Detective and Other Stories

By Dale Brabb

Introducing Phineas "Fin" Erkle, Detective Extraordinaire, and his sidekick Hank the pigeon, as he solves cases in a small city. If your cat is stuck in a tree, he's your man. If the paper-person keeps throwing your newspaper up on the roof, call him. He'll tirelessly spend shoe leather to discover what you've lost, how you've been cheated, or i

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luminare Press
• Release date: May 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781643889993

Dale Brabb

Dale Brabb has been writing poetry for fifty years. He studied poetry with John Haislip at the University of Oregon and has a Bachelor of Arts in English from that institution. He has previously published a collection of poetry titled A Gold Mine.

Book preview

Detective Stories

I

The detective

is a lonely hunter

I: A chrome-plated manure fork

Any kid just starting out dreams about what he or she wants to do upon reaching the old grownup phase of life. What kid hasn’t starred in his own highlight reel until, with the inevitability of age, the bulb burns out? What girl hasn’t seen herself lounging by the pool eating bon-bons while her famous movie-star hubby Marlon Heston is up to his elbows changing the sextuplets’ diapers? But then one rainy day the automobile of time drives by your chosen curb and all your fires of youth are doused by a cold splash from the mud-puddle of reality. No, Dorothy, they don’t need alligator wrestlers in Kansas. That’s why I advise kids to have a fallback position.

In my own case just the opposite happened. I always dreamed my destiny would be to follow in my dad’s footsteps as a garbage collector. I can still hear my mother tell him, Wipe your feet, Harold, who knows where your shoes have been? In my eyes my father was a hero. Larger than life he would hoist the cans of history up on his shoulder one by one. Then he would dump out the apple cores, the coffee grounds, the moldy pizza boxes of the past, gifting people with an empty receptacle to put the future in. My dreams went down the tubes when someone invented the dumpster. So I had to go to my fallback position and become a famous detective.

I know you’re saying there’s no connection between the two professions. I would say maybe you’ve missed the can, my friend, and the dogs of similarity are misconstruing your reasoning all over the back yard of undeniable truth. Sure your famous detective gets distinctions beyond those of the tireless unsung garbage collectors. Letters of commendation, medals of recognition, public adulation, and such, will come naturally to the successful detective, while all your garbage-man can hope for is the ubiquitous chrome-plated manure fork of retirement. But the two jobs really do have a lot of other things in common.

In both cases a refuse heap represents a kind of gold mine, the only difference being one is tasked to haul it away while the other sifts through it for clues (a word to the wise here, if you hear a garbage truck coming get out of the dumpster). The sights and smells of the city’s back alleys, the toothless shuffling bums on their early morning rounds, ferocious curs protecting their territory with bark and fang, the list of similarities goes on. Both are familiar with the seamy underside. Both get their hands dirty. Both enjoy a nap in the afternoon. See what I mean?

But after years in the detective business one stark difference stands out. My garbage-man dad had a nice house in the suburbs he came home to (Take those boots off outside, Harold!), a nutritious meal of macaroni and cheese on the stove to heat up (Keep stirring it, Harold, don’t burn the bottom of the pan again.), a hamper to put his dirty clothes in (I’m not touching those filthy overalls, Harold, wash them yourself!), and a wife to tell him to get his own beer out of the fridge. Lucky man. I have none of those advantages.

No, in my experience the detective is a lonely hunter (No woman in her right mind wants a man without a real job, Phineas, especially one who thinks his sidekick is a pigeon!). Yes, it’s true, I have yet to find the love of my life (The way you’re headed, Phineas, I’ll never have any grandkids.).

II: A swing and a miss

In spite of what my mother thinks I have played a few innings in the co-ed game between the sexes. I will grant you up to now I’ve mostly been a singles hitter, but that doesn’t mean I won’t ever hit a home-run, not by a long shot. It just hasn’t happened yet. I went for the curvy ball only to strike out, or gotten beaned by a knuckler that came out of nowhere. Too many times I’ve bailed away from a knock-down pitch down and in. I’ve been ready to go, on deck, when the other side retired early. I’ve been benched in favor of a more attractive pinch-runner. Anybody would get frustrated if it seemed like they couldn’t even get to first base! I suppose I’d have more success as a switch-hitter except I don’t swing that way.

But my mother’s right about one thing, Mrs. Phineas Erkle still hasn’t been penciled in on my line-up card of life. And while that’s true it’s not been from a lack of trying. I might be what you’d call a slow starter, I’ll admit it. A misspent youth turning over rocks looking for your odd butterfly would characterize my younger days. I never put women under the microscope like I should have, so when I came of an age I had no clue what they were up to. Hormonal surges just confused me. Any adolescent sperm I might have come up with were probably break-dancers instead of gold-medal swimmers. When I was thrown into the mix I just struck out ineffectually instead of knowing how to blend.

This led me to several misconceptions about your women-flock. A case in point would be my confusion between frails and molls. The truth is I wouldn’t know a frail from a moll if she jumped up and bit me on my barstool. All I know of either species is what I learned reading old who-dun-its. Unfortunately reality didn’t allow me to use such arcane knowledge for any useful purpose. I was unprepared for the playground of love, making it easy for women to wind me up like a tetherball. I had to learn love wasn’t some form of rope-burn.

You probably thought I knew what I was talking about earlier when I mentioned frails and molls, as if they came in separate containers like salt and pepper. I hope you were impressed with my absolute knowledge of the unknowable, that was my intent. The bottom line is I’ve never yet met a frail who didn’t have a lot of moll in her and vice verbatim, to use the vernacular. As soon as I think a woman is helpless and needs my protection I’d be far better off looking in a mirror, the deer in the spotlight looking back is the very definition of helplessness. Look up helpless in the dictionary, there’s my picture. And yet, even knowing my weakness I still bumble on from one Venus mantrap to the next. A trait, it turns out, which makes me irresistible to widowed spiders too, go figure.

But I try to keep a good thought. I also think a memory shouldn’t be too burdened so I’ve trained myself to forget readily. In short I’m still a sitting duck in a barrel. My friend Bill Dingle enjoys pointing it out to me.

Erkle, you’d buy girl-scout cookies from a hooker.

Ruby’s not a hooker, Dingle.

She’s not a girl scout either.

Yeah, but she had the macaroons, my favorite.

I’d laugh if it weren’t so pathetic.

But Bill, pathos is only one step on the road to empathy.

Or the road to pathogenic.

Maybe I should have ordered Mint Thins.

Why are you even here, Fin? Where’s Charlene?

I decided we needed some space. She agreed.

Wow, that’s surprisingly mature of you. It almost sounds like you’ve got a plan. What’s the next step?

She’s moving to Toronto.

I’m sorry, Erkle, you just don’t got no luck with the ladies.

Like you do?

I’ve been married four times already. I guess that’s more luck than you’ve had.

I hear you Bill. You’ve had both kinds of luck, bad and worse.

Ouch. That was wicked. Sometimes I get the feeling you’re not just another pretty face, Erkle.

You’ve got to admit there’s some women I get along with just fine.

Name one.

Okay. Ruby!! A couple more beers down here, please. And hey, could you mark me down for two boxes of the thin mints, too?

It’s the fishing channel, Dingle mocked. Look Vern, sucker’s swallered the hook!

I can’t quit you, Bill.

But he’s right, so far I ain’t had much luck with the ladies. So when I met Yvette the last thing I expected was she would change my entire outlook on the frightening, if necessary, co-mingling of the human species.

III: Setting a new broken record

Meeting Yvette was a painful experience. I’d seen her before, she waited tables at the Soup’s On Café. I couldn’t help but notice her, she was way different from the owner of the café (Yvette’s Aunt Berniece) who normally waited tables, Yvette was polite.

You’re probably thinking I went through my pathetic panting puppy routine with Yvette and tried to get a date but you’d be wrong. I watched several other patrons try it and all they got was a lapful of hot coffee. Besides I knew Yvette was only in town temporarily, not nearly enough time, I estimated, to have my heart properly drawn and quartered like it was used to. Berniece’s regular cook had tossed in his spatula and until she could hire another one, she was having to do the cooking herself. Since niece Yvette was between jobs she answered Berniece’s call, coming out from Seattle to help out.

Yvette was pleasant to look at, cheerful, and like I said before, polite. I could see a family resemblance between niece and aunt, although Berniece was three times bigger. But their temperaments couldn’t have been more different. Yvette must have gotten her mild disposition from her father’s side of the family.

As far as I knew Yvette hadn’t even noticed me. It wasn’t like I was trying to be the strong silent type as much as I didn’t want to say something stupid, so I just tried to be polite right back, chewed with my mouth closed and left her good tips. That’s probably as far as it would have gone with Yvette if she hadn’t run into me on the street one day. With her bicycle. I told you meeting her was painful.

I’m so sorry! She said, pulling the sprockets out of my leg.

My bad, I told her and it was true. I hadn’t been paying attention and I’d stepped off the curb right in front of her. It’s surprising I hadn’t gotten run over before then, trying to walk and think at the same time.

You’re bleeding.

I tried to make light of the situation. You think that’s bleeding? You should see me shave! She laughed and then went into nurse mode. I sat on the curb while she tried to clean my wound with a napkin.

Your pant-leg is torn too.

Nothing a little duct-tape can’t fix.

You know, I’ve seen you in the café but I don’t know your name.

The name is Phineas Erkle, but if that’s too much of a mouthful you can call me Fin, most people do.

Nice to finally meet you, Fin. I’m Yvette.

I know. And with that we were introduced.

Now I know I’m not what you’d call a hunk. I’m not exactly tall, I’m more in the dark than dark, and handsome is a stretch too, but Yvette must have liked what she saw. We started spending time together.

Since she had every afternoon off and my schedule is very fluid when business dries up, we’d go for walks around the city. I took her out to the track and although she didn’t have the confidence to place any bets she got very excited when I did. She would jump up and down, urging my horse on, and when the race was finished she’d throw her arms around me and give me a big hug no matter where my horse ended up. I wasn’t used to that kind of payoff, not that I’m too used to payoffs anyway.

I showed her my office and she was intrigued by all my detective stuff. She met Hank the pigeon, who seemed to like her better than he does me, but then again if you looked up suave in the dictionary you’d see Hank winking at you. When we went on walks I told her about cases I’d solved and she was always full of questions and comments.

I think you can see where I’m going with this, Yvette represented a side of womankind I’d never seen before. She was easy to talk to, enjoyed my company and didn’t put any pressure on me to buy her jewelry, expensive meals or even Louis the Fourteenth bedroom suites. I’m not the kind to kiss and tell, so I won’t, even though she was a great kisser.

So of course my heart broke into a million pieces when she went back to Seattle. Although we exchanged some letters and phone calls I think we both knew, even from the start, that the short time we had before us was all we were going to get. So although it ended just like every other relationship I’d ever experienced, with nothing more tangible than big sighs and a tear in the eye, at least my wallet wasn’t hooked up on life support afterwards. And I’d learned a very important thing besides, I learned women weren’t some alien species after all. They could be as human as I was, and better yet it was actually possible to get along with them.

I still had a long ways to go to understanding them womenfolk, I still do (I’m pretty sure one lifetime is not nearly enough), but it was a start anyway.

IV: Pearls are caused by irritation

Pearls are caused by irritation. There the oyster is just going about his business filtering seawater to make a living when a piece of sand or something gets in. The oyster may be okay with it at first but then it gets a blister, possibly, and the oyster suddenly has a second job. We humans call what the oyster is doing ‘making a nest egg’. If the oyster could talk it would also probably spit the piece of sand out because who needs the irritation?

If a detective doesn’t quit the business for a job that’s more lucrative, like working at the Seven Eleven, he’ll probably have to keep detecting at an age most people move to a golf community in Florida. To a detective a retirement plan involves buying lottery tickets twice a week. Medical benefits are a box of band-aids above the bathroom sink. A couple of paper sacks full of cans and bottles are your detective’s insurance policy, redeemable at the store for a nickel apiece. Haute cuisine is Chinese takeout you eat before it gets cold, after that it’s called cold leftovers. You see where I’m going with this?

Most women, maybe all of them, won’t be satisfied by any of the detective’s plans for the future or even the present, far-sighted as the detective thinks them to be. Women will not think a detective’s office is a suitable place to raise children, even if the detective has unselfishly squeezed in a Louis the Fourteenth bedroom suite first. No matter how well a detective can list all the satisfying arrangements he’s made for his lifestyle a woman can easily come up with an even longer list of its shortcomings.

Although your detective performs a vital service essential to maintaining civilization as we know it, there’s a good chance a woman client will disagree with your estimate of billable hours and try to stiff you. It’s tempting at that point to tell her the next time she loses her keys she can get down on her own hands and knees to find them, but such a stance is counter-productive. Bite your tongue and pretend to be happy with Jackson even if you had your heart set on Grant, to do otherwise would run the risk of upsetting the natural order of the universe.

But a detective’s biggest heartbreak (and I’m sure his mother agrees with this) will come if he’s dreamed about a houseful of little detectives making a patter with their little wingtip shoes. It ain’t going to happen. A butcher can easily raise an apron-wearing horde of heavy-thumbed offspring. A ditch-digger can seem to have a line of shovel-toting dwarves following him around singing Hi-ho, hi-ho. Even a garbage-man can sire children (Close the screen door! You’re worse than Harold about letting flies in the house.). But no woman in her right mind will place her children in jeopardy by putting her faith in a phone ringing when half the time she answers she finds it’s a wrong number. Detectives must be made since no sane woman would ever consent to giving birth to one.

Of course that still leaves a big segment of the female population out there, the ones who’re insane. And a dysfunctional detective who loves to court danger can have a field day with them until such time as he’s so bruised and battered he limps off to get a job at Seven Eleven.

It was Tina cured yours truly of being dysfunctional. A lesson I was lucky to learn. Of course it was costly, both my heart and my wallet suffered from Tina’s ravages. All she left me with was irritation but even that went away after time. Oysters should be so lucky.

V: A penny here, a penny there

Let me tell you how it happened. One day I was sitting at my desk going about my business, filtering seawater for a living, when the phone rang. It was Tina. She’d seen my flyer at the Laundromat and although she didn’t need me for any of the services I’d listed, she wondered if I might do something different if the pay was right.

That depends, I said. What exactly do you want me to do?

It’s not on the list, but are you a notary public?

I couldn’t help myself. No I’m a Democrat.

What did you say? Are you making fun of me? Her tone was sharp enough to cut barbed-wire. My light-hearted banter had succeeded in making her mad instead of getting the laugh I’d expected.

Sorry, I back-pedaled. What you’ve found there is an old list. I recently got a notary public seal and stamp. So the answer is yes, I could do it for you.

Look. Don’t ever yank my chain like that again, she warned me, but then gave me her address and told me to come over. She said she’d hire me if she liked me better in person. She said so far she didn’t like me very much, but her opinion might change if I dropped everything else I had going and got my butt over there and soon. If you’re used to relationships really being just a game of one-upmanship then you know Tina was already leading one to nothing.

The alarm bells were all going off, but like I said I was still dysfunctional back then so I ignored them. Besides, I needed a job as usual, any job, my wallet was flatter than one of Berniece’s dollar pancakes. So I beat wingtips over to Tina’s house.

So you’re the detective? She asked me when she’d let me in, looking me up and down. Mmm, not bad, I thought you’d be older.

I was flattered. Does that mean you like me better already? I kind of hoped she did, I certainly liked what I saw of her. The jeans she wore could’ve been painted on and her little cutoff t-shirt showed her belly-button while barely covering some other attractive assets.

I’m sorry if I sounded mean over the phone, Mr…

Erkle, but call me Fin.

Fin, she said it like she was tasting the word. Like I said, sorry. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. And with that she stepped close and kissed me on the lips.

I was lucky I didn’t pass out, my heart thrummed like truck tires on an overpass. I realized I had a lot on my mind too, it was like a blackboard, I love Tina written all over it. Alarm bells were going off someplace but the fireworks drowned them out. When my brain started working again the only smart thing I could think of to say was, Jeepers.

Tina led me over to the sofa, sitting close to me, her arm on the backrest behind me, her fingers playing with the hair on my neck. Tina was like that, she enjoyed touching. I found out later it wasn’t just me, Tina put the touch on everyone. Once she had me in her house she didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to talk about why she’d called me in the first place. We just sat there on the sofa chatting about this and that. Something in me warmed to her, maybe my thermostat, I took my hat off, my head felt hot.

She had just moved to town she told me. She’d been living with her uncle in Oklahoma City until he passed away. Then I had to get out of there, she said, brushing the hair away from her big brown eyes like she was wiping away a tear. My stomach got a catch in its throat.

Uncle Ray had been everything to her. He was all the family she’d ever had. I know that sounds odd, she must have had parents once upon a time, but I bought her storyline hooked and sinking fast. Tina was due to inherit everything but there was a problem with Uncle Ray’s will. She wasn’t worried, it would sort itself out soon, but she found she couldn’t stand to stay in the house they’d shared for so many years. Too many memories of happier times. So she crammed everything she could in a U-haul van and moved here to start over. Tina was sure her uncle would have approved.

Isn’t it kind of hard to be surrounded by all the same furniture? I asked.

They’re just things, she answered, and I’ve never cared about things. But that got us around to why she’d called in the first place. Her uncle would also have wanted her to insure her belongings, a fire could wipe her out.

Maybe you should have called an insurance agent, I suggested.

I did. They said I need an itemized list of everything I want to insure, witnessed and stamped by a notary public. With that she went over to a desk, my eyes following her every move, and searched through some papers. She found the one she was looking for and brought it back to the sofa. Then, her fingers once again twining through my neck hairs, we put our heads together to look over the list.

It all seemed to be in order. Going down the list she pointed out each piece of furniture to me, the values she’d placed on her things didn’t seem to be exorbitant, the bottom line came to about a thousand dollars. I didn’t see a problem verifying it and got out my notary public seal and stamp, showing her how it worked. Then we stamped the bottom of her list. I signed as a witness and she signed as the purchaser of service. Notary public fees aren’t set in stone so we negotiated a price, a Hamilton seemed to be enough.

I was kind of sorry our business was completed. Tina went over to the kitchen table, found her purse but then said she didn’t have any bills that small. Would it be all right if I paid you later when I get some change? She asked with a smile of promise.

Fine by me, I told her since it meant I’d have a chance to see her again. I knew my wallet wouldn’t be happy with my decision, but it’s not the boss of me, I am.

Do you mind doing something else for me?

If it’s within my power, I said confidently.

It’s the toilet. It doesn’t seem to stop running. I’m just a girl, I don’t know anything about things like that, my uncle used to take care of all the household stuff.

Probably the flapper, I told her, like I was an expert, show me to it.

The bathroom is off my bedroom, she pointed, I’d go with you but it’s so tiny I don’t think two people would fit in there, though it might be fun to try, giving me a seductive wink.

It took me about five minutes to fix it. Somehow a penny had gotten in the tank and was holding the flapper partly open so it didn’t close all the way. I didn’t even need any wrenches which was a good thing since I didn’t have any. When I came back into the living room to tell her what the problem was and that I’d fixed it, she was shuffling papers at her desk. I gathered up the tools of my trade and after promising to show her the sights and sounds of our little burg was soon walking merrily down the sidewalk whistling through a set of freshly kissed lips.

I never did get the Hamilton. It wasn’t clear what Tina’s nationality was but it sure wasn’t Dutch. Every time we went out it turned out to be my treat. Jacksons danced away after Grants to the tune of a Franklin quartet. The only thing that saved me from bankruptcy was her house burning down.

Supposedly she’d spent the weekend in Oklahoma City to find out what was going on with Uncle Ray’s will. She came back empty-handed to find her little house a pile of smoking ashes. The fire department had got there too late to save any of her belongings. Even then, like a love-struck simpleton I sprang for her motel room until she could get her hands on the insurance settlement. I thought I knew what chagrin was, but I definitely wasn’t grinning when she blew town without even saying goodbye after she’d cashed the check.

I’d been set up and knocked over by the bowling ball of love and I wasn’t the only one finding himself in the gutter. A week after Tina was gone I got a call from her insurance agent wanting to know if I’d seen her. Apparently the fire didn’t look so accidental any more and he wanted to get some of his fifteen grand back.

Fifteen grand?

The Louis the Fourteenth bedroom suite alone was worth five thousand. Why are you so surprised? There’s your signature right next to the notary public stamp.

And then it hit me. While I was in the bathroom fixing the toilet she’d used my stamp on a completely different list, why not? I’d showed her how to do it. The only thing saving me from having to pay back the insurance money myself was Tina hadn’t practiced enough before she forged my signature.

So what makes you think the fire wasn’t accidental? I asked him.

It’s like this. The investigator says when a gas furnace pilot-light goes out there’s an automatic shut-off that is supposed to keep the gas from pouring out anyway. Something had been wedged into the mechanism so the gas didn’t shut off like it was designed to do. When the house was full of gas he figures the pilot light on the kitchen stove set the whole thing off.

Does he know what was used to jimmy it?

A coin. For the first time since I’d picked up the ringing phone I wasn’t surprised.

Let me guess. A penny?

How did you know?

Knowing Tina, it only makes sense.

VI: The detective is a lonely hunter

I blame it on society. You’re supposedly missing something if you don’t find your ‘other half’, but since I never have I don’t know what I’m missing. If it is instinctive to try and find a mate then my episode with Tina should have caused me to mistrust my instincts. But as time’s salve finally healed my ruptured heart and a couple of lucrative jobs filled in the potholes of my wallet, I realized my instincts weren’t to blame after all. The warning signs had been there, I’d ignored them.

I could have blamed myself for being stupid but that was stupider than my original stupidity, besides it’s pretty difficult anatomically to kick yourself when you’re already down. I could have blamed Tina if I wanted to take a number and wait. No doubt, the way she was, plenty of other people were ahead of me with more filing in behind all the time. No, I decided to blame it on society. It was faceless, it was nameless, it was anonymous and it couldn’t kick back since it didn’t wear those sharp-toed Italian shoes. Bill Dingle didn’t agree.

Oh I agree society doesn’t wear Italian shoes, Erkle, I just disagree society is to blame. I think you should blame it on the drive to procreate, just look what it’s done to poor Hank.

I pondered Bill’s premise as I watched Hank bob and coo while he stuck plastic forks at pleasing angles around the edge of his condo on the windowsill. Society certainly hadn’t caused Hank to be who he was, he was a self-made bird-brain who had obviously missed that day in pigeon school when they taught it was supposed to be the female making the nest. Is the drive to procreate what caused you to get married so many times, Bill?

Heck no, he answered. I did that for tax purposes.

As the polar bear said, ‘you’re not here for the hunting are you?’

As time went on I came to the conclusion pinning the blame anywhere was pointless. I was who I was, a guy who put his wingtips on one at a time and then marched to the beat of his own marimba. It was wrong to think society was full of individuals who were then supposed to all act alike. It’s common knowledge society would stagnate were it not for different people making a difference. I resolved to be okay with being different as long as I wasn’t so different society would hunt me down and poke me with sharp sticks.

Because think about it, what were my choices anyway? On the one hand I could quit being a detective and get a real job. That would make me more ‘normal’, more eligible, my ‘other-halfs’ would be lining up for a chance at me. I could look forward to the stability of going home each night, my help-meet and I sharing the responsibilities of Hamburger Helper, potty-training and folding diapers by the light of the late show.

On the other hand I could continue being an anti-social detective, keeping no regular hours, napping in the afternoon, and only have to answer to my wallet when I make dumb bets at the track. The only woman I’d be likely to find as a detective, according to my mother, would be No woman in her right mind. My experience has been I don’t have to try and find that kind of woman, they’ll usually find me first, even if I’m trying to hide from them.

No, I think the best thing to do is keep doing what I’m doing. Let the ships passing in the night fall where they may. Perhaps all the Yvettes of my life have already come and gone. It’s a possibility neither Hank nor I will ever procreate. I can’t speak for him but I’m at peace with the thought myself. If I must find consolation, I’ll console myself with the fact my work is just too important. Love is going to have to stay on my back burner and I’ll leave cleaning that pan to the next poor slob setting up his shingle. Because Phineas Erkle, Detective Extraordinaire, is a busy man and can’t even think about quitting now. His wingtips are in mid-stride.

The little bell tinkles as I step into the Mini-Mart. Madge gives me a smile and I approach the counter.

How high’s the jackpot, Madge?

Four and a half mil, Fin.

How can I lose? Give me a couple of tickets and for something different, make ‘em the quick-pick.

Madge gave a peal of laughter, a sound much like a plate glass window shattering. You always take the quick pick. You’re a detective, why don’t you use your deductive skills and come up with your own special numbers?

I got no head for figures, Madge, except yours. Another window broke. I put my two dollars on the counter, she punched some buttons and the machine whirred to life.

Tell me something, Fin, what would you do if you won the jackpot?

I’d do what I’ve always dreamt of since I was a kid. I’d purchase a brand-new garbage truck, get a route and live my dream.

Really?

Nah. I’d buy a lifetime supply of wingtips for me, a popcorn machine for Hank and then keep detecting until the money was gone.

Madge handed me my weekly lottery tickets. I bet all the single women in town would suddenly need your services.

You’re probably right. Every job has its downside, I said with a sad smile.

Oh come on, my guess is you’re quite the lady’s man and that jackpot would give you a pretty little nest egg.

Oysters don’t wear wingtips, Madge, and besides I only got eyes for you. More glass crashed merrily.

They broke the mould when they made you, Fin Erkle.

Don’t I know it. Stepping out of the little store I breathed in the unique smell of this board-game city I’d chosen for my own. Was it mystery in the air or just the dumpster by the fish market? Somewhere there was a case developing that only I could solve. I tipped my hat to a pretty manikin in the window of the bridal shop and headed down the sidewalk. The morning sun felt warm on my back.

I noticed my wingtips were automatically tracking something, but the wheels are always turning and I soon realized I had unerringly been following my own shadow.

The detective is a lonely hunter.

II

Phineas Erkle,

Detective Extraordinare

The detective tells all

I: Let me introduce myself

I am a detective. My name is Phineas Erkle, but if you can’t get your mouth around that, call me Fin. I run a detective agency I call ‘Phineas Erkle, Detective Extraordinaire’ (Okay, it’s not really an agency, it’s just me, but you have to admit when I call it an agency it sounds more like a going concern than if I called it One Guy Wearing Wingtips or something).

You’re probably saying to yourself right now, Gee, that’s a pretty snappy name for a detective agency, and it’s true. Granted there will be people who are put off by the foreign word I used there, ‘extraordinaire’, because they’re afraid when they call me I’m going to start babbling foreign at them, well they don’t need to be. I speak American just like everybody else in town.

But because I have a natural ear for languages I have picked up a second language, which I would use were I to travel abroad (or by myself for that matter), called English. I’m a little rusty at it, the accent is tricky, but I brag about being bilingual here for two reasons: number one, it allows me to sprinkle foreign words around (like ‘extraordinaire’) thereby coming off