“Help! My dog’s been shot.”
Mrs. O’Reilly, living with Arnold Really O’Reilly, in a cozy Cape Cod bungalow overlooking the Atlantic in late November was moderately frantic over her wounded pet Arnold, who’d always wanted to write a mystery, had a fine collection of unpublished poetry, philosophy, and Quaker theology. Arnold was a tall man, thin as a rail, with deep set sleepy eyes, wispy hair on top, and a savage pink scar across his left cheek His hands were...
“The dog? What about Mrs. O’Reilly mourning her favorite pet who’d just been shot?”
‘Not to worry. She didn’t like the dog much anyway and Whiskers had only been nipped in the left hind paw.”
“As I was about to say, Arnold’s hands were his favored visible physical feature. Grey-veined they put him in touch with his beloved computer and a hundred other little....”