By Jon Moray
This story was first published in print for Mystery Magazine’s Die Laughing: An Anthology of Humorous Mysteries in 2021. This is also my first of a series of Gumshoe Gus stories set in a fictional town called Lone Pony. Enjoy!
Her name was Pippy. She was a hippie from Mississippi. The moment Pippy opened her mouth I discovered she was also a bit lippy. She was about forty, with makeup trying to get her to thirty, but made her look more like fifty, and had a mouth that went from zero to sixty in one sentence.
My name is Gustavo Gottem. Better known as Gumshoe Gus, private eye in a one-horse town named Lone Pony. My case load was running dry since I solved the Flag Day Fiasco, where I recovered all the town banners stolen from the Flickenflacker Flea Market. That capture was noted in the local newspaper right next to the Freddy “Filthy Fingers” Feloni obituary.
Pippy waddled into my office and plopped down on the leather cushioned chair that sounded like her butt had a lot to say. From her motormouth narration I was able to gather someone had stolen her garden gnomes.
“Garden gnomes?” I asked, reshaping the brim of my fedora.
“Oh, yes,” she sniffed. “They are very valuable.”
“To whom, Snow White?” I snorted.
She tsk-tsked at my facetiousness and informed me the thievery has been going on since the Flag Day Fiasco.
“If these gnomes are so valuable, why do you keep them outdoors?”
“They are garden gnomes, they belong outside, silly.”
“What about Madison Square Garden? That is indoors,” I said, flatly.
She looked at me as if I gave her a ‘what’s one plus one’ question and she was struggling to come up with the answer. She shook off the mental calisthenics and returned focus back to her precious gnomes.
“Well, are you going to retrieve them for me?”
I was about to show her the door when I began reminiscing, I once had a gnome named Nome that was destroyed when my dad ran over it with his lawnmower. I cried, my dad laughed, and my mom tsk-tsked at his lack of empathy. “I’ll take the case,” I said, wiping away a sorrowful tear. “Tell me more about these missing gnomes.”
“Well, there was Ned the Nutcase, Bobby the Bouncer, and Petunia the Pet Rock Whisperer, to name a few. Those are worth the most. Then there’s…”
I cut her off without interest for any more description. “I’ve got enough. I have a feeling if I find one, I’ll find them all.”
Pippy bounced out of the chair and dove at me for an embrace that would have landed her on top of me on the floor had it not been for the faux wood desk that was between us.
I showed Pippy out and returned to my desk to revisit the Flag Day Fiasco write-up in the newspaper for inspiration. My detective hunches were in full overload when I deduced that perhaps I should pay a visit to Flickenflacker’s. Flea markets are infested with these gnomes this time of year. I must admit, even I was impressed with how quickly I gathered this lead. “Sherlock Holmes has nothing on me, and I don’t even wear a cloak,” I mumbled proudly, while spit-shaping my hair in a fogged mirror.
The next day, I drove my maintenance challenged compact vehicle to the flea market and it seemed to sputter its disapproval with loud roars every time I hit the gas pedal. I pulled into the gravel lot amid staring faces upon my loud entrance.
I snaked around vendors selling used bedsheets, expired canned goods, and doorknob memorabilia, when I came to a table displaying hand puppets as their wares. I noticed a handwritten sign hanging from festoon lighting that read “Feloni’s Fabulous Finds.”
I picked up a hand puppet that was designed as a baker while recalling the name Feloni was the name beside the write-up in the newspaper. “I read about a Feloni in the obituaries that died recently,” I commented to the lady behind the table, while working the puppet as if it were making the comment.
She patronized my sentiment by picking up a hand puppet that looked exactly like her. “That was my husband, Freddy. He died of a heart attack after learning our nephew, Carlos Convicto was nabbed in the Flag Day Fiasco,” she whimpered, while answering with her hand puppet.
“I am sorry for your loss,” I lamented, while rubbing my hand puppet’s face against hers. She did not realize I was the one who caught Carlos, however, I did grow a Fu-Manchu beard and let my hair grow out since that caper. I put down the puppet and was about to leave when I noticed the head of a garden gnome sticking out of a cardboard box behind her.
I inquired about the gnome, and she stammered they were not ready for resale and shooed me away as if I were a fly.
“Could the Feloni family be behind this caper as well?” I asked myself, while retrieving a mirror from my wallet. My reasoning skills were at an all-time high, I reasoned. “Columbo has nothing on me, and I don’t even wear a raincoat,” I mumbled to myself, with a satisfied grin that told the story of a man that is highly allergic to humble pie.
My next move was to get Pippy to the flea market to identify the gnomes and have law enforcement there to make the arrest. I called Sheriff Cherub, and he told me he would arrive after his back waxing appointment. He said he would bring a search warrant and someone to lift fingerprints. I then called Pippy, who said she could get to the flea market after her armpit waxing appointment. She said there was a man in uniform that was waiting before her.
I moseyed around the flea market, without thought of making a purchase, when I came upon a table selling salesperson repellent.
“Just a spray around your neck and salespeople will ignore you,” a lady said, with bouncing eyebrows. I tried a sample and noticed she then sat on a stool and began reading a magazine, oblivious to my presence. I was convinced of the product’s potency and bought a can, but not without her pimping an IRS Auditor repellent. I kindly declined and was on my way.
I met the sheriff and his assistants at the parking lot and guided them to Feloni’s table. After producing a search warrant, Mrs. Feloni relented and turned over the box of gnomes. Pippy showed up and identified each gnome, one by one, with extreme affection.
A makeshift lab was set up for fingerprints and it was determined Pippy’s fingerprints were the only ones on the gnomes.
“Those were bought by my nephew, Carmine Convicto, at a flea market the next town over,” bellowed Mrs. Feloni. Carmine appeared as if by magic, confirming his aunt’s assertion.
“It’s a she said, she said, Gumshoe Gus. We cannot hold them. We have to interview the vendor at the other flea market,” said Sheriff Cherub. “The goods stay here.”
My shoulders sunk with the sobering realization my summation was incorrect. I turned away and retrieved my mirror from my wallet. “Perhaps, I have nothing on Sherlock Holmes or Columbo. Looks like I might’ve dropped the ball on this one.”
Carmine gloated at my error. “Yep, it looks like you dropped the ball on this one, Gumball Gus,” bragged Carmine, using a baseball player hand puppet to state his point, its mouth inches from my ear.
Suddenly, my eyes widened as an ‘aha’ moment hit me right between the eyes. “Check the hand puppet Carmine is wearing! Check for dirt from Pippy’s yard! He used the hand puppet to steal the gnomes at their bases, thus no fingerprints other than Pippy’s!”
Carmine gulped audibly, and attempted a getaway, but was tackled by Sheriff Cherub. Carmine confessed to the crime and the case was solved. Pippy got her gnomes back and all was well in the town called Lone Pony.
I pulled out the mirror of my truth, this time accompanied by a hand puppet. “Oh, Gumshoe Gus, no one has anything on you. You’re the best,” said the puppet, rubbing it’s mouth against my cheek.
Moray Writes 