Domestic Arts Presents:
The house was large, with red brick and green ivy, reminding Detective Lamont Smyth of an English manor as he rang the doorbell and was ushered into a great hall.
“Thank you for coming, Officer.” A short, rotund man appeared from the side hallway, patting his own chest in a hurried manner.
“You reported a theft?” Smyth asked.
“Yes, yes! My McLean has been stolen!”
“McLean?” Smyth searched his memory; artwork, rare jewels, a one of a kind stamp? “I’m not familiar with that term, Mr…”
Pulling out a cloth from his chest pocket, the little man mopped his brow. “I’m Reginald Fields. My McLean was a rare tatting shuttle. The flagship of my collection, sir! I own the largest assortment of shuttles in the Americas. And now…” He seemed a step away from a heart attack. “It’s gone!”
Lamont sighed. Why him? He seemed to get all the weird cases.
The man led him to a large room filled with display cases of lace and odd assortments of lace tools. Oak bookcases lined one wall, filed with books on lace history and patterns. The room was grand with a high ceiling and thick carpet. A corner fireplace flickered with gas fed flames.
“Here, you can see. All my shuttles are there, except my newest one, the McLean. I can assure you it was here last night and my security system is state of the art. No one has come in or gone out since I last saw it. All my staff lives within these walls.”
“So, it’s still somewhere inside the house?” Lamont guessed. “Could you describe it for me?”
Almost tearfully the man obeyed. The McLean was a small tatting shuttle made of sawdust composite with a red and black plaid design, like a tartan pattern. Fields explained one of the reasons they were so rare to find was because they could be easily damaged by moisture and the elements.
Lamont’s eyes strayed to the fireplace. What if someone with a grudge against this man just wanted it destroyed?
“One of your employees perhaps?”
“No, no,” Fields shook his head, leaning toward the detective in a conspiring manner. “I have your suspects in the library. My fellow collectors were invited to spend the night after a board meeting. I’m sure one of them has the shuttle. They’ve all allowed my butler to search their belongings. But I know they have it, I know! You see, we were preparing a display for an upcoming festival. In the old days, lace was considered as valuable as currency. There were laws that prohibited a lace maker from leaving the country with his designs, family members were held hostage. Lace was smuggled out of the country in all sorts of manners. I’m sure one of my fellow collectors is trying to smuggle the McLean out of my house! But I don’t know who. I can’t offend them all. I just want you to tell me who it is.”
Feeling like a man trapped in an old Agatha Christie novel, Lamont was taken to the guests in question. There were three of them. First was a distinguished woman wearing a mink fur and elegant grey hair piled high on her head. This was Mrs. Jackson. The second ‘suspect’ was a shorter woman, Mrs. Hoodmire. She was rather plump and friendly looking and sat in a comfortable wingback chair with her five year-old daughter sitting quietly at her feet playing with her doll. The third man, a Mr. Dapple, was an elderly gentleman also seated. He played with the ornate carved ivory head of his walking cane. An unlit cigar clamped between his teeth as he grumbled about being detained.
Lamont had a minute to speak quietly to each adult; they all told him the same thing. They had gone to bed after a late meeting of their tatting club and woke to find Mr. Fields in a rampage.
“Tell him about the damn note, Fields!” Mr. Dapple insisted.
“A note?” Lamont raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, of course! How stupid of me.” Fields ran from the room returning with a note. “This was left. I had my butler place it in a clear baggy for you. Just like those detective shows on TV.”
Lamont accepted the plastic encased note and read.
~As in the era of old, as in the traditions of the golliwog, by the lamentation of many, I will pilfer your trophy across boundaries never to be returned to you.~
“What is this supposed to mean?” Lamont asked them.
“We have no idea,” Mr. Fields said. “Except for the *thief*, of course!” He glared at his companions.
“Okay,” Lamont pinched his nose and squeezed both eyes closed. “I’m going to call my supervisor. Everyone, please stay in this room.”
The butler took him to a phone where he could talk in private. His division lieutenant laughed briefly and told him to write a quick report and move on, it was hopeless. Lamont hung up, discouraged, but he was a resourceful man and quickly dialed another number he knew by heart.
“Hello?”
“Mom?”
“Hi, honey. What’s up?”
“You’re never going to believe this case I just got, Mom. It’s right up your alley.”
Lamont quickly explained the facts as he knew it. His mother, a college professor in history had done her PHD dissertation on the history of lace in Europe. She had him relate everything he knew and describe each of the suspects to the finest visual detail. When he was done, she laughed and told him were the shuttle was hidden.
Who Took the Shuttle? Can you guess?