Oh My Goodness

           “Oh my goodness,” Miles said, watching Harold shred the photo of the drummer.

            “Is that the guy that murdered you,” Miss Kitty said.

            Harold wiped his hands on his pants. His head rolled around on the ground toward his body. His lips inched up toward his nose, displaying his crooked front teeth. He looked like a mad dog.

            “That’s Smack Death,” Harold said, “also known as Chad Thead, former drummer in the band, Panhandle Bank. Someone drugged and murdered me, but all I remember are shadows.”

            “Oh my,” Miles repeated, trying to jump-start his brain and remember where he had heard the name Smack before.

            “Also fancies himself an artist,” Harold continued, staring out the clean window, and watching a hummingbird settle on the petunias Miss Kitty had brought him from the Farmer’s Market. “Uses a chainsaw to carve moose and bear. Tries to sell them to the tourists.”

            “Eureka,” Miles shouted, doing a spot on jig on the floor. “Those want-to-be robbers said that Smack had told them there was computer equipment in the cabin just ready to be plundered. Was Smack also a bit of a thief?”

            “He was a cur,” Harold said. “A drug dealer, a lousy friend, and not much of an artist, either.”

            “Why would you hang out with someone like that,” Miles asked.

            “He was an incredible drummer, and he kept me in the powder,” Harold said.

            “Oh my goodness,” Miles said.