The Disappearance

By William A. Glaser, 2001

A knock on the front door echoed through my office where I sat reading the newspaper.  I made a mental note of my spot in the obituaries, unfolded my long legs from their resting place on my desk, and in two strides was at the door.  As I gripped the doorknob, I wondered who would be out on a dark, blustery night like tonight.  Must be a disappearance, I concluded.  Just the night for one.  The door opened on an attractive young lady. 

“Is Mr. Miner in?” she asked.

“That is my name,” I replied glancing with pardonable pride at the brass plaque on my door: James P. Miner: Detective.  “Won’t you step in?”

As the young lady stepped into the room I was able to survey her more closely.  She was of average height for a woman, coming well past my elbow, and appeared to be around twenty.  As I said before, she was very attractive.  She wore a becoming dress and had lovely long hair.  I motioned for her to take a seat in my client chair and, putting on my best Sherlock Holmes manners, inquired, “Your name ma’am?”

“Susan Price.”

“Alright, Miss Price, who is it that has disappeared?”

“How did you know that it was a disappearance?” she asked, a look of surprise on her worried face.

“Oh, disappearances always happen on dark nights like tonight,” I replied.  (I had learned growing up that you could always get a little brother to disappear if the night is dark enough.) 

“Well,” the young woman said, “you are right.  A man has disappeared.”

I was glad to be correct, but needed more information.  “When did this occur?”

“About half an hour ago.  I came to you as soon as I realized that he was truly gone.”

“Who was this man?”

“John Pemberton,” she answered with a slight blush.

I could tell we were not getting anywhere quickly with the question and answer method. “Please go over the whole thing, from first to last.”

“Well, he came over to our house this evening to talk to my father about...something important.”  Here she blushed again. 

This man must have had some financial business with her father that she is hesitant to talk about, I surmised.  I did not like to probe unnecessarily into family matters, so I pretended not to notice.

She proceeded: “We were waiting for my parents to get home, and were talking in the living room.  I went into the kitchen for a moment, and when I came back, John – Mr. Pemberton that is – was gone!  The front door was not completely shut, and when I went to close it I heard a noisy vehicle – a pickup or a motorcycle – drive off.  My parents got home about then, and I saw that J…I mean, Mr. Pemberton’s…car was still there.”  Here she paused and appeared almost at the point of tears.  She seemed rather worried over a mere friend of her father’s, but I realized that it was a natural result of the shock.   She continued, “I told my parents all about it, then came to you.”  

“Hmmm,” I mused aloud, “ sounds suspiciously like a kidnapping.  Tell me, do you know of any particular enemies this man might have?”

“No, none at all.  He is a cook at the Pear Tree Cafe, and his cooking is quite popular.”

I decided that I definitely wanted to find this man, for I was always eager to try good cooking.

“I guess the next thing to do is to investigate the scene of the disappearance,” I said, “but first, what does this man look like?”

“I have a picture of him here,” she answered shyly through her tears, and she pulled a wallet-size picture out of her purse. 

Smart girl, I mused, She already acquired a picture of him to aid in the search.  The man I saw in the picture was younger than I expected and fairly good-looking. 

“Mmmm, thank you,” I said after a scrutinizing look.  “Shall we go?”

She had walked to my office, so we both rode in my Ford to her house.  Her parents had become rather worried about her walking all the way across town in the dark.  After introductions, the first thing I did was to inspect the front door.  It did not produce any clues (all fingerprints had been obliterated), so we went into the living area.  I combed the room, but found nothing except a dull penny under the couch cushions.  I made a few scrutinizing circles outside the house, finding only two pairs of smudged boot prints on the front step.  Mr. Pemberton’s car was rather cluttered, and yielded no definite clues.  When I had finished this investigation I questioned Miss Price some more.   “What exactly did you go into the kitchen for, and how long were you there?”

“I went in to cut a piece of pie for John; it could not have been more than a minute and a half,” she replied.

“Do you mind if I try some of the pie?” I asked.  A man in my job could not afford to leave any channels of evidence untried.

 They did not mind, so I tried three slices (it was peach pie) and then took my leave, promising to continue the investigation first thing the next morning.

As it was only nine o’clock, I drove over to Al’s Grill, my favorite late-night stop.  I entered the smoke-filled room to the familiar sound of tinkling glass. 

“Sorry Al, I forgot to duck again,” I said, as I looked down at the broken globe from the chandelier.

“That’s all right Jim,” Al replied from his position behind the counter, “I’m going to raise that thing someday, make it easier for you tall guys.”

I was not really that tall – only six foot five – but short people liked to feed their ego by pretending that it was unusual to be of respectable size.

“Is Ermadine cooking again?” I asked, referring to the smoke.

“Yes,” Al replied with a grimace, “She’s not a bad cook, but she...well...she’s got her own style.   I would like to hire a cook from out of town in her place, but I don’t have the heart to get rid of her.”

“Well,” I said, trying to be polite, “this place would sure be different without her.”

By this time Al was sweeping up the broken chandelier globe so I made my way to my usual booth in the corner.  As I absentmindedly glanced through the menu, which I had memorized, I thought about the disappearance case.  It was obvious to me that the man had been kidnapped, but where to find him was a difficult matter indeed.  I decided that I needed to be on the lookout for two men in muddy boots, who drove a noisy pickup.  That narrowed it down to only a few thousand farmers and hillbillies in the surrounding area.  I had scarcely finished this analysis when I saw Ermadine chugging her way toward me, ready to take my order.  Some of the regulars at Al’s Grill called her Eclipse Ermadine, a name that I will not expound upon.

Erma had never married, and was always trying to snag a husband.  You had to be careful when talking to her; Joe Simmons had accidentally gotten himself engaged to her three times. 

“How’s my sweet baboo?” she asked as her shadow darkened my table.

On my guard, I replied, “I don’t know, I’ll ask him next time I see him.”

“Oh, Jimmy, I was talking about you,” she cooed.

“I’m sorry, but I am not your sweet baboo, Ecli...I mean, Erma.”

“Are you saying that you wish you were?!” she cried happily.

“No,” I declared, rather disgusted, “I meant that I am sorry for you.”

Ignoring this, she asked, “Are you on a case?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” I replied.  “A man has disappeared, and it’s my job to find him.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find him, Jimmy-poo – you always do.”

She was mistaken; I had actually failed to find a missing man for a client once.  Some singer named Presley or something. 

After I got Erma to stop talking and bring me a slice of apple pie and a root beer, I returned to my musing over the disappearance.  I would start tomorrow by checking back by the Price’s, trying the missing man’s house, and then the diner that he had worked at before he disappeared.  My thoughts kept returning to Susan Price, who seemed a very nice young woman.  Being an unmarried man, I was always on the lookout for nice young women. 

“Are you finished yet Jimmy dear?” came Erma’s voice, and I became aware of her imposing presence once again.

Maybe I should be more specific than “nice young women,” I decided.  Some women tried to be too nice.

I finished my meal hurriedly, to get away from Erma, and drove back to my office.  Once there I finished reading the paper, and then went to bed in the back room.

 

The next morning the rain had settled to a drizzle.  After my wake-up coffee and a breakfast at Al’s, I drove by the Price’s.  They had still received no news of the missing man, and were becoming more and more worried.  I reassured them, saying that in my experience at least fifty percent of kidnapped persons were found, and that many of these were found alive.  I decided to inspect Mr. Pemberton’s car more thoroughly.  While digging in the ashtray, I found something that I had missed the night before.  It was a note scrawled in pencil, and it read:

John,

I got the Davidson-Frye job lined out for Saturday the 18th.  Come to my place tonight if you want to help me with the dough.  

– Bob 

This was something interesting indeed.  Davidson and Frye Jewelers was a prospering establishment in town.  It sounded like this Bob person was planning to rob the jewelry store, and Mr. Pemberton was an accomplice. 

I needed to dig into this lead immediately.  Since I didn’t want to get the Prices excited (I was excited enough myself), I tucked the note in my shirt pocket and left, saying I would keep in touch throughout the day.  I wanted to think this clue over without distractions, so instead of going to Al’s Grill, I maneuvered my Ford back to my office.

Once seated at my desk, I absentmindedly scanned the morning’s obituaries as I processed the information.

It appeared that the man named Bob had offered John Pemberton the chance to make some money by helping rob Davidson and Frye Jewelers.  This meant that the jewelry store would have to be watched next Saturday, and John Pemberton might have to be put in jail as soon as I found him.  But how did this fit in with the apparent kidnapping?  This Bob would not want to kidnap Pemberton unless…yes, that was it!  John Pemberton had talked to Bob, and told him he didn’t want to take part in the robbery; then Bob had gotten scared that Pemberton would divulge the plot, and had abducted him to keep him out of the way.  If this was the case, then all I needed to do was find this man Bob, and I could probably find Pemberton.  But there were hundreds of men named Bob, and a man planning to commit a crime would probably lay low.

I was so caught up in my analysis that without thinking I turned from the obituaries, and began reading the nuptials; I usually avoided this section, as it was too depressing.  A heading caught my eye:

DAVIDSON-FRYE

Jennifer Davidson and George Frye are engaged.  The Bride elect is the daughter of Harold and Julie Davidson.  She is a graduate of St. Johns Private Academy and works as assistant secretary at Davidson and Frye Jewelers.  Her fiancé is the son of Albert and Roberta Frye.  He is a graduate of Central High, and is currently a sales clerk at Davidson and Frye Jewelers.  A wedding is planned for the eighteenth of this month at St. John’s Catholic Church.  

Astonished, I pulled the note I had found out of my pocket and read it again:

John,

I got the Davidson-Frye job lined out for Saturday the 18th.  Come to my place tonight if you want to help me with the dough.  

– Bob 

Beginning to think along a new channel, I snatched up my phonebook and flipped to the yellow pages.  I glanced at “Wedding” and “Photography,” then “Catering,” under which I found the following:

Pearson’s Bakery and Catering

Master Chef Robert Pearson

Weddings – Parties – Business Events.

I committed the address of the bakery to my memory, jumped in my Ford, and soon pulled up in front of the nice little shop.  As I entered, an aproned man came to the counter from the back.   “Hello, what can I do for you?”

“James Miner, private detective,” I introduced myself, “do you mind if I ask a few questions?”

“Not at all,” he replied.

“You’re Robert Pearson?” I queried.

“Yes, but call me Bob.”

“Alright, Bob,” I continued, “Do you know a man named John Pemberton?”

“Yes I do,” he answered, “John was over here just last evening to help me with a recipe I am concocting.”

“And you are going to use your new recipe when you cater for the Davidson and Frye wedding a week from today,” I stated.

“Why yes,” he agreed. “Did John tell you that?”

“Not exactly,” I said.  “You see, John is missing, and I am trying to find him.”

“Missing?” the man gasped. “Goodness, I hope he isn’t hurt or anything.”

“Well, we will see,” I said. “Thank you for your help.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “I hope you find him; John’s a good guy.”

I left the store somewhat disheartened over the abrupt shattering of what seemed a solid lead.  Nonetheless, I was determined to continue my search, so I again drove to the Price’s.  After chatting with Susan for a minute, I received from her directions to Mr. Pemberton’s apartment and proceeded directly there.  Susan had told me that Pemberton shared the apartment with a college student, and I wanted to talk to him.  After four minutes of knocking (this was Saturday of course), the door was opened by a disheveled young man who I assumed was Pemberton’s roommate.  It took seventeen more minutes of my valuable time (standing in the drizzle) to make the fellow understand that John Pemberton had disappeared.  He said that he had been watching television last night and hadn’t noticed that John had not come in.  No, he said, he did not know who would have wanted to kidnap John, and wasn’t it my job to find that out?  I concluded that further efforts here would be fruitless, so I drove across town to the Pear Tree diner. 

As I entered, the scrawny teenager slouched at the counter looked up, “You can, like, seat yourself.”

“May I speak to the person in charge?” I asked, ignoring his languid greeting.

“Uh, just a minute dude,” he mumbled and shuffled toward the back.  He returned with a middle-aged woman. 

“May I help you sir?”

“I’m James Miner, a detective,” I began.  “It seems that John Pemberton, who worked here at your diner, has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” the woman exclaimed in surprise. “How on earth could that happen?”

“That is what I am trying to find out, but it appears that he was kidnapped.”

“My goodness!” was her appropriate comment.

“Do you know of anyone who would have reason to kidnap him?” I queried.

“Why no,” she said, “not that I know of.  He was very popular because his cooking was so good.”

“Hmmm,” I said in deep thought.  “Have there been any people in your diner recently who were at all suspicious?”

“Well,” she replied, “we always get interesting people in here, but no one really suspicious.”

I thanked the woman, ordered a piece of apple pie, and took a seat in the back corner of the diner.  I had run into another dead end.  By this time, Mr. Pemberton might be in Mozambique, or who knows where.  As I downed the pie (it didn’t have quite enough cinnamon), I kept an ear open to the conversation around me.  

“Those guys, like, always make a mess,” the aproned boy was grumbling as he swished lethargically with a mop.

“I’m glad John finally stood up to them,” the woman remarked. 

“Yeah,” the kid agreed, a faint glimmer of enthusiasm crossing his pimpled face.  “It was cool when they like, ya’know, got mad and stuff,”

A thought struck me like a swinging door!  I quickly finished my pie, hardly tasting it.  As I paid my tab, I tried to act nonchalant, “Did I hear you say that somebody got angry at Mr. Pemberton?”

“Yes,” the woman replied, “John made some customers pay their bill, and they got a little bit livid about it.”

“I didn’t catch their name,” I probed.

“Boneman is their last name,” the woman said.  “Hank and ohhh…what’s-his-name.”

“Bubba,” I provided, remembering what I had heard about the brothers.

“You know of them?”

“A little – the Sheriff has told me about them,” I said. “Undoubtedly, they drive a noisy pickup?”

“Yes, it sounds like it has no muffler.”

This information had started to excite me, but I didn’t fail to note that the woman’s mechanical knowledge was above average – she knew what a muffler did.  I thanked her again for her time, and drove back to my office.  There, I put on some leather boots, and traded my everyday coat for my oilskin, strapping on my .44 underneath.

As I headed to the Price’s, I pondered my course of action:  I would drive out to the hills and try to find the Boneman’s place, where I guessed I would find some clues, if not John himself.  I had seen the Bonemans from a distance once, and Sheriff Smith had further warned me about them.  They went by the names of Hank and Bubba.  Hank was not too tall – only six foot one or two – but tough nonetheless.  Distrustful, sneaky, and a terrible liar, with a little refinement he could have a career in politics.  Bubba was larger than Hank, and not very bright.

 Susan met me at the door. 

“Would you like to take a drive?” I asked.  “I have a possible lead.”  

“Really?” her pretty brown eyes brightened.

“Do not expect too much, but this is the best try so far.  Is your father home?” I continued.

“No, he and Mother are gone right now, but they said I could go with you if you needed me.”

I was glad to hear that I could take her along; I didn’t tell her that every man needs a woman.  After Susan left a note to her parents (we wanted no more disappearances) and got a coat, we headed out of town.  I had been raised a country boy, and the wet fields and woods greeted me like an old friend. 

Susan and I chatted as we drove along, finding that we had many of the same convictions. 

“I suppose you plan on getting married someday?” I asked, trying to act casual.

“Well, to be honest,” she said, “I would despair of ever getting married if it wasn’t for you.”

These words produced quite an effect on me.  She is rather bold, I thought, but then concluded that she was just being truthful.  Over the past nineteen and one half hours, I had come to admire Susan, and her words convinced me to approach her father about courtship and marriage.  Yes, it was a rather short time to get to know her, and not very romantic; but I was a man to act quickly when my mind was made up. 

My sister had once said that I was about as romantic as a pig, but of course this was not true.  I had seen pigs stand with their slobbery snouts almost touching, staring into each other bleary eyes, and I was not nearly romantic enough for that.

Shaking myself from this reverie, I asked, “Would it work for me to come over to your place tomorrow after church?  I have some things I would like to discuss with your father.”

“Yes, we would be glad to have you,” she answered, then added with a sigh, “And hopefully John will be found by then.”

“I am inclined to think he will,” I said.

She gave me one of her charming smiles.

We were getting up into the hills, and I did not know exactly where the Boneman’s place was.  I slowed to a stop where a soggy old fellow was leaning on a fencepost, or else holding it up – it was hard to tell which. 

“Can you direct me to Boneman’s place?” I asked out the window.

The man contemplated me as if my words contained some hidden meaning.  The question finally sunk in, and he drawled, “Ya’ mean them rascally brothers?”

I answered in the affirmative.

“Wull, young feller, ya’ head down yonder a spell an’ turn at Houn’ Crick, then foller that road a piece.  Oncet the gravel turns t’ dirt, hold right fur a few turns, go a might futher, and ya’ cain’t miss thar road.”

“Thanks,” I said.  The man nodded a slow salutation, and watched expressionlessly as we drove off.

“Can you make sense of those directions?” Susan asked.

“Why sure,” I grinned, “nothing to it.”

After we had gone a few spells and held right a few times, an old house appeared off in the trees.  I guided the Ford into what seemed to be a driveway, and stopped.

My heart began to beat rapidly as I climbed out into the rain, motioning Susan to stay in the pickup.  From my vantage point, I surveyed the rundown house.  The sagging roof wanted shingles, and the rotting porch was covered with bottles and wet newspaper. The muddy yard was littered with tires, and the brothers’ rusty pickup (without a muffler) was parked under a dead oak.  Two enormous hounds that lay on the step awoke and began bawling at me. 

Just then a shotgun barrel poked from a window and a gravelly voice called out, “Wudduya’ want?”

“I am James Miner, and I want Mr. Pemberton,” I announced, playing that card first.  (I also wanted the Remington 12-gauge that was behind the seat in my pickup; my .44 was not accurate at this distance.)

“We ain’t got him,” the voice – I thought it was Hank’s – yelled back.

I decided to risk a few Holmes-like deductions:  “I know that you were angry at Mr. Pemberton last night, so you followed him to the Price’s house to scare him a bit.  You did not intend to kidnap him, but circumstances falling as they did, you ended up taking him.”  

No immediate answer came, so I decided, since I had gone this far, to dare one more guess:  “You were terribly scared of all the trouble you had caused, so you were going to take him back to town today – after he had cooked you a few good meals.  You hoped that he would not make a big deal about this.

“Now, just let me have John and I won’t tell the sheriff a thing concerning this matter.  And I also won’t tell him about the moonshine you are selling without a license.”  (Here I risked another well-grounded guess.)

There was silence following my speech, and the gun barrel withdrew from the window.  Soon the front door opened and Hank and Bubba walked cautiously out, followed by a cityish-looking man I took to be Pemberton.  I let out a sigh of relief, helped Susan out of the pickup, and led her over to the three men.  Hank was eyeing me suspiciously and still gripped the shotgun.

“Alright gentlemen,” I began, “as I said, I don’t want to make a big deal out of this incident, let’s simply forget it.”

“Uh…sure,” Bubba stuttered, as if shocked by the proceedings.

Susan had been beaming up at John, but now turned her attention to the brothers.  “If you are so desperate for good cooking, why do you not get married?”  (Women always seem to be thinking of such things.)

“Aw shucks ma’am,” Hank said sheepishly, “the thing of it is, we ain’t found any gals like you.”

I wasn’t convinced that this was the whole reason, but a thought came to me, and I remarked with feigned regret:  “You know boys, it really is a pity that you are up here pining for the comforts of married life, and here I know a woman in town who would give anything for a husband.  It is just too bad,” here I shook my head, “life isn’t fair.” 

Bubba looked up in interest, “What’s her name?”

“Yes,” I ignored his question, “it is a shame that many a bachelor and many a spinster go through life without so much as meeting.”

“Bubba done asked who this gal was,” Hank declared irritably.  “I ain’t keen on gettin’ tied down just yet, but I’d like to get him set up.”

“Her name is Erma, she cooks at Al’s Grill, but I doubt if you would like her.”

“She cooks?” asked Bubba, with interest.

“You done heard him,” snapped Hank at his brother, and then addressed us gruffly, “I don’t want to hold ya’ll up.”

I took his hint, and led Mr. Pemberton and Susan over to my pickup.  We climbed in (rather wet by this time) and I pointed our bumper back toward town.  I introduced myself to John, and then he told his story.  The Bonemans had come to the Pear Tree Café the previous afternoon, and tried to leave without paying their bill.  John accosted them, and when he threatened to call the police, they angrily paid their tab and stomped out.  After work, John went Pearson’s Bakery and helped Bob with his new recipe.  He then proceeded to the Price’s, and while Susan was getting him a piece of pie, a knock sounded on the door.  John answered it, and was pulled violently outside.  The Bonemans revealed their identities, and claimed they were going to do dreadful things to Pemberton.  A car turned down the street just then, scaring the brothers, so they pulled John into their pickup and roared off.   By the time they reached their shack, John could tell that they were very nervous.  He slept on the floor with the dogs, which kept licking his face.  In the morning, the brothers had made him bake some pies and cookies, but they were jumpy and he thought that they would take him back to town after dark.

“So,” he concluded, “I was not hurt and, thanks to you Mr. Miner, a conflict was avoided.  I believe the Boneman brothers will think twice about doing something like this again.”

“I think you are correct in that,” I agreed, “but please call me Jim.” 

John and Susan chatted away as women and loquacious men do.  I remained quiet except for an occasional relevant comment.  In my periods of silence, I mulled over the attributes of this case.  It had been a classic example of the theory that the obvious is usually the hardest to detect.  The primary lead that I had followed seemed plausible because of its intricacies; but the real explanation lay in something that appeared too simple.  The details of this case seemed like something an amateur detective writer would come up with.  Ah, but that was how it went in my line of work!

In was dusk by the time we reached the Price’s.  I stepped inside to talk over the solving of the disappearance, and receive the usual compliments as to my detective skills.  I confirmed with Mr. Price that the next afternoon would work to talk to him about something, and then managed to pull myself away from the animated, post-mystery conversation.  As I was leaving, I heard John say, “And now we can talk over the matter that I had planned last evening, Mr. Price.”  Yes, I remembered, they seemed to have some financial business that Susan was hesitant to speak of.

Taking up and solving a case in less than twenty-one hours had been quite a strain.  I skipped my stop at Al’s, and just cooked up some bacon and eggs in the living quarters behind my office.  I fell asleep thinking about what I would say to Mr. Price.

The next morning in church, my mind was so distracted with thoughts of Susan that I missed the pastor’s third sermon point and sang a wrong note on the bass part to “The Solid Rock.”  I ate lunch at the Pear Tree Diner (John did not work weekends), and took a brisk walk to the Price’s house, still dressed in my coat and tie.

I was putting the finishing touches on my speech when I neared their house.  I met John Pemberton getting out of his car.

“Good afternoon, John,” I greeted him cordially.

“Hello Jim,” he said with a big smile, “I’m glad I caught you.  I want to ask you something.”

“I am all ears.” (I said this in a figurative way.)

“Would you be the best man in our wedding?”

“Your wedding?” I asked incredulously, still thinking of my own plans.

“Yes,” John replied, “Susan’s and mine.”

I paused to control my shock and nausea, and then inquired, “You and Susan Price are going to be married?”

“Yes,” he answered.  “That is what I was going to talk to Mr. Price about on Friday night, but it got delayed till last evening.  We decided that since you were sort of responsible for bringing us back together, you should be a part of our wedding.”

I did not know if I was very glad about the part I had played, since it ruined my own plans, but I responded graciously. “Sure, I would be happy to be your best man.”

 “Great,” he smiled.  “Let’s go in, they are waiting for us.”

“Um, I will be with you in a minute,” I said. “I have something to attend to.”

As John went into the house, I walked dejectedly out of sight of the house and stopped, leaning against a maple.  So John and Susan had been in love all along?  That would explain many things.  Maybe I was not such a good detective.  Since I no longer had anything to talk to Mr. Price about, I considered going home.  But Susan had said something about pie had she not?  Maybe we could talk about history or politics or something.  I would postpone brooding over my failed endeavor until I could get back to my office – and until after I had some pie.

 

***

 

The pie was blackberry, and very good.  Mr. Price and I had an excellent discussion of the War Between the States, he being quite a history buff.  The others listened to our conversation, and John made some uneducated remarks about Lincoln and Grant.  He then decided to go with Susan on a walk – something he was better at.  It pained me a little to watch the way they looked at each other, but I just focused harder on my commentary of Jackson’s Valley Campaign.

I took my leave as evening approached, bidding John and Susan my congratulations.  After a good supper at Al’s Grill, I returned to my office, my ears still ringing from Erma’s chatter about a wonderful man she had met who loved her cooking, and was so cute, and they were going to be married next week, and she was going to quit her job, and Al would have to find a replacement, and…. 

I slumped in my chair disconsolate, sympathizing with people I had read of who died because of lost love.  I contemplated throwing myself off a bridge, writing a country song, or something else drastic, but decided it was not worth the effort.  Instead, I picked up the newspaper and began to read.

A knock on the front door echoed through my office, shattering the thoughts that entertained my mind.  I noted my place in the obituaries, stirred my long legs from their resting place on my desk, and was at the door in two strides.  It opened on a fetching young lady. 

“Is Mr. Miner in?” she asked.

“That is my name,” I replied, casting a glance at the brass plaque, unchanged since two nights ago.  “Won’t you step in?”

As the young lady walked into the room I surveyed her more closely.  She was a little above average height for a woman, coming almost to my shoulder, and appeared to be just into her twenties.  She was, as I said before, very fetching. She wore a comely dress and had long beautiful hair.  I seated her in my client chair, and put on a judicious expression befitting Sherlock Holmes.

“Your name ma’am?”