Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(41)

“‘Thank you for your good work, we are happy you found our missing dog,’” I said, swiveling my screen back into place. “But why not be precise?”

Again, I did not wait for Watson’s reply. “Although, I grant you, a smiley-face thank you is preferable to none at all.”

“You talk funny,” Watson said. “That’s why I sometimes don’t answer you, just to see what you’ll come up with next, you know? All I could think of, back in-country, was to be home again and listen to you talk. It’s like being in Masterpiece Theater.”

“If we do not protect the precision and clarity of our language,” I asked, “who will? Soon we’ll be communicating via smiley-faces and little hearts. And won’t that be . . . smiley-face?”

The time on Watson’s computer dinged seven o’clock, start of our posted office hours. As if on cue, our front door jangled open. I suppose we should employ some more stringent security methods, but our town, Norraton, is small and rural, second-to-last on the 138.1-mile Massachusetts Turnpike that carries commuters and tourists between Boston and New York. Though our town fathers endeavor for economic rebirth, our cases reflect Norraton’s placidly suburban milieu—missing relatives or pets, the occasional straying spouse, once a stolen manuscript. Soon after Watson joined me, we’d had a dust-up with a bird-hoarding politician who stashed his pets in the town’s decorative lighthouse on the lake at Copper Beach. But that is another story. I—Watson and I—prevailed in all.

I had been away from my hometown for several years, a result of the dearth of employment opportunities for my original profession, fifth-grade geology-geography teacher. But, rock collection in hand, I returned here for the splendor of the Berkshires and their always-surprising terrain. And to pass my P.I. exam.

At first I’d treated my growing interest in detection as a mere hobby. But the search for answers, whether geological or simply logical, never failed to fascinate me. I gave in, changed course, and now cannot think of doing anything else. My father, also a teacher and geologist, had schooled his students and me with his mantra, a maxim of the father of modern geology. Father would hold up a fossil or a newfound specimen of rock and say, “Remember the words of James Hutton: ‘The present is key to the past.’”

So in geology, and in the art of detection, my two avocations are similarly grounded. When digging for solutions, one must know where—and how—to look.

“Miss Holmes?” Our visitor stood in the open office doorway, the glare from the morning sunshine creating a momentary silhouette.

He stepped into our office. Raised an eyebrow. “That’s your real name?”

And that is why my associate is called Watson. For surely as all Rhodes are Dusty and all Cassidys are Hopalong, if one’s name is Holmes, one is inescapably connected with Sherlock. Even though my name is Annabelle.

As for the real Sherlock, Watson reports she has read a few of the classic stories; certainly they are many and beloved. I have not indulged, preferring to create my own adventures. Perhaps I’ll write them someday. Or perhaps, in keeping with literary tradition, Watson will.

“May we help you?” Watson replied. With her growing-out military haircut and newly purchased “girl clothes,” as she calls them, part of her job is to approach arriving clients and barricade me from the initial contact. That gives me time to assess.

My first assessment: this morning’s visitor was dressed like a handsome groom on a wedding cake. Hardly predictable at seven on an October morning. The young man—late twenties, I calculated—held a carryout cup of coffee in a white paper container.

“Annabelle Holmes?” He looked at Watson, then at me, then back at Watson. He appeared to be deciding which of us he sought—the scarecrow in the black jeans, black T-shirt, spectacles, and ponytail, or the short-haired cherub in the flowered skirt.

This bridegroom, or possibly waiter, was clearly flustered: his cheeks were stubbled, dark hair in disarray, bow tie slanted askew. One of the black onyx studs in his shirtfront placket was missing.

“I see you have not rented that evening wear,” I said, standing and holding out a welcoming hand. “That you are health conscious. And that you are left-handed.” I hid my smile at his wide-eyed response. “I am Annabelle Holmes. How can we be of service, Mr.—Arthur?”

“Health conscious? Left-handed?” The man fairly sputtered in surprise as he shook mine. “And how did you know my name?”

“And I must ask, since you are clearly in . . .” I paused, choosing my word carefully. “. . . distress. Are you missing the bride to your groom?”

“Missing the bride? How did you know?” He blinked at his reflection in the front window. “I see. Yes, I’m Arthur. Arthur Daley. But how did you know that?”

I glanced at Watson, who, as always, looked at me for answers. She still has not learned how I analyze small details and how they combine to create larger answers. Sometimes it is not difficult.

“Your name has been written on your coffee cup, sir,” I said. “And marked with your health-conscious choice for skim milk.”

Watson rolled her eyes. “You kill me,” she muttered.

“Your watch is on your right arm, as left-handers prefer,” I went on. “As for the attire, your initials are embroidered on your right cuff, meaning that jacket was tailored for you. Now, will you take a seat? Please tell us the reason for your visit.”