Super Sleuth and Horse Racing
Griff and Clint from Jewel Cave watch Fire and Spice run in the Preakness Stakes
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“Griff, get in here if you want to see this race! It’ll only last a few minutes,” Clint yelled from the living room. “The horses aren’t going to wait on you.”
“Yeah, yeah…I was making your damn popcorn.” Griff set a bowl on the table beside Clint. As the aroma of butter mixed with warm popcorn wafted up, Clint inhaled deeply and sighed. Griff laughed. He looked at the television and shook his head. “Who names these horses?”
Clint leaned back and set the bowl on his lap. He tossed a piece to the larger of their two dogs, Phoenix, who snatched it out of the air, sat and woofed. Fern, their smaller dog, wedged herself between Clint’s legs and the back of the couch.
Griff pulled a chair from the kitchen and planted it close to the television. They watched as the horses paraded to the starting gate. Griff reached out and pointed at the screen. “See that guy there, the one leaning over rail. Something is up with him. Look how he’s rubbing his hands together.”
Huffing a breath, Clint rolled his eyes. “Griff, only you can watch the Preakness Stakes—from Cleveland no less—and find someone to suspect of something. The guy probably bet a lot of money on the race.”
“Let’s see if we can figure out which horse,” Griff said. He turned and grinned.
“You’re on.” Clint inched along the couch so he was closer to the television screen.
They both watched as the names of the horses were announced. When the name Ramble On was announced their suspect stood on his toes and strained to see around the people near him.
“Ramble On!” Clint and Griff said together. Griff scooted his chair closer to Clint and grabbed a handful of popcorn. Clint added, “He’s pretty close to the finish line, maybe we’ll see his reaction after the race.”
The horses were finally in the starting gate and ready to go. There was a few seconds of absolute silence before a bell rang and the horses sprang forward. At first it seemed as if they were one entity with many heads and legs.
“Which one…where…?” Griff used one finger close to the screen and pointed to one horse. “There’s our target.”
“It’s a horse race, Griff.” Clint grabbed Griff’s other arm shaking it when three horses moved ahead of the crowd and spread out to a single line.
The lead horse lost ground and the horses shuffled positions, a red horse taking the lead. “Which horse is that?” Griff looked at Clint.
“Fire and Spice,” Clint echoed the race announcer.
In the next instant the crowd at the race erupted, cheering and waving. The horses slowed. Griff threw both hands in the air and whooped, Clint jumped up yelling, “Oh, yeah!”
Phoenix rolled on his back and Fern leapt off the couch to bark at the television.
“The red one won. Where’s our targ—guy?” Griff was still squinting at the television.
They both leaned in closer as the camera scanned the crowd. The man they’d spotted earlier came into view. He threw something on the ground and banged one fist against the rail.
“He looks pissed. I wonder how much he lost.” Clint reached down and rubbed Phoenix’s belly a few times.
“Watch how he moves, and see if you can spot anything on him that looks out of place,” Griff inched even closer to the screen.
“Griff!”
Griff looked over at him, a sheepish expression on his face. He stood up and put the chair back. Grabbing the dogs’ leashes he gave them a shake. Both dogs charged to him, tails wagging, pacing between him and the door. “Walk?”
Clint shook his head and stood up. “You’re a master at changing the subject.” He took one harness and snapped it on Fern while Griff was getting Phoenix’s in place. Grinning, Griff opened the door, kissed Clint’s cheek and shrugged, waving Clint ahead of him. “Try not to investigate the neighbors based on their choices of flower colors.”
“I’ll try,” Griff mumbled and they headed out to a bright and sunny spring day.
Griff and Clint from Jewel Cave watch Fire and Spice run in the Preakness Stakes
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“Griff, get in here if you want to see this race! It’ll only last a few minutes,” Clint yelled from the living room. “The horses aren’t going to wait on you.”
“Yeah, yeah…I was making your damn popcorn.” Griff set a bowl on the table beside Clint. As the aroma of butter mixed with warm popcorn wafted up, Clint inhaled deeply and sighed. Griff laughed. He looked at the television and shook his head. “Who names these horses?”
Clint leaned back and set the bowl on his lap. He tossed a piece to the larger of their two dogs, Phoenix, who snatched it out of the air, sat and woofed. Fern, their smaller dog, wedged herself between Clint’s legs and the back of the couch.
Griff pulled a chair from the kitchen and planted it close to the television. They watched as the horses paraded to the starting gate. Griff reached out and pointed at the screen. “See that guy there, the one leaning over rail. Something is up with him. Look how he’s rubbing his hands together.”
Huffing a breath, Clint rolled his eyes. “Griff, only you can watch the Preakness Stakes—from Cleveland no less—and find someone to suspect of something. The guy probably bet a lot of money on the race.”
“Let’s see if we can figure out which horse,” Griff said. He turned and grinned.
“You’re on.” Clint inched along the couch so he was closer to the television screen.
They both watched as the names of the horses were announced. When the name Ramble On was announced their suspect stood on his toes and strained to see around the people near him.
“Ramble On!” Clint and Griff said together. Griff scooted his chair closer to Clint and grabbed a handful of popcorn. Clint added, “He’s pretty close to the finish line, maybe we’ll see his reaction after the race.”
The horses were finally in the starting gate and ready to go. There was a few seconds of absolute silence before a bell rang and the horses sprang forward. At first it seemed as if they were one entity with many heads and legs.
“Which one…where…?” Griff used one finger close to the screen and pointed to one horse. “There’s our target.”
“It’s a horse race, Griff.” Clint grabbed Griff’s other arm shaking it when three horses moved ahead of the crowd and spread out to a single line.
The lead horse lost ground and the horses shuffled positions, a red horse taking the lead. “Which horse is that?” Griff looked at Clint.
“Fire and Spice,” Clint echoed the race announcer.
In the next instant the crowd at the race erupted, cheering and waving. The horses slowed. Griff threw both hands in the air and whooped, Clint jumped up yelling, “Oh, yeah!”
Phoenix rolled on his back and Fern leapt off the couch to bark at the television.
“The red one won. Where’s our targ—guy?” Griff was still squinting at the television.
They both leaned in closer as the camera scanned the crowd. The man they’d spotted earlier came into view. He threw something on the ground and banged one fist against the rail.
“He looks pissed. I wonder how much he lost.” Clint reached down and rubbed Phoenix’s belly a few times.
“Watch how he moves, and see if you can spot anything on him that looks out of place,” Griff inched even closer to the screen.
“Griff!”
Griff looked over at him, a sheepish expression on his face. He stood up and put the chair back. Grabbing the dogs’ leashes he gave them a shake. Both dogs charged to him, tails wagging, pacing between him and the door. “Walk?”
Clint shook his head and stood up. “You’re a master at changing the subject.” He took one harness and snapped it on Fern while Griff was getting Phoenix’s in place. Grinning, Griff opened the door, kissed Clint’s cheek and shrugged, waving Clint ahead of him. “Try not to investigate the neighbors based on their choices of flower colors.”
“I’ll try,” Griff mumbled and they headed out to a bright and sunny spring day.
Bonus scene request--Griff and Clint from Jewel Cave
Griff helps Clint work out a creative way to fictionally kill someone
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“I need to kill someone,” Clint muttered.
Griff lowered his newspaper far enough to look over the top and asked, “Don’t we all?”
“Some way other than with a gun.”
“Blow them up,” Griff suggested. One of their dogs, Fern, stretched on the couch beside him and rolled to her back. The universal request for a tummy rub. Naturally, Griff put the paper down and complied.
“I need a body.”
“Again, don’t we all?” Griff arched an eyebrow and crooked one finger at Clint.
Clint snorted. “Not until this guy is dead in a truly creative way.”
Griff heaved a dramatic sigh and looked down at Fern. “Guess I know where I rate.”
“Aww, you know where you rate. Now give me some ideas,” Clint said.
“You do remember I’m supposed to uphold the law and prevent murders, right?”
“Oh, bitch, bitch. Fictional murder doesn’t count,” Clint said.
“It does to the fictional victims,” Griff retorted.
“Griff! Do you want to sit on that couch alone all night?”
Griff sighed again and shook his head. “Okay, no guns and no bombs. Fire?”
“Overdone.”
Griff laughed. “Drowning?”
Clint scrunched his nose. “Anyone can kill someone like that. I want different, creative.”
“Kill ‘em with kindness,” Griff said and stood up. “Beer?”
“Marshmallows!” Clint’s palm smacked the desktop and he swiveled the chair around to face the monitor.
“I don’t think we have marshmallows.”
“No, my character works in a food processing factory. A vat of marshmallow goo is a brilliant idea. You’re a genius.” Clint began typing. “This stuff can get up his nose, down his throat, all sticky and sweet smelling and….” He stopped talking and concentrated on the details.
A minute later Clint felt a presence behind him and a bottle of beer was offered over his shoulder. Griff leaned in and said, “I like that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s different. The poor guy probably wishes he’d be shot instead of suffocating in that glop.” Griff leaned against the edge of the desk and took a swig of beer.
Clint typed furiously describing how the man slowly sank as if he were in quicksand, the more he fought the fast he sank. The fluid marshmallow mixture closing in slowly, filling his mouth then his ears. Clanging in the factory dulled and seemed to come from farther and farther away as his hearing was dampened by the white, sticky stuff. Finally it invaded his eyes, he couldn’t get a hand up to rub them clean because he couldn’t get his arms free. The sugar stung like salt in a wound. His ears rang and he struggled to breathe, only succeeding in pulling more goo into his nose and eventually lungs.
“There,” Clint said and sat back. He picked up his beer and drank. “Whatcha think?”
Griff pulled a face. “That’s a disgusting way to die. Sure don’t see that at every crime scene. Nicely done. I think you should let it sit and ferment for the evening.” He dipped his head toward the couch.
Clint chuckled and stood up, stretching. “You know when I get over there I’ll need some distracting.”
Griff stood and slipped one arm around Clint’s waist. He pulled them close and leaned in, whispering in Clint’s ear. “That’s easy. I’ll fill you in on all the laws broken by dumping a man in a vat of marshmallow dough and leaving him to die.” He licked Clint’s neck and nibbled his ear. “Then I’ll help you come up with all sorts of gruesome ways for his body to be found.” Griff turned Clint away from the desk and nudged him toward the living room and the couch.
“You’ll do anything to keep from sitting alone on the couch.” Clint stopped talking long enough to be indulged with a slow, deep kiss. “And I’ll admit having you help me with scenes is hot.”
“Well, then, prepare for me to become scorching.” Griff took Clint’s beer and set it on a table along with his own. Clint sucked in a breath and laughed softly when Griff dumped him on the couch, all thoughts of finishing the chapter he’d been working on pushed to the side when Griff’s hands began working some magic.
Griff helps Clint work out a creative way to fictionally kill someone
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“I need to kill someone,” Clint muttered.
Griff lowered his newspaper far enough to look over the top and asked, “Don’t we all?”
“Some way other than with a gun.”
“Blow them up,” Griff suggested. One of their dogs, Fern, stretched on the couch beside him and rolled to her back. The universal request for a tummy rub. Naturally, Griff put the paper down and complied.
“I need a body.”
“Again, don’t we all?” Griff arched an eyebrow and crooked one finger at Clint.
Clint snorted. “Not until this guy is dead in a truly creative way.”
Griff heaved a dramatic sigh and looked down at Fern. “Guess I know where I rate.”
“Aww, you know where you rate. Now give me some ideas,” Clint said.
“You do remember I’m supposed to uphold the law and prevent murders, right?”
“Oh, bitch, bitch. Fictional murder doesn’t count,” Clint said.
“It does to the fictional victims,” Griff retorted.
“Griff! Do you want to sit on that couch alone all night?”
Griff sighed again and shook his head. “Okay, no guns and no bombs. Fire?”
“Overdone.”
Griff laughed. “Drowning?”
Clint scrunched his nose. “Anyone can kill someone like that. I want different, creative.”
“Kill ‘em with kindness,” Griff said and stood up. “Beer?”
“Marshmallows!” Clint’s palm smacked the desktop and he swiveled the chair around to face the monitor.
“I don’t think we have marshmallows.”
“No, my character works in a food processing factory. A vat of marshmallow goo is a brilliant idea. You’re a genius.” Clint began typing. “This stuff can get up his nose, down his throat, all sticky and sweet smelling and….” He stopped talking and concentrated on the details.
A minute later Clint felt a presence behind him and a bottle of beer was offered over his shoulder. Griff leaned in and said, “I like that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s different. The poor guy probably wishes he’d be shot instead of suffocating in that glop.” Griff leaned against the edge of the desk and took a swig of beer.
Clint typed furiously describing how the man slowly sank as if he were in quicksand, the more he fought the fast he sank. The fluid marshmallow mixture closing in slowly, filling his mouth then his ears. Clanging in the factory dulled and seemed to come from farther and farther away as his hearing was dampened by the white, sticky stuff. Finally it invaded his eyes, he couldn’t get a hand up to rub them clean because he couldn’t get his arms free. The sugar stung like salt in a wound. His ears rang and he struggled to breathe, only succeeding in pulling more goo into his nose and eventually lungs.
“There,” Clint said and sat back. He picked up his beer and drank. “Whatcha think?”
Griff pulled a face. “That’s a disgusting way to die. Sure don’t see that at every crime scene. Nicely done. I think you should let it sit and ferment for the evening.” He dipped his head toward the couch.
Clint chuckled and stood up, stretching. “You know when I get over there I’ll need some distracting.”
Griff stood and slipped one arm around Clint’s waist. He pulled them close and leaned in, whispering in Clint’s ear. “That’s easy. I’ll fill you in on all the laws broken by dumping a man in a vat of marshmallow dough and leaving him to die.” He licked Clint’s neck and nibbled his ear. “Then I’ll help you come up with all sorts of gruesome ways for his body to be found.” Griff turned Clint away from the desk and nudged him toward the living room and the couch.
“You’ll do anything to keep from sitting alone on the couch.” Clint stopped talking long enough to be indulged with a slow, deep kiss. “And I’ll admit having you help me with scenes is hot.”
“Well, then, prepare for me to become scorching.” Griff took Clint’s beer and set it on a table along with his own. Clint sucked in a breath and laughed softly when Griff dumped him on the couch, all thoughts of finishing the chapter he’d been working on pushed to the side when Griff’s hands began working some magic.
