MURDER SHE WROTE

I love a good murder mystery.  I couldn’t wait until the day “Murder She Wrote” opened its new season.  Here it is at last.  Autumn.  Every Sunday night I prepare to watch Jessica Fletcher solve another one.  And every Sunday night I miss all the clues and storm out of the room in frustration before the show is over.

It’s my kids.  At the first scene I hear, “I know who did it.”

I can’t keep my mouth shut.  I try, but it just shoves its way out of my throat:  “You can’t know who did it.  It hasn’t been done yet.”

Things get quiet for a little while.  The scene changes.  Right in the middle of someone’s name and background, I hear, “She did it.  She looks like a murderer.”  I stifle my outburst until the dialogue ends and music plays.  Then, through gritted teeth, I mutter, “You might figure it out if you would listen!”

Next scene.  “He did it.  He looks so innocent, he must be the murderer.”  I can’t stay quiet.  I wail, “No one has even been murdered yet.  Will you please shut up?”  No worry about hurt feelings.  They’re immune to that by now.

The dialogue gets more complicated as the plot thickens.  My kids begin chattering about miscellaneous stuff.  I wave my arms and “shhhh” loud but quick so I won’t miss anything.  I try to look intense.  If body language means anything, my kids should have no doubt they’re in big trouble.

Then the last straw falls.  It’s that innocent, childlike rationale:  “But, Mom, why are you watching this part?  This is boring.  All they’re doing is talking.”  Yeah, right.  And I just missed every bit of it.

I storm out.  From the kitchen I can hear them chattering away, until the commercial, for which they stop and listen.

One Sunday night there’s going to be a murder at our house!