By Evelyn Johnson

Detective Conan adjusted his fedora and surveyed the broken glass scattered throughout the flowerbed. At some point last night, an intruder had broken into the Westfield home through this window… supposedly. Nothing had been taken, and the couple living there hadn’t seen anyone.

Conan breathed in through his nose, sorting the area’s scrambled scents. Nothing too unusual, though a distinctly canine odor made him raise a brow. “Do the Westfields own a dog?” he asked.

The officer next to him shook his head. “No pets. Mr. Westfield is allergic to animal hair.”

Conan bit the inside of his cheek, hoping his condition wouldn’t aggravate Mr. Westfield’s sensitivity. “Did they see or hear anything last night?”

The officer consulted a notepad. “Mr. Westfield reports waking up sometime after 9:45 p.m. because he heard a noise, but since Mrs. Westfield wasn’t in bed at the time, he assumed it was her moving around in the kitchen.”

“And Mrs. Westfield?”

“Says she never woke up. Her husband probably heard the intruder.”

Conan nodded. “Makes sense. Odd that he didn’t see his wife, though.” He stepped carefully into the flowerbed, standing on his toes to peer into the living room of the Westfield home. The carpet looked new—spotless and well-kept. Conan frowned. “Did the Westfields clean their home before you got here?”

“Mrs. Westfield says they didn’t touch anything, to preserve the scene.”

“You’re sure the intruder broke in this way?”

“Positive,” the officer said. “No other entrances were forced or opened.”

Detective Conan shook his head. “Look at this glass, officer.” He gestured to the mess in the flowerbed. “If you break a window like this, the glass doesn’t fall toward you, and there’s no glass on the carpet. This window was broken from the inside.”

The officer wrinkled his nose. “Why would the Westfields break their own window?”

“Not sure. Insurance, maybe?”

A sneeze sounded from inside the house. Mr. Westfield shuffled into view, wearing a cozy robe over his yellow pajamas. He wiped his nose with a Kleenex as Mrs. Westfield appeared behind him.

The man regarded his broken window sadly. “Stupid insurance,” he muttered. “Won’t cover anything so small these days.”

Mrs. Westfield patted his arm.

“There goes that,” Conan whispered to the officer at his side.

“Have you tried using your… special sense?” The officer coughed uncomfortably. “You know, to sniff out an intruder.”

Conan nodded, breathing deeply and focusing on the scents again. “That’s the thing. I don’t smell anything unusual. Just the flowers, the Westfields, and other normal—” He paused. “I did notice something like dog smell, but that’s probably from a neighbor’s wandering pet.”

“All the neighbors keep their pets on leashes,” the officer said. “It’s in their HOA guidelines.”

Conan sighed and scratched his chin. “This makes no sense.”

Mr. Westfield left for the kitchen. Conan sniffed again.

His eyes drifted to Mrs. Westfield.

She was normal-looking, as far as women went, but the dog smell was definitely coming from her. He narrowed his eyes. Not dog… More like…

He vaulted into the living room, and Mrs. Westfield gasped in surprise. “May I speak with you?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he steered her into an empty hallway and inhaled through his nose. She had to be the source of her husband’s sneezing.

“Ma’am,” Detective Conan began, “are you aware that there was a full moon last night?”

Mrs. Westfield frowned. “I… suppose? I don’t really pay it much attention.”

Conan readied himself for a difficult conversation. “Well, you should probably start to. With what I’m seeing in the living room, the information I’ve gathered from you and your husband, and… other clues, I think you might be a werewolf.”

Her eyes grew as wide as last night’s moon.

“Are you aware, young man,” she said incredulously, “that werewolves aren’t real?”

Conan pulled off his fedora, revealing two fluffy canine ears. “Werewolves are very real, ma’am,” he said quietly.

Mrs. Westfield’s eyes widened. “What…?”

“Your husband says you weren’t in bed last night, while you report being sound asleep and never waking up. Werewolves never remember their full-moon transformation the next morning. The glass shattered outward, meaning the window was broken from the inside—a werewolf could have done that easily. And…” Conan grimaced. “No offense, ma’am, but I can smell it on you. The wolf scent. It’s pretty clear that’s what happened here.”

“But I don’t have…” She gestured to Conan’s ears. “You know. Those. I’m normal.”

Conan cringed inwardly. “I know. It means you’ve only just become a werewolf.”

She sniffed indignantly. “I think I’d remember becoming a werewolf.”

“Probably not.” Detective Conan ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “None of us do, so nobody knows how werewolves actually become werewolves. Could be a curse, some kind of science experiment… Who knows. I’ve been a werewolf for five years, and I’m still trying to learn how it happened.”

Mrs. Westfield shook her head. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“Neither could I when I found out.” Conan hesitated, then placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “Look, there’s a group of us that gets together sometimes. It’s kind of a support thing. I can give you my contact info if you want to get connected.”

Mrs. Westfield was silent for a moment. Then she gave a harsh laugh. “No… No, this is ridiculous.” She pulled away from his hand. “Whether or not werewolves are real, I’m not one.”

She pushed past him and headed for the kitchen. Mrs. Westfield cast a final glare at Conan, eyes shining, before disappearing around the corner.

He sighed and stepped out of the hallway. The officer was still standing outside in the flowerbed. He looked up as Detective Conan approached.

“It’s all figured out,” Conan said. “I don’t think we need to stay any longer.”

The officer grinned. “Okay. What’s your conclusion?”

Conan smiled. “That’s between me and Mrs. Westfield.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Evelyn Johnson loves making people laugh. She’s a snark master, the weirdest homeschooler in Wisconsin, and (not-so-secretly) an elf. She enjoys a good cup of black tea with cacao nibs and, as a certified nerd, will talk your ear off about her favorite fandoms. When she’s not arranging epic music on the piano or drawing fantasy maps, she’s studying entrepreneurship and the art of writing at the Author Conservatory.       

---

More Stories