TO THE DETECTIVE INVESTIGATING MY MURDER

Dear Detective, I'm not dead, but a lot of people can't stand me. What I mean is that breathing is not an activity they want me to keep doing. What I mean is, they want to knock me off. My days are numbered.

- PATRICIA MARX

Before long, you'll be standing in front of my lifeless body (ignore gray roots; would've colored hair if I'd known I'd be autopsied the next day). And you'll ask, “Who would want to kill Iris Lipoff?”

As someone who goes way back with the victim, trust me when I say, “Who wouldn't?”

“That's like using a hula hoop to strain soup,” you'll say. “Can't you narrow it down?”

Start with these persons of interest. I'm not saying they're guilty, just that it would be delightful if they were punished. Don't fall for the “I was in Bora-Bora for a destination colonoscopy” alibi. If quantum physics has taught us anything, it's that you can simultaneously use the lavatory in Bora-Bora and eliminate me in New York. Also, don't fall for “Iris who?” Does anyone really know anyone?