The crime? Murder. The motive? Life insurance.

The crime? Murder. The motive? Life insurance. The time? Breakfast. The weapon? Cheese knife. The plan? Dubious. The victim? Obnoxious. The police report?

It was all of 25,459 words. The print was so tiny one needed a magnifying glass to understand why the author went to great lengths to illustrate how murders are planned in pajamas.

Forensic technician Agnes Montclare conveyed her suspicions to Detective J. Manatee. "Someone went to great trouble to weave microscopic red herrings into this pyjama scrap." The g

ood detective waved a flipper dismissively. "I could smell the herring a mile away. Our suspect is wearing a white elephant pjs with a fish in his pocket. It could only be my arch

-enemy, Doctor Anemone! Notice the puncture marks? Neurotoxin quills, his MO." Det. Manatee paced lugubriously. How did he manage to escape the scene?

Det. Manatee, flummoxed by how Dr. Anemone could make it to the back of the ristorante unseen, was irked by the waiters passing in and out, bearing plates piled high with spaghetti

Bolognese or French fries topped with cream. "Those waiters drive me mad! I need fresh air. Let's get out of here !"

He did not realize that a dollop of cream had landed on the back of hid jacket. As the pair of them left the restaurant, his friend went to brush it off. "What do you think

anything anymore. Or anyone. You see, I now vaguely recall flipping the switch that sent 50 000 joules coursing through my noggin, right before all this crap started 'happening'.