The Missing Soles, Part One by Michael Cluff

They found Eliot Goodwin in his office at 5:54 that Friday evening. His red, blue and green paisley tie had been used to strangle him and the end of it had been stuffed rudely and fully into his mouth. It was the one he had gotten from Connie a year before they had broken up. His black wingtips were missing and Sean could see that his dark green and black argyle socks had no holes in them. Unusual for Eliot, Sean thought.

What a way to start a weekend, he added ingloriously. True he had not liked Eliot and yet . . . . But really Sean had been looking forward to it nonetheless. Now with the impending comings-in and goings-out this Saturday, it was such a pest and bother. Marebury was not too big or small enough either to just let this sit until Monday. And Dean would make damn sure Sean would be next door in his own office noting down each and every iota of info that would happen tomorrow. Dean would be worried about Connie no less and well he should. This burg was a hotbed for rumors and tumors as Sean's stepdad had told him before he had come to squat awhile here. Luke had been right--the squatting was decently tolerable but the place was just barely sentient. And with Sunday coming up soon, the town would stop dead in its stride no matter what. An apocalypse or the first act of Revelations would not budge this town from its worm-worn practices.

"You can go now, Sir," the cherry-faced officer said, "but Dean Ravenal wants you to be back here at six," she added with eyes locked on the ground.

"You know him?"

"He helped Dad once." But she was blushing nevertheless.

At 10:45 that night, Dean called. It was not unpredictable that he would.

"Sean, I need you down here stat at six sharp," he deadpanned.

Jane was not going to be too happy with that.

"All right," Sean returned in kind.

"Wear your best suit. Look overly respectable and trustworthy."

Sean decided to let that remark slide.

"And no matter what," Dean paused as if King Kong was breathing down on his shoulders, "no wingtips."

That was anathema coming from him, Sean thought and nearly liked it. "Loafers then. Dress of course, but after all it is Saturday."

Dean snapped, "Black plain toe Oxfords. Nothing less."

Even under high stress and trauma, you could count on Dean: pro forma, pro forma all the way.

Jane had slept through it all like she always did in such circumstances.

Sean had to get up at 3:30 to be properly dressed for the command performance by Dean. Being a slow starter, he had to get a huge reservoir of coffee to put him from the arms of Lethe. He stopped by a place he called "Coffee Murderers" for obvious reasons when one tasted their bilious brew. Battery acid was just as good, he thought. And cheaper. Even Jane, the self-proclaimed "burner of water" could create a tasty concoction compared to "CM," Sean thought as he pulled in to park somewhat on a wing and a prayer.

....to be continued