The clues all point to Holmes

The young woman checking me in to the Quality Inn & Suites in Twin Falls, Idaho, asks my name.


“Hmm, I had a Moriarty earlier today.”

“Sherlock Holmes fan?”


“Cumberbatch or Rathbone?”

“I love the Cumberbatch interpretation.”

“Pretty out there, right?”

“Yep. My husband bought me a leather-bound complete edition of the Conan Doyle stories.”

“That’s cool. Is he a Holmes fan?”

“He is, but he’s dyslexic, so I read to him.”

Phone rings. She answers. Hangs up. Smiles at me.

“That was a Mr. Holmes,” she says.

One of those days, where life reinforces life.

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