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.