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After three days of drinking, Doug Andrews somehow managed to stumble back home to his ranch style house at the end of a cul-de-sac.
Fumbling into his pockets he dug out the keys. The full moon cascaded a bright yellow hue onto the porch. It was then he realized the front light wasn’t on. Hmm.
Doug winced. His hangover pulsated with pain so intense as if tiny men chipped away fragments of his skull with pickaxes.
Lord, if you make the hurt go away I promise never to take another drink as long as I live.
He pushed the door open and staggered into the foyer. Without the aid of the moonlight, the dark house looked spooky. Doug fumbled until he found a light switch.
“Shit!”
The place was empty. He blinked several times to make sure his vision wasn’t playing tricks on him. Didn’t help. The couch was gone, the big screen TV. The walls were naked where pictures once hung.
Panic coursed through Doug’s veins. He rushed to the study. As the door flung open, he breathed a sigh of relief. His collection of beetles hadn’t been touched. Each species was still encased in their small glass capsules displayed on the many bookshelves lining the room.
Doug collected his first species, the Stag beetle in 1979. Over the years, the collection had grown to over 500. He recently returned from Africa with his prized possession, the Hercules beetle.
Doug walked outside and called the police on his cell phone. A cool breeze mussed his curly brown hair. His potbelly rumbled in protest for food. Ten minutes later a police car arrived.
The door opened, revealing a very fat man. As the big man exited the vehicle one hand grasped the steering wheel, while the other rested on the gravel below, a vain attempt to maintain his balance. The vehicle reverberated when he managed to exit. Doug snickered.
The officer closed the door, adjusted his gun belt, and waddled over. The tune ‘Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down,’ played in Doug’s head.
“What’s the problem sir?” the officer asked, adjusting his brown hat, which matched his uniform. His nametag read Hardy.
“Someone broke into my house and stole everything except the kitchen sink. Well that and my beetle collection.”
“Did you say beetle collection?” Hardy asked a bit surprised.
“Yes, I know it sounds weird, but everyone’s got a hobby. Mine happens to be beetles.”
He raised a brow. “All right, let’s take a look.”
As they entered each room, Hardy appeared to be taking notes on a pad of paper. Without looking up he asked, “Do you know of anyone who may have done this?”
“Maybe my ex-wife, but why break into the house and steal everything except my most prized possession.”
“How long you been divorced?”
“Two years. It was mutual. She couldn’t handle my occasional drink and I couldn’t stand her OCD.”
“Uh-hum,” he said a bit pessimistic. “Does she have a key? There doesn’t seem to be any signs of forced entry.”
“Not that I know of.”
He tipped his hat. “All right. I have everything I need.”
“Aren’t you going to check for fingerprints or anything like that?” Doug paused. “You know ... evidence?”
Hardy glowered at him. “Are you telling me how to do my job?” He put his notes away. “If you are, I got one question for you. Why does your breath reek of alcohol and did you drive home under the influence?”
That was two questions, but Doug decided to plead the fifth. No reason to incriminate himself.
“Didn’t think so, genius.” The officer wobbled back to his car.
Some help you are law dog.
When Doug woke up the next morning the thumping had subsided. It was more like a dull ache. He walked around the house searching for any evidence, since Mister ‘I am the Law’ hadn’t. Two things struck him as odd. The walls were clean. There weren’t any outlines of dust where the pictures once hung. Second, the house was spotless. It didn’t make sense. Why go to all the trouble and leave the beetle collection behind?
The phone rang. “Hello.”
“This is Officer Hardy. I did some checking around and your wife has an alibi for the past three days. I’ll check back with you if anything pans out.”
“Thanks,” Doug said dejected and hung up. “Life isn’t fair.”
Something the officer said didn’t sit well with Doug. He replayed the conversation in his head. To appease his curiosity, he decided to drive by the ex-wife’s house and check out his hunch. After all he wasn’t feeling too confident in Hardy’s investigation abilities.
When he arrived at her house, a squad car was parked in the driveway. A few minutes later the front door opened. Officer Hardy stepped onto the porch, turned and put his arms around the pear-shaped woman. They kissed.
A pain, akin to heartburn settled into Doug’s chest.
I’m not what you’d call handsome, but she definitely traded down.
He waited until Hardy left and then snuck up to the house. When he peered through a window there were some of his belongings in the living room.
His ex-wife sat on the leather couch that had been one of the items stolen as she watched Oprah on a big screen TV, also swiped from his house.
Doug walked through the front door. “I want my stuff back,” he demanded.
Surprised by his presence she asked, “How did you know?”
How did Doug know? Follow the rest of the conversation on the next page.
Hint: The ex-wife’s alibi
“You can’t control your OCD,” Doug said. “You cleaned up after stealing my stuff. But the real clencher was when your lover, Officer Hardy said you had an alibi for the past three days. I never mentioned anything about being gone three days.”
She put her head into her hands and cried.