Winning Story 2001
JL

Mystery of the Smoked Herring

  The name's Stromer, eh, Skye Stromer. I just moved here from Canada, trying to make it big as a hockey player. Anyhow, that didn't work out too well, you see, as the town of Fishwater, Michigan didn't even have a NHL team, eh! I felt like a big failure. Who's ever heard of a Canadian that didn't play hockey, eh? After that I was feeling pretty low, and I scrambled for any job I could find. Fishwater was a fishing town, but I didn't want that job. All that fish odor would make me lose my edge on the rink, so I chose the next best thing, private investigator.

Getting my PI license was easier than I first thought, eh. All I had to do was read a few Agatha Christie novels, play a few games of Clue, and I was set. The license came in the mail after a couple weeks wait. I sold my old hockey gear, and made enough money to rent out a quaint little office downtown to set up my PI business.

So, my little PI office was in place, and I sat there waiting for my first client, eh. Fishwater was a quiet little town, so I didn't expect any major crime to happen anytime soon. I put my feet up on my brand new desk and looked at the latest hockey scores. Then, a young man of medium height and build burst into my office.

"Are you a private investigator?" he asked.

"Yep, Skye Stromer, PI and crime specialist, at your service. I can also, make a set of keys within one hour, eh," I says. "Who's asking?"

I'm Bud Herring," he said assuming an air of arrogance.

"Wow, so you're the famous Bud Herring, eh? Why, I'm honored by your presence," I says with sarcasm. "Why you must be so big, that a 20 pound mackerel would seem insignificant in your presence, eh? So really, who ‑are you, anyways?"

"Why you no‑good, low down, ignorant PI'' he raged. "I'm the son of King Herring, the largest distributor of fish and fish by‑products in all of Fishwater!"

So that was who he was. I had heard of King Herring and his fish store, the Haughty Herring ,rivaled only by one other competitor. I heard of his infamous love affair, too. This guy was becoming a regular Bill Clinton, eh. The next thing you knew he'd steal furniture out of the White House and move to Harlem.

"You like hockey?" I started.

"'Of course not, I'm here for serious business!"

"So, why are you here, eh?" I asked Bud.

"'Haven't you heard? It's all over the news. An arsonist killed my father. He was working late in his store yesterday when a blaze started,"' he says. "I'll bet that Blu Trout, owner of the Spiteful Trout, is behind this. I'm willing to pay you $1,000,000 to prove his guilt." 

After a quick pit stop at the local 7‑Up to check "oot" latest the Sports illustrated, I headed directly for the Herring Mansion, eh. There, I interrupted a make‑out session between Red and Garcon

"Skye Stromer, PI and crime specialist. I'm here to investigate the death of King Herring, eh. What do you two know aboot this?" I questioned.

"'Well, King was in his store ‑ he's so devoted to anything that's not me ‑ and then policemen are at my house asking me the same questions repeatedly. So draining..." Red said innocently.

"Oui, oui, es ze sam fer me, monsieur. Jai was right zere zwerking hard zto keep ze maison clean," Garcon said.

They checked out, eh! The stories were most convincing, but one thing was unsettling. The matches with the inscriptions.

"Oh, vy everybody has dese kinds of ze matches. They are ze souvenirs for visitors to ze maison,"' explained Garc6n.

"Yes, even that no‑good, trashy whore, Goldie Digger, has them and I have a good mind she's the one you want," flapped Red Herring.

It was clear now, and I left the happy couple in peace. No doubt it was one of the other illminded suspects who were responsible. I took Red's suggestion and went to Goldie's house for questioning. She was doing her nails when I arrived.

"Why, hello sexy, who are you?" an attractive Ms. Digger answered the door.

I gave her the same old drill "aboot" why I was there.

As soon as I said "Herring," she started breaking down into tears.

"Oh, I did love King so..." she sobbed. "Why did he have to die sooo soon?"

This bawling was too much for me and I gave her a slapshot so hard it would make Wayne Gretsky reel in pain.

"Get a hold of yourself woman," I said. "I'm not here for your crying. Here's a tissue. Dry yourself up and answer my question!"

'The night of the fire (sob, sob)," she said. "I was at a nightclub singing, besides I wouldn't do anything to King."

"Then what aboot your vow to make him 'pay big time,' eh?"

"That's exactly what I meant. To sue him. Make him pay big time. I didn't want him to d‑ddie," more water‑works.

I had my info and I wasn't "aboot" to stay in the rink with her. I thanked the crying lady and left pronto. Before I left, I asked her to come to the Herring Mansion later to find out who the real criminal was. She made a sobbing moan that I took as "yes."'

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