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.
“My, that’s a fine looking bear,” Grandpa told me one evening as I cuddled my new teddy. A visit with my grandfather while Mom was on a business trip always meant a swing through the nearest toy department, where I could take my pick, more or less. He loved to watch me play and often joined in.
Read it now
Let me tell you a love story. No, it’s not a fallin’ story—fallin’ in love’s the messy bit. This one’s about old love, the kind that’s lived a handful of years, that’s aged into something stronger and softer. That’s where the best stories are found.
Slim was a man of few words…
Gramps never did like paying taxes. But that didn’t mean he should abolish the IRS.
“Never have I used the word ‘abolish,’” he protested to Grandma, as he’d done every April for each of the thirteen years I’d lived with them. “But what’s wrong with invisible-izing myself?”
He meant really invisible-izing, as in, all records of his existence…
I flashed my badge at the officer standing guard and ducked under the yellow tape.
“I’m glad you’re here, Inspector Belden.” Officer Fuzzbee’s nose twitched as he hopped over and mopped his brow with a crinkled handkerchief. “I haven’t seen such a gruesome scene since the Heartsville V-day slaughter. Not a pretty sight, I can assure you.”
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