Tuesday, March 24, 2020

Five Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Maurice Barkley



Well, hey, it's a blog tour! Pretty much the only tour around that hasn't been cancelled lately, so thanks, Dave. It's kind of ironic actually - when my grandson was teaching me how to use the internet so I could write this inane blog, he kept warning me about viruses and how they would destroy my computer. And now, the virus is here, and every part of the world except my computer appears to be broken. So it looks like Jackson didn't know what the hell he was talking about - AGAIN! 

Anyway, now we are social distancing, and it kind of feels like I died and went to Heaven. No knocks on the door, no obnoxious neighbors, no skateboarders on the sidewalk, just peace and quiet. Speaking of dying, before we received the beautiful, wonderful order that we were no longer supposed to interact with other people, I was at a funeral for a friend. Now first off, stop right there. Save your sappy sentiments for another day. At our age, you recognize death as a part of life, and the spirit of the occasion was generally positive. You'll understand someday.

However, having just read this book, I had some nagging thoughts. The newspaper (and my friend's family) said that he had died of natural causes, but Sherlock Holmes would remind us that things are seldom what they initially seem to be. I started looking around the room at everyone thinking, "Was it you?" I mean, killing someone our age is a relatively pointless endeavor, but my friend did have a well-curated collection of LPs, numerous bird feeders, and an expensive set of extra dentures. So the motive is obvious. The means wouldn't have been hard to come by either - a moderate bump from the side would probably have been sufficient. It could have been anyone, but when my son-in-law Gerry made a snide comment to me about wearing cargo pants to a funeral, he became the prime suspect!

First off, there is nothing wrong with wearing cargo pants to a funeral or anywhere else. I am at the point in life when function surpasses form on the priority list. And I needed all those pockets! One for my handkerchief, program, breath mints, list of people's names I was supposed to remember but didn't give a shit about, etc. One for a book for when my friend's daughter starts talking (Jesus Christmas, people, it's like a verbal Mount Vesuvius). One for garlic and a crucifix - hey, you never know what might happen when you get that close to a cemetery. And one for a bag of Takis (those things really are addictive, although in retrospect I recognize that the crunch factor and orange fingers made it possibly not the best choice for the occasion). The point is, why would Gerry be casting aspersions my way if not to deflect attention away from himself? Case closed, people. Now I just have to decide whether to go to the police or avenge my friend myself. Once social distancing is over, of course.

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