There was blood on the coffee table.

Private Eye Edward "Red" Moleray had been to the house before, lots of times, but he had started half-assing the job. And what was the job? To watch Mrs. McGillihan's wife from afar. Mr. McGillihan suspected that she had been cheating on him, and though it hadn't been true when Moleray took on the surveilance case, it was true now. Well, until now, anyway. She was dead, and Moleray may fuck another man's wife from time to time, but he doesn't fuck a dead broad. He was above that.

Moleray called up Mr. McGillihan from the phone in the house: "You're wife is dead."

"Is that right?"

"What do you think this is, April Fools Day?"

"Hell of an April Fools gag."

"Hell of a broad."

"Hell of a thing to say about my dead wife."

"Well, she isn't your wife anymore, because she's dead."

"Really?"

"Do you want me to check?"

"Would you?"

Moleray moved the phone slightly, keeping the talky-talky-make-noises-top-end next to his ear. "You dead, lady?"

"No, I'm quite alright," she said.

"Was that my wife?"

"Yes, it is. She looks quite all right. Apparently, this was all apple juice from red apples."

"Wouldn't red apple juice still be the regular piss colour of apple juice? I don't think the skin affects it much."

"I have a hard time telling, because I'm a bird."

"Birds aren't color blind, are they? Are you not thinking of dogs?"

"I believe they are."

"Well then why are peacocks and parrots all those gay colours? Presumebly, they wouldn't be able to tell."

"You've got a point there."

"Are you sure you're not a dog."

"You know, let me look."

Moleray stepped over the just awoken Mrs. McGillihan and went to the bathroom. The phone cord became taught and dragged the cradle across the room, knocking over more apple juice on the way. Apple juice landed on the phone cradle... a spark of electricity twitched in the mechanism, and the thing burst into flames.

"Oh, sweet apple juice!" screamed Mrs. McGillihan.

Unfortunately, Moleray assumed that "sweet apple juice" was not the toned-down swear she meant it to be, but a comment on the sugar content of the beverage. The house erupted in flames, and though Mrs. McGillihan recognized the danger, Moleray died in the fire. Shitty investigator, really.