The Accidental Cadaver Magnet

Arthur P. Fiddlesticks considered himself a man of impeccable, if unremarkable, routine. His mornings began with lukewarm tea, his afternoons with spreadsheets, and his evenings with competitive birdwatching. What they *didn't* usually involve was stumbling over a rigor-mortised gardener in a prize-winning petunia bed. 'Oh, bother,' Arthur muttered, nudging the stiff foot with his polished Oxford. 'You’ve rather ruined Mrs. Higgins's annual display, haven’t you?'

The police, naturally, were less concerned with horticultural aesthetics. Detective Inspector Grimshaw, a man whose face seemed permanently etched with the despair of a thousand cold cases, fixed Arthur with a stare that could curdle milk. 'Mr. Fiddlesticks, this is the third… *incident*… this month. First the librarian in the non-fiction aisle, then the window cleaner dangling from the clock tower, now Mr. Henderson here, face down in a dahlia.'

Arthur sighed, adjusting his spectacles. 'With respect, Inspector, I merely *found* them. I didn't *cause* them to become… aesthetically challenged. The librarian, bless her heart, had a heart attack mid-shelving 'How to Win Friends and Influence People.' The window cleaner clearly missed a step. And Mr. Henderson? Probably over-fertilized.'

Grimshaw’s eyebrow twitched. 'Over-fertilized? Or perhaps *you* over-fertilized him, Mr. Fiddlesticks?'

'Good heavens, no! My petunias are organic. Besides,' Arthur gestured vaguely, 'he’s awfully heavy. I’d have thrown my back out, and I have a crucial birdwatching competition on Saturday.'

The detective scribbled furiously in his notepad. 'Means, motive, opportunity, Mr. Fiddlesticks. You seem to have an abundance of all three, usually by sheer proximity to the recently deceased.'

Arthur threw his hands up in exasperation. 'It’s a statistical anomaly! A morbid coincidence! Do you know how hard it is to explain to the coroner that you found a man petrified mid-curtsey in a ballet studio just because you were looking for a spare battery for your binoculars?'

Grimshaw merely stared, the weight of a world filled with the inexplicably expired settling heavily on his shoulders. Arthur, meanwhile, was already eyeing the adjacent rose bush. 'I do hope,' he mumbled to himself, 'that the local vicar isn't planning any spontaneous pilgrimages through Mrs. Higgins's garden. My alibi for next week is already looking rather thin.'