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Coming clean


As I was saying, the final impetus to remove the stack of drug money from my office closet came when we landed the new minister as the guest of honor at a small dinner party and I was afraid Sabra would uncover the stash in a cleaning frenzy.
At any given moment, there’s no telling what she’ll clean and, over the years, I’ve resigned to just fessing up if I dirty anything. If CBS has one more spinoff left in them, they should make CSI:FH. Crime Scene Investigation: Fleck Household. In the opening episode, someone at a dinner party is murdered in the kitchen while no one is looking, and Sabra solves the mystery after she, and only she, notes a suspicious mote of dust under the rug by the sink.
Just this past weekend for example, we wanted to watch the Olympics on television with a friend visiting from Wisconsin. Both gals wanted to see women’s sand volleyball.
(Aside to the guys, “Score!” Aside to the PC police, “The players don’t have to wear bikinis.”)
The batteries in the television remote control gasped their last volt at that very moment and needed replacing, however. Our viewing pleasure was delayed.
I headed over to the refrigerator, where we keep the extra AAAs, fumbling with removing the old Energizers at the same time. A couple steps short of the door, the lid popped off and the batteries fell to the ground. One hit my foot and got kicked under the Sub Zero. Even with my bad hearing, I perceived the “thunk” as it hit the back wall.
I’ve written about the refrigerator in the past. It’s one poorly designed, yet expensive, piece of equipment that came with the house. It does have one redeeming attribute, however. The mirror like finish on the door makes me look thinner. So I took a moment, admired my slender physique in the reflection, and weighed my options.
The angel over my right shoulder whispered, “You know better.”
But, the devil made his case from the other side, “It’s been 10 years and she’s never cleaned under there once.”
“She’s a lovely women and you’re lucky to have her, treat her with respect and fess up,” the Angel said, crossing her arms and stomping her foot to let me know she meant business.
“But she’ll never know,” the Devil advised, and it occurred to me, in the 10 years we’ve lived in this house, she’s never cleaned under the refrigerator once, at least not all the way to the back wall. So what are the odds she’ll be doing it any time soon?
“He’ll know,” the Angel shot back, her face looking radiantly to heaven.
“Kerri Walsh-Jennings is serving and you should see what she’s wearing,” the Devil leered in return with a wink and a elbow nudge.
My guardian angel vaporized. I do love volleyball.
The very next night we were again sitting in the living room, when Pearl, our nine-year-old Labradoodle, started playing with her Conga Ball. The toy is a perfect match for her, they’re both spastic. Roll a regular round ball across a smooth lawn and Pearl will race, leap and zigzag over, under and around the orb but not catch it. With the irregular bounce of the Conga, however, she actually blindsides a grab occasionally.
Anyway, I gave the toy a short toss into the kitchen and Pearl pounced, kicking the hard rubber plaything into the metal grate at the base of the refrigerator. It popped out and Sabra popped in to see what the ruckus was about.
She immediately got down on her knees to snap the grate into place and cried, “Gad! look at all the dust under there!”
Then asked, “what’s that way under there against the wall?”
She mobilized instantly, grabbed her Shark Rocket Ultra and the tactical Maglight we keep on hand for just such emergencies. Faster than you can say, “Ace serve,” she had the errant cylinder retrieved and the crime scene analyzed. Noting the artifact was on top of the dust rather than under, she deduced the crime had been committed recently, probably in the last month. When she whipped out the battery tester, I couldn’t take it anymore and confessed on the spot.
Sometimes you just can’t win.
Darn, I didn’t get to tell you about all the guns I bought with the drug money.
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