Silver's Detective Agency
By Hope Alexander
Part Three - In which the panty thief is encountered, and a trap is set...
The first stop on the panty thief's trail was at Boinkwell's Fine Art Gallery, a gauche institution selling the type of pieces that might have been created by a small child on acid. It was a cloudy day outside, but as I entered the galley I donned a pair of sunglasses to shield my eyes from the bright neons and otherwise clashing hues that assailed them from all angles.
I suppose I appeared rather drab in that light place, a fedora propped at a rakish angle atop my head, and classic long line trench coat svelte against my body, hiding the bulk of it from the prying eyes of the world, revealing only a pair of highly polished high heeled patent leather boots which click clacked pleasingly on the gallery's parquet floors.
I had barely stepped in the door when, like a harpy, Miss Boinkwell was on me in an instant. She seemed to simply melt out of one of the installations, a lithe vibrant creature suddenly embracing me and kissing my cheeks effusively.
“Jack! Darling! How are you!” she chirped.
“Hello Sarah dear,” I replied, taking her hands in mine and stepping back to admire her. She was wearing a lovely green indie dress, cinched around the waist and flowing out in soft pleats to her knees, a matching pair of pumps adorned her feet, the entire outfit making her look absolutely stunning. A string of beads hung around her neck, further heightening the bohemian feel. How she could dress herself so well and yet sell the rubbish that hung on every wall of that gallery I do not pretend to know.
“What brings you here, Jack?” she gave me a bright smile as I admired her.
“Art, dear. I am looking for a new piece for the bedroom,” I lied.
Her smile brightened further, and dropping one of my hands, she used the other to begin leading me around the cacophony of garishness that was her gallery.
You might be wondering why I didn't just slap the ol' cuffs on here there and then and call it a day. Well you see friends, there's this little thing called proof, and I lacked it. As much as I was aware of her heinous crimes against lingerie, I had to catch her in the act.
“You know, it's awfully hard to tell what these pieces would look in my home.” I said, trying not to regurgitate lunch as I pretended to admire what appeared to be a mud spattered canvas covered with orange stripes.
“Perhaps you could bring a few pieces over to my place some time and I could see which ones work best with my décor?” I suggested, fixing her with a winning crimson lipped smile.
She practically melted there on the gallery floor. Little sissy Sarah had quite the crush on me, so it seemed.
“Of course,” she twittered.
“Lovely, you're a darling,” I drawled, winking.
She giggled and fidgeted with the hem of her skirt with her free hand. “I could come over tonight?” she suggested.
“Perfect.” I murmured, drawing her close and kissing her cheek.
The die was cast.
Silver's Detective Agency