My assistant, Jan Walkin, knocked on the door, took three steps across the floor, and dropped a sheet of paper on my desk. “Here’s the report, Simon.” She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Such as it is.”
I turned to her from staring out the second-floor window of the office I rented. “Such as it is?” I asked. “That’s a helluva thing to say.”
Jan puffed up to the full height of her four-foot-ten-inch frame and said, “It’s a helluva business you’ve got going here, Simon.” She pointed to the one book on the bookshelf behind my desk. “Pretending to be like your hero.” It was my treasured collection of Sherlock Holmes.
“So…What’s your point?” I asked.
“What’s your favorite story?”
“The Woman in Red.”
“Conan Doyle’s first full-length novel. Right?”
“Exactly. I love that one.”
“What else?”
“Well, there’s The Hound of the Baskervilles.”
“Another novel.”
“Correct. And The Adventure of the Dancing Men and A Scandal in Bohemia and…”
“Right. Short Stories. And if I stood here all day, I’m sure you’d name them all.”
“Well…”
I flushed, embarrassed. She was right. I had loved Sherlock Holmes since I was twelve years old. Ever since my aunt had given me the Complete Sherlock Holmes shortly after I’d come to live with her after my parents had been killed in a car accident. My older brother and sister had died, too. I had been in the same accident and was in bad shape physically and emotionally, but I eventually recovered. Physically anyway. It's been a long time emotionally. Twenty-five years but who’s counting? Ha, ha. Escaping with Sherlock has helped immensely.
“So what?” I said.
“I know you want to be a detective like him. I respect that.”
“Your point being?”
She nodded at the photos on the wall. Scotty, the Tennessee Walker, who I’d found in a stud farm in Iowa. Hector, the German Shepard guide dog I rescued from a breeding kennel north of Minneapolis in Chisago Country. Snowflake, a terminally ill boy’s treasured kitten who had wandered off and been locked in a storage shed for a week. I’d found them all. It’s what I did. I found lost pets.
“My point is that Sherlock used his smarts and intuition to solve crimes, find jewels, and stop wars from happening. You…” She pointed at my photos on the wall. In addition to the three I’d mentioned there were over a dozen more. “You just…” She slammed her hand on my desk making me jump. “Oh, I don’t know. It just seems like you aren’t trying hard enough.” She shook her head. “Like you’re just pretending to play detective rather than truly being one.” She pointed to my framed photo of Jeremy Brett as Sherlock on the corner of my desk. “Mark my words, your hero Sherlock would just laugh his ass off.”
With that scathing comment, she turned on her heel and left. Oh, yeah, I said to myself. Well, we’ll see about that! Not the pithiest retort, I’ll grant you, but hell, I didn’t want to piss her off any more than she already was. Once we’d been lovers. Now? Now I was lucky she was working with me.
Her words were harsh, and, compared to Sherlock Holmes and his abilities, probably true. But I couldn’t help it. I liked my job. I liked animals. My best friend for years was my aunt’s big tabby cat named Rusty.
I looked around my office. I liked my Persian rug and the false fireplace. I liked my microscope on the rolltop desk in the corner and the hat rack with the black top hat I wore occasionally. So what if I tried to replicate Sherlock Holmes’ living room? It worked for me.
Jan’s concern was that there wasn’t much money searching for lost pets and my time would be better spent at a “Real Job” like being a mailman or working for a big box store, two occupations I’d tried but found deeply unsatisfying. Nowadays my part-time gig as a voice actor in commercials helped cover expenses if work in the pet rescue world was slow. Producers loved my English accent. I was considered the go-to guy for Mrs. Compton’s Magnificent Marmalade.
I sat back and glanced at the report Jan had left. I’d tracked down a poodle named Lulu who’d taken up with a bloodhound named Rex in southwest Minneapolis and all was well. I was contemplating what the resulting puppies would look like when Jan stepped into my office.
“Phone call,” she said, pointing to the light blinking on my desk phone. We still had a landline. “A Mrs. Jorgenson. Something about a missing dog.” She raised her eyebrows and mouthed, Again. But she smiled as she went back to her desk. I did too. Arguing with her made me realize how much I liked my job. And Jan. Not everyone was so fortunate.
I picked up the receiver. “Simon Hope here,” I said. “How can I help?”
I listened, interjecting occasionally, taking notes all the while. When she was done speaking, I summarized our conversation: “So, your Pomeranian doggy Snuffy ran off last night and you’re worried. You live west of Minneapolis near Lake Minnetonka. Is that correct?”
“Yes. I’m incredibly concerned. Coyotes have been sighted in our area.”
I said, soothingly, “Please don’t worry, Mrs. Jorgenson. I’ll be out there within the hour and start the search. I’m sure I can find Snuffy.”
“Oh, thank you!”
I stepped to my coat rack, put on my tweet jacket and my Sherlock Holmes deerstalker cap. I was all set. I headed out the door. The game was afoot. Snuffy was loose and needed to be found before something horrible happened to her. I was just the man for it.
I adjusted my cap and waved to Jan as I walked out the door. If she rolled her eyes, I didn’t notice. I was already on the hunt.
About the author
Jim lives in a small town in Minnesota. He loves to write! His stories and poems have appeared in over 500 online and print publications. To learn more and to see all of his work, check out his blog at: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.
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