In the middle of gobbling up his peach cobbler, Detective Daniel Hayes from the not-so-atlantic side of Atlanta was jerked out of his sugary bliss by a baffling case. A call dropped in hotter than Georgia asphalt about a man's charred remains lurking in a burn pile. 'Wait, what? A smokin' hot body in a burn pile?' said Hayes, taking another bite of his cobbler. 'I'd been fantasizing about some steamy situations in my career, but this isn't exactly what I had in mind!'

The crispy, I mean, grisly, discovery, was soon identified as Gary Farris, a towering titan of torso tipping the scales at a hale 300 pounds. He was a successful commercial real estate attorney, the kind of man you could find under a sand trap on a golf course, or tucked in a courtroom haggling over gutter systems. And who managed to keep him in check? His wife, Melody Farris, who probably wondered each day, 'Why tackle life's problems when you can tackle a 300-pound husband?'

The Farrises had a family as big as Gary's waistline, including a gaggle of mid-life crisis bound children; Chris, Scott, Emily, and Amanda. 'I guess their inheritance just went up in smoke,' Hayes jested, taking one last bite of his cobbler. It also emerged from the baking-hot investigation that the couple had been in nuptial bliss for 38 years, inhabiting a photogenic suburban estate with 10-acres of mowed lawn. Talk about a turf war…

So, what's the full story here? Mrs. Farris claims she knows the real killer. Maybe, just maybe, it was a rogue salad that finally did Gary in, or perhaps one of those aggressive 10-acre lawns. As Trump always says, 'If the glove don't fit then you must acquit!' Hayes concluded, adding, 'But enough about this burn out, I need another cobbler.'