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The Case of the Dashed Dish

If it hadn’t been for that crazy cow, my client’s husband would be alive today. As alive as you can be, I guess, when you’re a piece of animated crockery. Lemme introduce myself: Deadbolt, Hasp Deadbolt. I’m a private eye.

About a week ago this cute dish walks into my office. I’ve seen plenty in my time, but this lady was the real thing. Blue-painted windmill, weeping willow, the works. And it wasn’t just the willow that was weeping. I wormed the story out of her. She and her hubby worked in a suds and sandwich shop. That night began like any other, but along about 10 p.m., some joker brings in a cow! I mean, the cat act on stage was one thing, she said, but the cow was completely out of control. Slam dancing the other patrons, loud and obnoxious, and really knocking back the suds. Finally, during a spirited rendition of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” the cow went through the roof. Literally.

“ She jumped so high,” the plate told me between sniffles, “she might have gone clean over the moon. And that’s when it happened: a riot. I screamed to Paulie (that’s my late husband)…” Here she started sobbing and I had to give her more tissues. “I told him to take cover. Well, someone picked me up and was about to bash me over someone else’s head, and Paulie charged across the room to save me (he was so gallant, so brave). I never saw him alive again. There was an awful crashing sound, everyone backed away, and there was Paulie, in shards across the floor. He was dead. Oh, the King sent his cavalry, but they couldn’t do a thing. Too many little slivers. What I want to know, Mr. Deadbeat,” (“Deadbolt,” I put in.) “What I want to know is, who killed my husband?!”

I promised her I would set to work right away. I was getting nowhere until the bartender let slip that there had been a “thing” between Mrs. Dish and one of the silver spoons. I paid a visit, but the spoon wasn’t talking. I called Mrs. Dish, told her I had important information, she needed to come down to my office. When she walked in, I had an inanimate spoon, the very image of the one she’d been fooling around with, laid out in my office. "Spoonie!!” she shrieked.

“That’s right,” I told her, “Spoonie! Now spill the beans lady.” She told me the whole story. They’d hired the cow to create a disturbance, Spoonie had planned to trip Mr. Dish during the confusion, etc. Worked like a charm, except for one thing. Spoon had thought they’d be extra clever, hire a detective, to keep all suspicion from them. Oldest trick in the drawer. Still, it might’ve worked, if they hadn’t picked me: Hasp Deadbolt, smartest P.I. in town.

Although, if I’m so smart, how come I’m left with a bill on which I can’t possibly collect?