Before I share what I will be bringing to the 7 Criminal Minds annual pot luck picnic, I need to tell you about last year’s event.
It was a lovely day. The sun was shining. Birds were chirping. The ladies were elegant in their oversized hats. The men were dapper in their linen pants. (I heard that. No, it was not 1920, and besides it’s very rude to openly scoff at the dress code of another’s imaginary annual picnic.)
Anyway. It was a lovely day. Until he showed up.
I knew from the moment that I saw him that he was trouble. His lips were pulled back in a perpetual sneer, and he surveyed us with palpable contempt. (And no, it wasn’t because of our outfits. Seriously. Let it go.)
As he wandered among us, he made sure that he said something to each of us. Something cruel and personal. We soon realized that while he was a stranger to us, we were not strangers to him. He knew our names, our lives, our secrets. He was playing a game with us, but we didn’t know the rules.
When he got to me, he leaned in close (well, as close as he could given he extraordinary size of my hat. Honestly, that hat was gorgeous.) In a voice laced with scorn he said, “Jane Austen was nothing more than a dried up spinster hack. I see why you like her.”
Before I knew what I was doing, I had flung my glass of homemade sangria (my humble offering for the event) into his face. His eyes widened with surprise, and he staggered back coughing. “Get out,” I hissed at him. “Leave.”
Surprisingly, he said nothing. Still coughing, he backed away from me towards the refreshment table. As I glanced down at my empty glass, I noticed that my dress was now stained red from the sangria. When I looked back up, the man was nowhere to be seen.
I tell you this because apparently it was considered highly suspicious to the police after they found the man dead next to the punch bowl filled with my sangria. It appeared he drowned in it.
Of course, later it was revealed that my splash of sangria had triggered coughing fit, which then triggered a fatal asthma attack. I was quite relieved because I did not like the way the chief of police was looking at me. (And no, it wasn’t because of my damn hat!)
Anyway, I tell you all this so you understand why I am not brining my sangria -as delightful as it is - to this year’s picnic.
Instead, I have decided to bring something much less harmful.
Smoked red herring.