The Pink Hat

By Vanessa E. Howard

My first case wasn’t about crime at all. It was about love. I mean, technically, a crime had been committed, but… well, maybe I’d better just tell it.

I was sixteen in 1985 and lived three houses down from sweet old Miss Evans, who dressed up every Friday night, even if she was only going as far as her front porch. She had the hats, the gloves, the handbags. She used to let me play dress-up in her vintage clothes.

It was a warm April in the Piney Woods of Texas. Miss Evans stepped out that Friday in a 1950s pink floral summer dress, wrist-length gloves, and a white clutch.

But no hat.

I hurried down the sidewalk. Why had she neglected such an important part of her ensemble?

“Miss Evans, where’s your hat?”

She patted her gray hair. “Cora, it’s just tragic.”

“What’s tragic?”

“My hat is missing! The pink one, with the white netting. It’s gone.”

Oh dear. That one. It was her favorite, an heirloom passed down from her auntie, rumored to have been crafted by the same milliner who made the famous hats of Queen Elizabeth II.

This was my chance to be like the detectives in my beloved books. I could be the next Hercule Poirot, Sergeant Cuff, or of course, Nancy Drew.

“Tell me everything. I need to know exactly when you last saw the hat in question.”

“Yesterday. I was making sure it matched this dress. I put it back in its hatbox, on the shelf in the middle room.”

“What time was this? Specifics, please.”

She raised an amused eyebrow. “It was just after lunch.”

“Has anyone else been here since then?”

Miss Evans pulled her gloves off. “Yes. Jerome Wilson came over to visit last evening, and Marta Fischer stopped by this morning.”

“Hm. I’ll have to interview each of them. No time to waste.”

I ran over to Mr. Wilson’s house next door and explained what I was doing. “You mind if I take a look around?”

“Not at all,” he said and led me inside. He was about Miss Evans’ age and had an excellent mustache.  “Yes, I visited Audrey yesterday. We ate snickerdoodles. I waited while she got them out of the oven. We chatted. I went home.”

His cheeks were curiously bright, and his eyes flicked to a closet door. I marched over to it. Inside the closet was a set of luggage, hard-sided silver suitcases, lined up in descending size. Except one, which lay flat on its side with an old duffel tossed on top.

“Mr. Wilson, why isn’t this suitcase standing like the others?”

“Oh, I’m just lazy,” he said, and closed the closet door.

He was familiar with the pink hat, and had seen her wear it on two occasions. “Yes, I recall she wore it to the opening of Anne of Green Gables at the Grand Theatre”—here he cleared his throat and smoothed his mustache—“and on a dinner date with Grover Steppner.”

Next, I headed to Marta Fischer’s house. Miss Evans had informed me multiple times that her real name was Martha. She’d changed the spelling because she thought Marta sounded more dramatic. She was president of the theatre board, and Miss Evans had made no secret of the fact that she also planned to run for the position this year.

At my explanation, Ms. Fischer only folded her arms. “Perhaps Audrey should dress for the times. Then she wouldn’t be losing her outlandish hats.”

“Ms. Fischer, do I hear a note of jealousy in your voice? Could that be motive to steal her pink hat?”

“Motive? You’ve been watching too much television, dear.”

I gave her my most withering look. Withering looks are effective in fiction, and I think I applied the concept quite well. “I rarely watch television, Ms. Fischer. I read books.”

She pursed her lips. “I stand corrected. But no, I’m not jealous, and I don’t have her hat. Search my house. I don’t care.”

So I did. Nothing caught my eye.

I paused on the threshold. “One last question. Would you say Mr. Wilson likes Miss Evans?”

Ms. Fischer laughed. “Likes? Jerome is positively besotted with Audrey. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. Thank you for your help.”

In classic detective fashion, I gathered the three seniors in Miss Evans’ living room to make my big reveal. Lined up on the couch, they resembled unusually classy kids in a principal’s office.

I placed my hands behind my back and paced. My ponytail swung as I walked. “Miss Evans, I have located your pink hat. It’s in the bottom of Mr. Wilson’s closet in a silver suitcase. The only one lying on its side.”

Mr. Wilson got to his feet. “How—”

“Your affection for Miss Evans gave you away. You knew exactly when she had worn the pink hat, down to the name of the man she’d gone out with. In the absence of a hatbox, you laid a suitcase on its side, so as not to crumple the hat. You had plenty of time to grab it while she was getting the snickerdoodles out of the oven.”

Delicate lines furrowed Miss Evans’ brow. “Why would Jerome steal my hat? It makes no sense.”

Mr. Wilson sighed. “I was going to wait until you missed it and return it with some plausible explanation. So you would notice me. It’s the most juvenile thing I’ve ever done.”

“It is indeed,” Miss Evans said, standing and slipping her hand into his. “And I’m going to wear my pink hat every time we go out to remind you of it.”

He smiled softly at her. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You’d better.”

Ms. Fischer jumped up. “Ugh, please don’t kiss until I leave.”

But as she passed me, she whispered, “Nice job, kid.”

See? I told you it was more about love than crime.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Vanessa E. Howard writes primarily fantasy for young adult and middle grade. She has been a newspaper reporter, magazine writer, and college composition teacher. A member of the Flash Fiction Magic writing community and ACFW, she is also a homeschool mom and co-op teacher. She has been published by Spark and Havok and has upcoming publications with Twenty Hills and Nightshade. Ms. Howard lives with her family in Central Texas.

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