It was a late afternoon, one of those afternoons where you have the taste of lunch’s pastrami just sitting in your mouth, slowly growing more and more foul as it turns to gingivitis. It had been a slow day in the office, no visitors, no mail, no mystery. I always hated days like that, because you knew that somewhere something was happening that needed to be fixed. If only I had the motivation to get up and fix it instead of letting someone come to me.
I counted the number of lace crosses on my shoes as my feet sat propped up on my desk, staring straight up to the ceiling with those toes that so desperately needed clipping. I had played with my fedora for what seemed like an eternity. Every sound that passed in the hallway excited me, a possibility for a new case to be presented, yet each echoed away in silhouettes just as they came. I had counted the number of ceiling tiles 42 times when I heard the doorknob clink as it turned. Immediately at attention, I dropped my feet, pulled out my pen, and looked hard at the grocery list on my desk, slowly raising my head as my visitor came in.
She was beautiful.
Yet mysterious.
“Hello, are you Mr. Dixon Dills?” I slowly nodded my head at the anonymous figure at the door, wondering why she didn’t just read it off the door. “I’m Betty Belle, and I need your help…”
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