vignette

People aren’t dying when they’re supposed to. I mean, everybody knows that when you’re born, your die-date shows up faintly on your forehead. It stays visible for a couple of days, then fades away. And when you get old enough to talk you can recall what that date is so that everyone always knows when they’re going to die. How you’re going to meet your demise is the big unknown, but having the time to plan ahead for the end is comforting to everybody.

But something is a little off. Lately a few people haven’t died on schedule. It’s nerve-wracking when that happens, and sends people straight to the mental hospital. At first it was thought that the unfortunately still-alive victim had just somehow forgotten their die-date. But then it happened to a few more people, and then a few more, the most famous person to date being Mabel Morbly, the opera singer.

And that’s where I come in. The name’s Slazy. Jack Slazy, P.I., and before you start thinking you possess unusually clever insights, before you go saying something that might get you your own atypical end date, just remember -- I’ve heard it all before. So stop your clock and just listen.

Mabel Morbly, otherwise known as the Marvelous Morbly, was ... sorry ... is a very successful opera singer whose rise to fame and fortune has given her a comfortable and enjoyable life ... up ‘til now, anyway. She has, er, had three homes, traveled all over the world, and has fans up the wazoo.

Her die-date was scheduled for two weeks ago last Thursday, three months after she turned 62. She had fabulous good-bye parties, auctioned off her London house (giving the proceeds to charity), gave her Siam house to her lawyer, and left her Aspen condo to her housekeeper. Shorn of her earthly trappings, she went to bed in the evening of the appointed day.

And then she didn’t die!

It was devastating. She awoke, confused after having expected to be ceremoniously ushered into Heaven, instead finding her angry housekeeper insisting that the undertakers take her away since that was the schedule and the housekeeper had other things to do than put up with a snotty old bag who couldn’t die on time.

Morbly herself, morbidly ashamed at this turn of events, leapt hysterically from her bed, grabbed her unappreciative housekeeper and threw her out the third-story window, abruptly and effectively changing the housekeeper’s die-date.

Morbly is in an asylum, the condo is in probate, the lawyers are scratching their heads, and the bank wants me to see what I can find out. The President is insisting he wants some answers by the time he gets back from his vacation which gives us three months to figure out what is going on.

Since the FBI, CIA, and the Denver chapter of Die-Date Celebrations Inc. are all scurrying to figure out the situation, I am looking for answers in other places. My friend Snazzy’s girlfriend has a cousin whose neighbor knows a psychic who swears she knows what’s going on and I’m on my way now to talk with her. I don’t expect much, but hell, she might actually be able to explain it. I just wish it wasn't raining.