The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Per HOUR?” Holmes breathed, stunned. Skye nodded.

  “We’ll take a flight up to Denver sometime, so you can experience it. Fighter jets—you’ve seen some of those around the base—can travel around two or three times that speed. Are you up to turning Blaze loose in the pasture, or do you need to sit down?”

  Holmes nodded, still trying to absorb the speeds. He took the lead rope and urged Silver Blaze to the gate near the barn, opening it inward to block Buddy and Peggy Sue from horning in with greetings, then leading Blaze through and deftly removing the halter. Skye was right behind him with Iris, and soon the four horses were snuffling each other happily.

  “Okay, boys and girls, dinnertime,” Skye announced, and there was a general stampede for the barn.

  Holmes chuckled and followed as Skye entered the barn. The horses had been trained well, he observed, each knowing which stall was its own, and patiently awaiting their mistress. Skye opened the feed room and plucked four large coffee cans from a shelf. Going to the grain bin, she dug each can into the grain in turn, scooping until each was full.

  “Here,” she handed two to Holmes. “One each. I’ll climb into the loft and drop hay. I don’t think you need to be climbing a ladder here until you’ve acclimated to the altitude.”

  Holmes decided not to protest, as Skye obviously had a routine anyway, and he was enjoying the opportunity to work with her animals. He took the cans and emptied them into the feed boxes, as overhead, Skye dumped several flakes of hay into the corner rack of each stall.

  Moments later, Skye was back on the ground and locking up the feed room. Holmes noted this with amusement.

  “May I take it your horses are escape artists?”

  “You betcha,” Skye grinned. “If I don’t lock up the feed at night, a month’s supply would be gone inside a week. I wonder if I should blanket them. It’s going to be chilly up here tonight, despite the warm day.”

  “Will it freeze?”

  “No, but it’ll be cold.”

  “Do you plan to keep them in the barn?”

  “No, I usually let ‘em have free access. They can wander in and out as they please.”

  “The barn is heated?”

  “Yeah. I had a heat pump and ductwork installed. It was expensive, but worth it, after the first couple of times I had to repair busted water pipes. And with the heat pump—I’ll explain the thermodynamics later, but kind of like a refrig- er, an electric icebox,” she interjected by way of explanation, “with the heat pump, I don’t have to worry about barn fires, like some other kinds of heat. I’ve got a plastic door curtain keeping the warm air in, but that they can walk through.”

  “Then I would recommend dispensing with blankets tonight. They will come into the barn if they need warmth.”

  “Okay, let’s go get cleaned up for dinner.”

  * * *

  “Where did they go?” Little Joe radioed. “I lost ‘em in the traffic back in Woodland Park.”

  “Somewhere in the mountains west of Pikes. GPS shows no roads in the vicinity. They must’ve taken some back roads in the middle of bloody damn nowhere.” Tracker shook his head, staring at the computer.

  “Should I keep looking?”

  “No, you’ll only get lost. Return to Divide and await further instructions.”

  “Roger.”

  * * *

  Inside the house Holmes took the opportunity to look around discreetly. The central part of the house constituted the oldest part. The entire space had been converted into a small front foyer and a cozy den decorated rustically as befit a log cabin. An old stone fireplace stood in the northwest corner, and a dark oak entertainment center was positioned against the west wall. A burgundy corduroy sofa, oak coffee table, two matching end tables, two comfortable floral-patterned armchairs, and a leather recliner clustered near the room’s center, arranged casually to accommodate conversation, television viewing, or simply staring into the fireplace. The rear wall had been carved up to install half a dozen large picture windows and a half-French door to the deck, overlooking the ranch. The dark hardwood floor was covered with several braided area rugs in soft shades of heather and brown. A big antler and wrought iron chandelier dangled from the wood-beamed ceiling.

  As Skye kindly showed him about, he found that two large wings opened off the main cabin; one to the north, the other to the south. The southern wing contained the kitchen, pantry, laundry room, and a mudroom that also led onto the deck’s southern exposure via a side door.

  The northern wing contained the bedrooms, which lined a central hallway. On the eastern side of the hall was the master suite—a large, luxurious bedroom with a queen-sized bed, massive dresser and armoire, all of rustic pine; a spacious closet; and a decadent bathroom with rose-brown granite and brass fixtures. Windows opened east and north, lined with soft blue slub-weave curtains to match the bedspread.

  On the western side, the wing also contained the general bath and guest bedroom. The well-appointed general bathroom, decorated in soft cream tones, opened onto the hallway—for the convenience of visitors—and also into the guest bedroom. Both were generously sized and comfortable, and the guest bed, flanked by two nightstands, was spread with a forest-green down comforter. Matching curtains hung at the west window, and the mirrored dresser beside the closet door completed the furnishings. At the end of the hall on the western side was Skye’s study, complete with cherrywood desk, filing cabinet, and filled-to-overflowing bookcases.

  As they re-entered the den, a little sealpoint Siamese cat met them and politely waited to be introduced.

  “Oh, Anna, this is Sherlock Holmes,” Skye said, addressing the small feline. “Be good. He’s a buddy.” Anna trilled a greeting, and Holmes bent to stroke the soft fur of her back.

  “Her name is Anna?”

  “Yeah. I named her for the heroine of a musical, The King And I, based on the life of Anna Leonowens.”

  “Ah,” Holmes grinned. “I recall the tale now. Anna and the King of Siam. And she is a Siamese cat. What a very creative idea for a name.”

  “I thought so,” Skye smiled.

  Skye showed Holmes to the guest bedroom in the north wing, and he found she had, indeed, planned well. There were several changes of clothing awaiting him in the closet, along with a spare shaving kit on the counter of the bathroom.

  So while Skye retired to the master suite to get ready, Holmes stripped and took a quick shower, having learned the use of that facility at the base. Digging in the shaving kit, he finished his ablutions in short order, pausing before applying a hint of cologne, the simple, spicy, decidedly masculine fragrance he had specified some days earlier. I wonder if she likes this, wandered vaguely through his mind, not having considered the matter sufficiently to observe her reactions before that moment; he shrugged and continued applying the scent. Not that it matters, I suppose.

  He discovered a burgundy dressing gown waiting on the hook behind the bathroom door, and Holmes wrapped it around his nude form, moving back into the bedroom. There, he transferred the contents of his pockets from his jeans to his suit. This consisted of loose change, a few bills, the disposable lighter, and his jack-knife. From one of the back pockets, he pulled out the battered pack of Marlboros. With a sigh, he laid them on the bed.

  But upon extracting the pipe and tobacco from his shirt pocket, he smiled. Opening the package of loose tobacco, he placed some of it into the deerskin pouch, only then discovering the tamping tool hidden inside. She seems to have thought of everything, he realized, pleased. He tucked the pipe inside the drawstring pouch with the tobacco and pipe tool, then slipped the lot into a pocket of the grey suit coat.

  I think I should prefer not to use the lighter on this pipe, he thought. It would ruin the side of the bone bowl. I should not like to be disrespectful to so considerate a gift.

  He had already espied the ashtray she’d placed on the nightstand, complete with a small box of matches; he swiped the matchbox and added it to a pocket of the s
uit. Then he picked up the disposable lighter and pack of Marlboros.

  He studied them for a moment, considering. Abruptly Holmes rose. He placed the cigarette lighter on the bedside table, next to the ashtray. But the cigarettes he carried into the bathroom, where without hesitation, he tossed the entire pack into the waste can. I only smoked them when the craving struck anyway. What is the point of smoking tobacco if it is not enjoyable?

  Then he went back to the bedroom, removing the dressing gown and hanging it on the bedpost. He reached for the grey suit, and five minutes later Holmes was ready.

  Skye wasn’t; but it didn’t take her much longer. When she emerged from her bedroom, Holmes blinked at the golden-haired, blue-eyed beauty clad in the elegant salmon pink sheath dress. Her skin was satiny; her eyes smoky; a hint of color lit her cheeks, and her lips were glossed a soft pink. The long blonde mane had been freed of its customary French braid and cascaded down her shoulders.

  Automatically he offered his arm. She took it; they walked outside, climbed into the black sport coupe, and they were off.

  * * *

  “Little Joe, this is Tracker. GPS shows they’re on the move again. Headed your way down 24. Passing the Divide intersection…now.”

  “I don’t see ‘em.”

  “Fool, they won’t be in the truck and trailer you reported. They’ll almost certainly be in another vehicle.”

  “Well, unless you can tell me WHAT, I don’t see ‘em.”

  “Never mind,” Tracker snarled. “Return to the Springs. I’ll monitor via GPS and notify you if I get a location.”

  “Wilco.”

  * * *

  Holmes could find nothing to disapprove in the evening’s activities. On the way down the mountain, they discussed an adequate, permanent, unclassified cover story for his existence, and decided on simplicity. Henceforth Holmes would be a modern man from Great Britain, whose parents had named him after their favorite literary character, seeing the surname was the same; he was working with Skye on a project at Schriever. He also, influenced by his “namesake,” was a talented amateur detective—with ambitions of going professional. The story had the added advantage of allowing him to retain his own name, which comforted them both, given how guilty Skye felt over Holmes’ loss.

  The restaurant, situated in the private club of an historic hotel in the center of town, had a corner table waiting in the smoking area when they arrived. Holmes sat down to fine linen, heavy silver, and real china, and sighed in contentment: It was much like one of the London restaurants he and Watson had frequented. There was no doubt Skye had chosen it for that reason, and he was grateful.

  The food was as good as its setting; after an active day, they did it full justice, and soon they were chatting over brandy and coffee. Holmes reached into his pocket and produced his new pipe and tobacco, and seconds later, Skye was grinning as he puffed away happily.

  * * *

  “Yeah, I got ‘em,” Little Joe remarked into the small lapel microphone. “In the corner.”

  “Good. Can you tell what they’re saying?”

  “A little. Looks to be chit-chat. Nothing important. He’s lighting up a pipe.”

  “Have they detected you?”

  “Nope.” Little Joe smirked to himself.

  “Good. Follow them. She should drop him off before going home. Then you can tail her and locate her house.”

  “Will do.”

  * * *

  Holmes, ever the gentleman, was distressed when the check came and Skye picked it up. But as he had nothing but a small stipend provided by General Morris, he sighed and refrained from protesting. Another sigh escaped him when they got back into the car, knowing he was headed back to his insular quarters on the base.

  But when Skye turned the little coupe toward the pass up the mountain, instead of onto the prairie toward the base, Holmes gave her an interrogative glance. Skye grinned mischievously.

  “You don’t look like a pumpkin to me, so I don’t have to get you back yet. You’ve got the spare bedroom for the night, and tomorrow we’ll putter around. I’ve got some ideas for activities. I’ll bring you back tomorrow night, and Morris will have to understand everything’s okay.”

  “Skye, please do not put yourself into difficulties on my account.”

  “‘It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission,’” she quoted the modern proverb, waving off his concerns. “The general isn’t gonna scalp me. Since I’m a civilian, private contractor—I’m my own company—he doesn’t really have jurisdiction over me anyway. Yeah, I got nailed on the tesseract. But this is different. And between you and me, Caitlin’s on our side. Besides, this lays the groundwork for an idea I’ve got.”

  “Hm,” Holmes said, thinking only briefly. “You are considering offering the guest bedroom to me on an extended basis?”

  “I didn’t think I’d get it past you for more than a few seconds, especially after you got a look at the setup. Yeah, I’m thinking about it. It seems like the best plan, all the way around. It gets you out of that boring, teeny little room on base, it makes General Morris happy to know your liaison is with you around the clock, and there aren’t any financial considerations for you to deal with.” Skye grinned.

  “I should prefer to offer you payment for room and board,” Holmes protested.

  “Listen, as good as you are with horses, if you help me out around the ranch, I’ll consider us even,” Skye suggested. After a few moments to consider the notion, Holmes nodded.

  “Very well. We may consider the thing as settled.”

  “And on Monday, we have to convince Morris,” Skye added.

  * * *

  “Tracker! I’ve lost ‘em! That damn black car! I’m on my way toward Schriever!”

  “Negative, negative! Change of plan! GPS shows they’re headed back up the pass, Little Joe. Call off the hunt. It’s unlikely you can catch up to them in time to locate the house. Another time will have to do.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It isn’t your fault, Little Joe. We made the mistake of assuming.”

  * * *

  Sunday was another lovely spring day. Holmes and Chadwick slept in, although Holmes rose before he heard any other activity in the house. After performing his morning routine and getting dressed in fresh jeans and a short-sleeved polo shirt, however, he chose to remain in his room, unwilling to move about before the mistress of the house was up. He opened a window and filled his pipe, smoking and studying the landscape from the window’s vantage, until he heard the door of Skye’s room, across the hall, open and close. He tapped the dottle in his pipe into the ashtray Skye had left, put it aside to dry, and followed her into the main house.

  After a hearty breakfast, Skye presented their options for the day, Holmes selected several, and they headed out. A quick jaunt back to Highway 24, several miles east to Divide, and they struck the road south to Cripple Creek. There they spent the morning prowling the historic mining town, having lunch in one of the saloon casinos. A quick loop of the ancient volcano’s rim in the car took them by several gold mines, including a large strip mine. Holmes frowned at the desolated landscape. Skye sighed.

  “Not all progress is a good thing,” she admitted. “Next time I’ll take you to a proper underground tunnel mine. We passed it on the way in to Cripple Creek. That one’s more interesting, in my opinion.”

  * * *

  “Hm,” Tracker muttered to himself, studying the computer screen. “They’re playing tourist today. No sense siccing Little Joe onto them; they aren’t staying in one place long enough to spot them.”

  He leaned back in his desk chair and watched the map thoughtfully.

  * * *

  Then it was back to Divide, and down Ute Pass once more, for they intended to take the cog railroad to the top of Pikes Peak.

  “I could drive you up there,” Skye admitted, “but it takes several hours to make all those switchbacks, and you’d be white-knuckled by the time we arrived. For that matter, so would
I. The railroad will be faster and more pleasant. Did you bring your jacket? It’ll be cold on top, especially this time of year, ‘cause it’s still early in the season. I think I see snow on the summit.”

  “The jackets are in the back seat,” Holmes offered.

  “Good. We’ll have to get coffee and doughnuts at the top.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the coffee is good and hot, which is nice with snow on the ground up there, and because the doughnuts are made on the summit. So due to the altitude, they’re the fluffiest things in the world.”

  The trip to the summit and back took the rest of the afternoon. Holmes had the dual pleasure of practicing his observing skills on the other people on the train as well as the changing scenery. By the time they reached the tree line, both he and Skye had donned their jackets. By the time they came to the saddleback ridge just before the summit, with its three-thousand-foot vertical drop and howling winds, Holmes and Skye were huddled together in the seat for warmth.

  But the view was spectacular. Holmes wandered about the snow-clad summit in fascination, trying to ignore the breathless, lightheaded sensation caused by altitude, while Skye went inside the visitors’ center and got coffee and doughnuts. They found a sheltered spot out of the wind, but with an excellent view, and tucked away the food. Holmes was in voluble agreement that the pastries were the best he had ever eaten, and privately noted it made a more than suitable, and quite unique, afternoon tea.

  Then Skye took him around the summit and pointed out various landmarks. To the east, Manitou Springs and Colorado Springs laid out their streets, and the Garden of the Gods was plainly visible, the huge stones once more oddly dwarfed; past that stretched the boundless prairie. Schriever Air Force Base could be seen several miles into the plain, Peterson Air Force Base closer by. To the southeast was Cheyenne Mountain. To the northeast, she pointed out the Air Force Academy in the near distance, and Denver’s skyscrapers far away to the north. Holmes noted she was deliberately refusing to look down, and when he did, he saw why: It was a sheer drop for many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of feet. He made no outward sign; but the detective prudently moved back a step or two. He’d had more than enough of sheer drops, with waterfall or otherwise, in the last week.