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The Case of the Silvery Carpet

It was a quiet Thursday evening – just me and a sink full of greasy pots and pans. I wasn’t looking for trouble but that’s exactly what came looking for me. The 9-year-old walked in as if she owned the joint. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and let out an audible sigh. She looked at me with those big brown eyes and began to tell her story.

She said she needed to hire a detective. Someone must have broken into her room, see, because there was no way she would have made the mess. She was a good egg, she told me. She played by the rules. She had no idea how the silvery mess had gotten onto her bedroom floor. She batted her long eyelashes for good measure and dramatic effect. I wasn’t buying her story, but I played along. I told her I would take the case.

Determined to lift the manhole cover on this operation, I followed the dame back to her place. I walked inside her room. I didn’t like what I saw. Someone had been doing arts and crafts in there. The looker pointed down. I followed her finger and gasped at what I saw. Smack dab in the middle of the beige carpet was a giant dried silvery purple glob of glitter glue.

I was mad. Real mad. So mad I could taste it! I knew that the doll face here had done it. I just had to figure out a way to crack this case wide open.

I ran from the scene of the crime. I needed to get some stuff, cleaning stuff. I was sifting through the closet when big brother walked in. I could tell he had the goods on the sister that would send her straight to the big house. I just needed to figure out what it would take to get this canary to sing.

I soon realized it wouldn’t take much. This stool pigeon was more than ready to squawk. He gave all the details: How he saw her bring the craft box in; how he heard her scream when the accident happened; how she threatened to take him down with her if he didn’t help her come up with an alibi. He laid all his cards out on the table for me to see. I had her, hook, line and sinker!

I knew that this tomato was not going to get picked without a fight. What I didn’t realize was just how good an actress she was. I had her. She knew it too when she saw her brother standing behind me. I gave her a chance to come clean, to fess up, clear her conscious. I told her I would go easy on her if she just admitted that the jig was up. But she wasn’t ready to go down. She put her little hand up to her heart and with one tear falling down her cheek swore once more that she did not do it.

I was about to rethink all the evidence. Perhaps I had convicted the wrong person. Maybe the boy was really the big cheese of this operation. But then the sun snuck out from behind a cloud and cast the smallest ray of sunshine into the room. It was then that this detective mama noticed the tinniest hint of glitter on my daughter’s shirt … behind her little hand.

When I asked her to move her hand she knew she was toast. The boy patted her on the back and said, “See you in 20,” and walked out of the room! She looked down, shook her head in defeat and said in a reflective whisper, “How do you do it? You always figure it out!” To which I replied in an English accent (because I had run out of clever gangster detective slang sayings), “Why it’s elementary, my dear Watson!” She sat up, wiped the tears from her cheeks and said, “Mommy before you send me to the slammer, I have one question for you … who’s Watson?”

Sharon Fuentes, also known as Detective Mom, is a regular contributor to Westchester Family.

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