested at all in bird-watching, you might want to take a gander (a-hem) at the Lake County Wings and Wildflowers Festival held at the Venetian Gardens in Leesburg.
Murder Most Fowl – 100 words
“Da t’ing is, it ain’t moider.”
The cop waddled across the restaurant lobby; peered beneath a wire-armatured wing pasted over with yellow feathers.
“See’n’s how it ain’t even a real boid.”
The proprietor gesticulated with sausage fingers. “She cost-a me a fortuna. Sheep’ed in special for the Festival at the giardini. Now, she . . . assassinato. Morto. Alla because il cognato—”
“My stupido brother-in-law . . .”
“I gots one a’ dem too. Smashed my weed whacker. Da wife won’ let me take it outta his hide, neither.”
“I do not understand.”
“Me neither, friend. Me neither.”