The Odd Case of Ms. Squid
Chapter One
The Odd Case of Ms. Squid, A Novella, offers a fun, thought-provoking reflection on the unfathomable value of artists.
As We Live
Each of us dreams of things divine,
A heavenly home to call all mine.
But as we whirl through life,
Over and again, we run into strife.
I have no purpose.
A thought will hiss.
Yet a few raise their voices, in song and in play,
They radiate joy, come what may.
Artists, we call them, who see with second sight,
Studying mysteries, with all their might.
They value the half-empty glass,
Hold sacred the spiritual Mass.
Marvel at a leaf as it falls from a tree,
Consider a snail in wonder and see.
But,
Rational minds won’t be left behind.
Insisting on reason and logic refined.
Refusing all Grace,
They hurry the race.
Yet,
Where the journey ends, few know for certain.
Life is more than the stage or its curtain.
Old worlds pass away.
Possibilities rise every day.
Still,
The soul remains much the same.
A home awaits—one we must claim.
What we dream—heaven or hell.
Forever to dwell.
As we live,
So we give…
As a seasoned Newearth Human Services Officer, Bala Impala was used to strange circumstances and confusing facts, but the odd case of Ms. Squid was more than strange or confusing; it was downright discombobulating.
Perched on the edge of a wood-framed chair with crimson padding set in a cozy library, just off the living room and kitty-corner to the kitchen, Bala balanced his extra-large datapad on his knees and studied the OldEarth-style ranch house.
Wearing a comfortable sweatsuit he had donned for his early-morning run, he hadn’t expected to be called in on his day off. But since his partner, Clare Erlandson, was visiting her son, Relevance, on the planet Tabun, and the other lead Human Services detectives were on Planet Helm for a “Rebalancing the Inner Person” retreat, Bala was the only one qualified to respond to a murder investigation.
A heavy-set man with gray hair, a jowly face, and piercing black eyes glared over Bala’s shoulder. “I don’t see the point of studying the layout of the house; it’s simple enough, just four rooms. Why aren’t you inspecting the woman sprawled on the carpet across the way?”
Hunching his shoulders to keep hot breath off his neck, Bala refolded his datapad, then rose to his feet. He stared at the man who probably had fifteen years on him but absolutely no authority to tell him what to do. “You came at your usual time to deliver groceries and other goods?”
An emphatic nod, bobble-head style. “Yeah. Like I was trying to tell you when you came in—Ms. Squid is always ready and waiting for me. When she didn’t answer my ring, I checked the door. Since it was unlocked, I came into the kitchen and called around. Nothing. So, I moved onto the living room where she does her arts and crafts stuff, and I nearly tumbled right over her.”
“And you didn’t touch the body?”
“Why would I do that? It was clear she was dead.”
“She could’ve fainted.”
“Likely, isn’t it? Without a brain!”
“So, you did a scan?”
“Of course, don’t need to touch a person to do a scan! You get as old as me, and you have a scanner on your datapad right next to your emergency numbers. I check myself over every morning.”
With a sigh, Bala returned his attention to the rows of neat OldEarth books lining the cherry wood bookcases. If I could just—
The man cleared his throat. “Look, you gonna be much longer? I’ve got another delivery to make.”
Bala squinted at the man. “Why you? I mean, why didn’t she just use Otto’s Auto Deliveries like everyone else? It’s got to be cheaper.”
“Listen, pal, some people still value the human connection, see? Ms. Squid was a real woman. Not one of those career-hungry types who divvy up every second to the god of productivity!”
Flummoxed, Bala refocused his gaze and decided to search elsewhere for clues. Not quite as thoughtless as the neighbor surmised, Bala considered the surveillance footage he had just reviewed. It clearly showed Ms. Squid last evening—a medium-built woman with tawny, shoulder-length hair, brown eyes, dressed in a beige pantsuit, making herself dinner in the kitchen and then eating in peaceful solitude at the round table by the window as night fell. Soon after, she cleaned up, then strolled into the adjoining living room. Next, the lithe woman gathered colorful embroidery yarn and a large hoop, arranged herself comfortably on the couch, and stitched away in silence for two hours. Then—for no discernible reason—suddenly, she tumbled from her chair onto the floor. After that, nothing changed for ten hours until this bewildered fellow strolled in through the kitchen, wandered into the living room, and nearly fell over the body.
Bala appraised the eighty-something gentleman. “Conrad, correct?”
“Yeah, Connor Conrad. I live three houses down, always do my errands on Friday mornings. She and I have an arrangement—I buy her stuff from a list she gives me, and she makes the prettiest gifts for me to give my family and friends. The woman has-er-had a knack for knowing what other people would like, and her skills were amazing.”
“So, she was an artist? That was her profession?”
“Hmm, I guess you could say she lived her art.”
Impatient with opaque thoughts, Bala sucked in a lungful of air and nearly choked. The house was stuffy, and the body was getting old. With a wince, he returned to business. “The coroner will be here soon. Her team will want as few people around as possible while they investigate, so thank you; I guess you can head out now.”
Eyes widening, Mr. Conrad considered Bala with head-shaking disbelief. “You don’t have anything to say?”
“You’ll have to come down to the central office in Vandi and fill in a report, but for now, I’ve got enough information to get started.”
Mr. Conrad shrugged as he turned away. “I think you’re missing the most important point.”
Bala started for the living room. He called over his shoulder, “What’s that?”
An exasperated splutter, and Mr. Conrad shouted across the room, “Well, what in blazes happened to her brain? That’s what I want to know!” Huffing, the well-meaning neighbor with the now-defunct deal pounded through the living room, marched into the kitchen, threw open the door, and stomped into the morning light.
Bala sighed as he stopped in the living room and considered the crime scene. In her mid-forties, Ms. Squid was in excellent shape but ordinary in every other way—no one would notice her in a crowd. Considering the fact that her head and body appeared perfectly intact, with not a particle of damage, no reasonable explanation for her brainlessness presented itself.
The idea of calling Clare back from her vacation flittered through his mind like a moth taking the scenic route. No, I can’t do that. She’s just getting comfortable with having a family again.
Another face flashed into his mind. Bala flipped open his datapad and tapped in a connection. He’ll act annoyed, being pulled away from Lux once again for a human emergency. A smile played on Bala’s lips at the thought of his friend. And he’ll be so relieved. Bala took a moment to offer a quiet prayer over the body of the woman who should not be dead.
Then he hit Cerulean’s contact number and could hardly wait to tell his friend every odd detail.
The Next Chapter of The Odd Case of Ms. Squid
October 2nd, 2026
A. K. Frailey Amazon Author Page
