An envelope slipped under my door. It could only mean one thing. It could only mean I need to fix the weather stripping. A guy could get a draft and get sick. Even the toughest guy could get a chill. The cold could even affect the “Dessert Detective”.
I’m the famous “Dessert Detective. I can find any lost dessert. In a snit over a snatched snicker doodle? I’m your guy. Perplexed about a purloined pie? No problem. Why, just today I solved a big case.
My wife yelled from the kitchen. “What happened to the cookies I made for the kids?” she implored. “I ate them”, I replied. Another case solved, and solved right. It’s what I do.
I walk over the envelope two or three days. I was on my way back to the recliner and another envelope slithered under the door. I really need to get that weather stripping fixed, and I will, as soon as Food TV gives me a break. Non-food related commercials were on, so I picked up the envelope. Something was in it. I shook the envelope over the coffee table and a note fell out. It was a paper note, not the musical kind.
I noted the note was annotated. Printed on it was “Open the other envelope, you idiot.”
I opened the other envelope. Printed on the contents was one word. It merely said “Horace”. I tossed it on the table and settled back to watch the show about diving into a diner. That guy really needs to do something about his hair.
Early the next morning I was slathering Nutella on my jelly donut when the phone rang. I answered it with my sexiest “Dessert Detective here, what do you need, sugar cakes?” A voice whispered one word, “Yellow”. The caller hung up. I was curious. I was intrigued. How could I get Nutella inside the donut? How?
I went upstairs to shower and shave. There, written on the mirror in lipstick was one word, Nuevo. That was curious. Why is someone doing Spanish homework on the mirror? The kids must be out of paper.
After a refreshing shower I went to the bedroom to get dressed. My wife was packing a suitcase. “Where are you going, to see your mother? Tell her I died, that should make her day.” I said.
“We’re going. We’re going to follow the clues.” My wife replied.
Clues, what clues? I ain’t got no stinking clues.
The wife started in on a lecture. She droned on like a ceiling fan with a bent blade and a bad bearing that screeched on and on.
“The clues are Horace, for Horace Greely. He said go West. Yellow in Spanish is Amarillo, which is a city in Texas. Nuevo is Spanish New, like in New Mexico. So we’re going West to Amarillo, and then on to New Mexico. I can’t believe you didn’t even know they were clues to a mystery.”
“Maybe I missed it, but I have a bigger mystery. Where are we getting lunch? I’m hungry.”
We got the snacks and suitcases in the car and drove west. We moved west like the first pioneers that braved hot deserts and violent natives to bring baked goods to the far reaches of the continent. We drove on into the night. We drove into a night as dark as a vegan chef’s soul. We drove ever nearer to dangerous gluten-free lands.
I dozed off while the wife drove. She shook me awake. I jumped up ready to do battle. I jumped up ready to do battle and stop at an IHOP for breakfast.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. I awoke as confused as an ant at a sugar-free picnic. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I looked at my smirking wife and then out of the windshield. I opened the car door and stepped out. I felt weak. I dropped to my knees. It was so beautiful. It was just perfect.
My wife leaned over. “Happy birthday, you pie detective. Welcome to Pie Town, New Mexico.”
I went to heaven, and it’s west of the Mississippi. It’s Pie Town. Many are called; few are chosen- for Pie Town.
Tune in next time for Dessert Detective: Ganache me not.
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