A Study in Sherlock

Sergeant-Major Jackson rarely entertained, but now, in his modest home, surrounded by his colleagues, he felt, well, almost happy, a sensation he had almost forgotten. They had just arrived and were going about the unexpectedly difficult task of getting settled. Jackson had few chairs, but while the conversation flowed he found one or two from the little dining area and a camp stool and deck chair from the neat front closet.

Well,” Hamstein confessed, “I said there was only one man who could figure this out and I was right.”

“We were right,” grumbled Turner. “But bringing in P.K. that way was a huge risk. Could’ve tainted the case if we’d known about it.”

“Which,” said P.K., “is why it remained between Sergeant-Major Jackson and myself.”

“But what if he hadn’t fallen for it?” Maggie knew Jackson had the answer and wanted him to have his moment. He saw that and offered what was almost a smile of gratitude. But he dismissed her thought.

“Once he said Hefty bag—correct to the very brand—Pelachi would know the jig was up.”

“Yeah,” remembered Hamstein. “I wondered about that. How’d you know he had a Hefty bag?”

Jackson’s hand reached into the pocket where he had placed the shining bit of plastic found near the Ark, withdrew the shred, held it up. “A very particular polymer base, patented by a particular company. It had to be their product.”

“What will happen to Zakaria?” Maggie worried.

Hamstein shrugged. “Don’t sweat it. He’ll get immunity for his testimony.”

Finally everyone was comfortably seated. Jackson rubbed his hands.

“Well. Can I offer you some cheer? Perhaps a little uisge beatha?”

They clearly had no idea what he meant. Except for Maggie. “Scottish Gaelic—Erse, if you prefer—for ‘water of life.’ Corrupted into English as ‘whisky.’ ”

The men gazed at her in mixed admiration and intimidation.

Hamstein glanced at Turner, murmured, “They belong together.”

They all burst into laughter, punctuated by P.K.’s cry of “Bring it on!”

Maggie agreed. “Bring it on, indeed. My father always said you had the world’s greatest collection of whisky!”

“You knew her father?” the others all asked more or less at once.

For a moment it seemed Sergeant-Major Jackson might answer. But then he thought better. He turned sternly to Maggie.

“I’m quite certain you’re mistaken, ma’am. I expect he said I had a collection …” He turned to a cupboard in the built-in TV shelving, threw its door open, adding, “of the world’s greatest whiskies!”

There were but four bottles on display: two single malts, a Talisker from the Isle of Skye, and an Oban from the eponymous Western Highland glen that gave it life. Only one blend, Justerini & Brooks. And a bottle of Bell’s, the daily “wee dram afore ye go” of the Glasgow working people. With a flourish, Sergeant-Major Jackson swept his hand to the display.

“There, good friends, is all you ever need to know about the water of life! Maggie, choose for us all!”

“Oban,” she said softly.

He gazed at her warmly. “An excellent choice. Like father, like daughter.”

And the celebration began.

After leaving school—not of his own volition—at fifteen, Lionel Chetwynd formed the ambition to become as comprehensively clever as Sherlock Holmes; that way, he reasoned, he could quit the factory and sleep in late like his hero. He has not, as yet, succeeded. In the interim he has occupied himself with more than forty feature motion picture and long-form television credits and has written, produced, and directed more than twenty-one documentaries. He has received both Oscar and Emmy nominations; six Writers Guild of America nominations, including an award; the New York Film Festival Gold Medal; two Christophers; two George Washington Freedom Medals; and six Telly Awards. In 2001, he was appointed to the President’s Committee on the Arts and the Humanities. He is a recipient of the John Singleton Copley Medal from the National Portrait Gallery, the Smithsonian Institution. Lionel is married to actress Gloria Carlin and lives in Southern California, where they exult in their four grandchildren.

THE EYAK INTERPRETER

A KATE SHUGAK SHORT STORY

Dana Stabenow

A PARK RAT’S BLOG

[Note to my twenty-seven Park Rat followers, who think reading along is such a hoot. This blog is a yearlong assignment for Mrs. Doogan in my honors English class. Don’t screw with my grade by being trolls in the comments. I can delete you, you know.]

Tuesday, October 25th, by Johnny

We’re not in the Park anymore, Toto.

I hate dentists. I floss and brush and all that stuff every day, I don’t know why I had to have a cavity. I hate Kate, too. She’s never had a cavity in her whole life. Makes me want to hold her down and force-feed her a five-pound bag of sugar.