The Poisoned Pavlova

Jeremy Hinkle hated three things. Rats, family reunions, and pavlovas. And putting them all together meant only one thing: disaster. 

You see, last night was the annual Hinkle family reunion at Aunt Theodora’s house. All of Jeremy’s uncles and aunts and cousins — even his parents — had been there. As usual, Aunt Theodora had prepared her famous pavlova. 

But little did any of his uncles or aunts or cousins or even his parents know that Aunt Theodora had been dealing with a rather severe rat infestation. It just wasn’t the kind of thing one could bring up over dinner. 

Jeremy had a very hazy memory of what happened after the pavlova came out, but he could certainly recall Aunt Theodora placing a slice on his plate and insisting he just try one bite. And how could he have said no to a sweet 80-year-old woman? 

Soon after, everyone started flopping face-first into their plates. Then, everything went dark. 

—

“He wasn’t supposed to eat the pavlova!” a voice hissed. 

Jeremy opened his eyes and found himself seated on a plush sofa in a very posh office. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and between them were portraits of what seemed to be some very important and stern-looking people. He looked towards the desk, where two men in suits sat arguing. 

“How was I supposed to expect him to take a bite?” said the one whose back was facing Jeremy. “He always refuses it! The one time he agreed, there was rat poison in it!”

The man behind the table looked up and noticed Jeremy was awake. 

“It’s too late now. We can’t send him back — he’s already seen the office!” He sighed, wiping a hand down his face. 

“I beg your pardon,” said Jeremy, “I think it’s rather rude to talk about someone when they’re right in front of you.”

Both suited men were stunned into silence.

“Have you seen my keys?” He felt around in his pocket. “I seemed to have lost them.”

“You won’t be needing your keys anymore,” said the man behind the desk, his face weary with the expression of having had this conversation more times than he could count. 

“Well, I should be getting home at some point,” Jeremy remarked. He looked out the window to try to gauge the time, but upon closer inspection realised it was just a painting. 

“Mr Hinkle, this is the afterlife,” said the other man, who now stood from his chair and approached. “Is there a particular religion or belief system you identify with?” 

Jeremy thought about it for a moment. “You know, I’ve always suspected the afterlife was run by a group of retired secretaries. They’re always so organised and orderly, and if you’ve got people dying all the time, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to look after the paperwork.”

The man at the table put on his reading glasses and leafed through a book. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a department for that belief.”

“Then where do we send him?” asked the one who now stood in front of Jeremy. 

“Whatever we do, we can’t leave a paper trail. If anyone ever finds out he ate the pavlova, our careers will be over.”

“It’s only been thirty minutes — we could send him back down?”

Jeremy considered interrupting again, to remind them he was here and would perhaps like a say in his experience of the afterlife. However, the two men were too busy making plans, so he took a moment to study the window painting. 

“Okay, then it’s decided. We’ll send him down, shred the papers, and hope no one ever goes looking for them.” The man at the table slammed his palm against the desk. “And if he goes around telling everyone what he saw, chances are they’ll think he’s insane.”

The other man nodded in agreement. 

“Mr Hinkle, if you’d please come with us? It seems like there’s been a slight misunderstanding. We’d like to send you home.”

This sounded perfectly reasonable to Jeremy, so he followed them to the door. Before he stepped through the threshold into the darkness, he paused. 

“Do you have a customer service feedback form? I think I’d like to make some suggestions.”