Skip Case (David Dean Mysteries)

"Sorry to disappoint you, Sherlock, but it looks like a simple drowning. I'm going down to Norfolk Friday to talk to the local police, but so far, there isn't a thing to point to the guy skipping." He ticked off the items he had learned about Jeffrey Byrne during the course of the day, as much for his own review as to answer Fred's rapid-fire questions. Fred finally leaned back with the knowing look of a kid with a pocket full of gumdrops.

"Churchy la fam," he said smugly.

Dean smiled. "You mean, 'Cherchez la femme,' don't you?"

"That's what I said. It means, 'look for the gal.'" Fred's answer came just as the music switched to a shrill voice pleading for her lover to come back to the hills.

"Rough translation and close enough. But you're all wet on this one. Jeff Byrne is the last of the straight arrows. He's about to be nominated for sainthood."

"You're just starting to investigate. Don't go jumping to con­clusions."

"I haven't finished but I'll tell you, I haven't met anyone who thought there was a ghost of a chance he was fooling around."

Fred ignored Dean's response and began to scratch his head in thought. "I remember a case like this. I think it was an Agatha Christie or maybe Nero Wolfe. The guy skipped out with his sec­retary after he faked his drowning and embezzled a million dol­lars."

"Fred, this is the real world. Given Byrne's job at World Wide, I don't think he was in a position to embezzle anything but the coffee money."

"I keep telling you, this stuff happens in the real world. If you read some of these here mystery books, you'd pick up lots of point­ers for that job of yours. Just because it's fiction doesn't mean you can't learn from it. This type of skip comes up all the time. By the way, I'm free to ride down to Norfolk on Friday if you want a little company."

"I'm flying to Norfolk. This is business. Anderson would have a fit if you tagged along even if I were driving and you know it." "Two eyes are better than one," grumbled Fred, disappointed. "I have two eyes," Dean answered, as he crossed to the kitchen for two more beers. "That's not what I meant." Fred growled, as he added more notes to his pad. "I'm making a list so's you don't forget stuff."

"Put on your glasses, you'll go blind doing that," Dean said, handing Fred his beer and reclaiming his rocker from Mrs. Lincoln, the large black cat that had adopted the pair the prior February. ("He" had been named Abe for the occasion before they discov­ered their mistake.)