By William Herff

It was 6:00 on a Tuesday. I was in my office, leaning back in my swivel chair, rekindling a relationship with Jack Daniel and Jim Beam, when I heard a pair of heels come clicking down the hall. They stopped outside my door. “It’s open,” I said. Nothing. “It’s open,” I repeated. Then I realized they were just heels and heels can’t open doors because they’re so tiny.

Sure enough, outside was a solitary pair of Louboutins, helplessly waiting to be let in. Sexy little things. I took them into my office and threw them out the window—legless heels can’t escort themselves out, after all. I returned to my letter:

Dear Aunt Noxyl, Happy Birthday darling.

Now it was time for the old John Hancock. “Old John Hancock ” I shouted very, very loudly. “Get your rump in here, I don’t got two shakes.” Old John came in more than a bit chagrined by his tardiness. “Old boy, so good of you to come, ensure this letter gets to my aunt Noxyl” At this point, the old boy queued me into a slight mistake on my part, precisely the omission of my aunt’s address and failure to append postage. “Oh what I’d do without you Old John, my faithful carrier boy,” I exclaimed. “Probably strip down to my underwear, and throw my jeans out the window.” So Old John bowed out, and then it was time to solve some crimes.

I had just taken out Clue and was selecting my character, when a beautiful, barefoot woman came bursting into my office like a heavenly epiphany. I was a sucker for long legs, and I wanted to shimmy up one of hers like a native boy looking for coconuts.

“Well this is rather opportunistic,” I admitted.

“What?” replied the woman.

“I was just about to play Clue all by myself,” I mused longingly.

“And…”

“I love an audience.” I gestured to the chair across from me. “Please, have a seat.”

The woman had a seat and extended a delicate white hand, resplendent in red nail polish.

“Catherine Summers,” she said.

“In the Catskills,” I answered, clutching her paw, kissing it gently, “She’s got quite the place up there.”

“I don’t want to play games, Inspector,” Summers warned.

“Which is why I’m playing and you’re watching,” I reassured her, and let the dice roll, “Snake Eyes!”

“Look, I’ve got a mystery that needs solving, mister, and if it’s not you, it’s Inspector Gregs on five.”

My ears shot up like murderous minions. “Gregs!” I said, throwing my head back in disbelief. “You’d have better luck with a sandwich than that galoot!” And for the next few minutes I chuckled and cooed, cooed and chuckled, thought about reciting a poem. And the Geneva convention, for some reason. Finally, she had my attention, and I had hers.

“What can I do for you?”

Summers’ story was a sad one, especially if you exclude all of the happy parts. It began with a pair of heels curated during a shopping spree in Hudson Yards, and it ended with that pair of heels vanishing into thin air. Poof was the sound of this

tragedy. I prefer bangs. But something wasn’t adding up here. Heels. I thought shortly and not very hard, and when I remembered, I clapped a hand to my forehead. But it wasn’t my hand.

“Inspector!” Summers snapped, “Release.”

I put her hand down. “They turned up here…” I mumbled.

“What’s that?” Summers questioned. “You’re mumbling.”

“The shoes stopped by my office.”

Summers was shocked. “Well where are they?”

I clapped another hand to my forehead. But it wasn’t my hand. It was Old John’s hand. He was hiding under the desk.

“I threw them out the window.”
Together we bolted to the dusty pane and peered down at the street. “Rats!” I yelped, “I don’t see them anymore.”
“Just a pair of jeans,” sighed Summers.
And then I realized I wasn’t wearing any pants.