text: This was written for the wonderful u/Say_Im_Ugly's Discord Secret Santa story exchange. I took it upon myself to be be the secret santa for u/Say_Im_Ugly and u/OldBayJ who was helping administration of the event. These constraints came from Bay: Genre: Mystery or Horror / Character: A detective or other character named Bay / Theme: Christmas / First sentence: "It was Christmastime, and that meant murder." / Includes: a plot twist, a candycane, another WP Character, snow / Words: bumfuzzle, bamboozled, crab, kerfuffle It was Christmastime, and that meant murder. I got a cold shudder as I felt the color disappear from the room. The whole place felt desaturated, like it was being shown in black and white, which was never a good sign of what was about to come into my office. The door swung open wildly, carried, no doubt, by the wind on the snowy Chicago streets outside. Before me stood the most beautiful dame I’d ever laid my eyes upon. Her face was sullen, and puffy, red eyes that had recently been crying hid behind a thin widow’s veil. She looked like she had walked right out of a really sad 1920’s Jazz club. Her modest flapper dress, adorned with intricate art-deco inspired embroidery, hung around her like mourning to a mood. Short auburn hair twisted into a tight bun on the left side of her head, poking out just below the rim of her cloche hat. An intricate twist of intertwining silver strands clung closely to her neck. “Well hello, madam.” I said with a smile, straightening my coat as I rose to meet her. “Are you Dickey McVeigh?” She asked curtly. “Indeed I am. Private eye, at your service.” I offered her my hand, but she simply walked around me and took a seat in front of my desk. “My husband has been murdered.” She said. “That sounds like a problem for the police. Why come to me?” I asked, taking a seat again behind my desk. “Because he was murdered by the police.” She said. My eyebrows raised in curiosity. “And what makes you say that?” I asked, jotting down notes as she spoke. “I watched it happen.” She said, pausing, waiting for me to prod further. “Let’s start with some basics. Your name?” “Bay.” “Husband’s name?” “Hannibal.” “Who killed him?” “Geese.” I hesitated. “Geese? I thought you said the police killed him.” I asked. “Yes. The officer’s name is Geese.” “What a strange name.” I mused. “Okay, next. What happened?” “Geese killed my husband.” “O,” I hesitated again, “kay. When did this happen?” “About thirty minutes ago.” “How are you already in funeral attire?” I asked, bumfuzzled. “That answers the next question you were going to ask. Where, right? We were at a funeral.” “And lastly, do you know of any sort of motive Geese may have had to kill your husband?” I asked. “Hannibal was just defending my honor. We overheard Geese saying that crab was inferior to lobster, and my husband, knowing I own a crab fishing business on the East coast, stepped in to correct him. A kerfuffle ensued.” “And this,” I recollected, “kerfuffle evolved, I’m assuming?” “Yes. A real donnybrook broke out.” Bay said. “A donnybrook,” I said, jotting the word down, “and Geese punched your husband? Shot him? Told him a secret so shocking his heart stopped?” “He was stabbed.” She said. “Who was stabbed?” I asked. “My husband, try to keep up.” “Apologies. Husband stabbed. Did you see the murder weapon? Do you know where it is?” I asked. She hesitated, her eyes darting around my tiny office in its constant state of disarray. “What is it, Bay? What was your husband stabbed with?” I asked. “A candy cane.” She said after a few moments of silence. “A candy cane?” I asked. “A candy cane.” She confirmed. “Where is the candy cane now?” “In my purse.” She said. I paused. “The murder weapon is in your purse?” I asked. “Yes. I wanted you to see it. You wouldn’t have believed me otherwise.” She said. She was right. I would not have believed that her husband was murdered by Geese using a candy cane to stab him. “I absolutely would not have, you were right to bring it here.” “Say, Dicky, do you like crabs?” She asked. “Not particularly. In fact I’m a bit fearful of them.” I said. “You’re right to be afraid of them.” Bay said. She stabbed me with the candy cane. As I lay dying on the rug in the middle of my office, I looked to Bay and asked, “Why?” She simply laughed, and then her form, dress, hat, skin, everything slowly scuttled apart into hundreds of crustaceans. I had been bamboozled by 600 crabs dressed as a widow, and all I could say was: “Not again.