Where's George?

Author's forward: In college, I wrote a short story about a frying pan murder and it (surprisingly) won a small reward for second place, I think? I have no idea where that story is now, but I had so much fun writing it that I decided to try and attempt to recreate the scene in a slightly different way. It was in vain. This isn't nearly as funny as it was in college - but I hope it's still funny enough to get some chuckles. It's written entirely for fun, so I hope you enjoy!

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"Oh, thank goodness you're here, officer!"

I looked up from my pad to see who I assumed was Mrs. Harrison, a little old lady of about 76 years of age, standing there in the doorway. I put on my usual smile and glanced back into the house curiously. "What seems to be the problem, ma'am?"

"Well, it's my husband." She shook her head, shifting from one foot to the other.

"Your husband, ma'am? Is he alright?"

"I'm afraid not," Mrs. Harrison said, small face grave. "He's dead."

I paused, unsure if she meant that he was dead in the house, or outside, or if he had been dead for years. In that moment of silence, the two of us stared at one another until I was able to speak. "I'm sorry?"

"I found him this morning."

Suddenly alert, I frowned. "This morning, ma'am?"

"Yes, I found him this morning just laying out on the floor and I thought, 'Goodness, George! Can't you at least make it into bed?'" The little old lady, Mrs. Harrison, clucked her tongue in a disapproving manner.

"And is he ... still on the floor, ma'am?"

"Well now, that's the thing." She said, as if suddenly remembering something important. "He's not at all on the floor anymore. In fact, I just can't seem to find him!"

There was another moment of silence between us. "I'm sorry, ma'am, if he's dead how did he move? Did someone come and get him?"

"No," she said, tapping her mouth with a bony finger. "No, no one's come to get him."

"Are you... certain he's dead? Maybe he just fell asleep and then got up while you were in the bathroom?" She still hadn't moved from the door, and I was uncertain if I should push my way in or not. It was entirely possible that she had hallucinated the entire encounter.

"Oh, no." She waved her hand here, shaking her head. "No, there was too much blood for him to be alive."

"Blood?" Alarm bells went off again and I suddenly put on my serious cop-face. Cop-face sometimes helped hurry a situation. "Ma'am, may I come in and see where your husband is?"

"I told you," she replied, eyes wide and confused. "He's gone."

"Well, then, can I see where he was?"

"Oh, yes, certainly." She shuffled out of the way, chattering. "But you know he's not there anymore so there's not much point in seeing the spot. He's just up and gone. I don't know how, but that's the problem. George is dead and he's gone."

I nodded to her politely and stepped into the house. It was a nice house, as little houses go, and had the stereotypical cleanliness that was associated with the older generation. "Which way is the kitchen, ma'am?"

"It's right there to your left, young man." Mrs. Harrison said, pointing around me to a door a bit further up to the left. "But you won't find him there."

Ignoring her prattle about him being gone, I strode through the hall and turned into the kitchen. I stopped, frowned, and turned back to the old woman. "Ma'am, there's nothing here."