Shoehorn

On my way down Ruette de Gallette my phone went.  I fell into step with the ring and then fished it out of my pocket.  It was the head of the island constabulary.  Old Madame Le Creuset, who lives on the sea front, had been beaten to death with a shoehorn.  Her own shoehorn.  She had been found on the kitchen floor with one shoe on and one shoe off whilst outside the last tide she would ever see had washed in.  She had lived on the sea front but now she had been brutally murdered with a shoehorn so technically she no longer did, but the tide did not seem to take much notice.  I hurried down the hill towards the sea which was being burnt a brilliant yellow by the sun.  Halfway there my mind wandered and I realised that I had done it, I had broken into Madame Le Creuset’s kitchen and beaten her to death with a shoehorn, brutally.  I could picture it clearly, the shoehorn was in my hand and the old lady had one shoe on and one shoe off.  I fled down Rue Moules Marinieres and then Boulevard de Bon Bons and didn’t stop to think until I was at the nice cake shop on Ruette St Eclair, enjoying a hot chocolate.  Once I sat down and thought about it I realised that I was getting confused with a dream I’d had and I hadn’t murdered Madame Le Creuset at all.  I should really have left the cake shop and joined the investigation at the sea front but I had my hot chocolate in front of me and was committed to it, having stirred in the cream on top and summoned the thick swirls of chocolate from the depths of the mug.  Furthermore, there was cheesecake on the way.

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