(flash story)

Everyone in sleepy Wrenville knew Ellie Maynard as the piano teacher living with cats, but not as a detective. But when the town’s prized 18th-century violin vanished from the museum during Heritage Week, Ellie’s inner sleuth awakened like a moth to moonlight.

“I’m telling you, it was stolen during the gala,” said Ellie to Officer Brad Loomis, Wrenville’s well-meaning but clueless cop. “The case was open when I left.”

Brad shrugged, fiddling with his belt. “No sign of forced entry. Probably just misplaced. You know old Mrs. Booker—she loses her teeth more often than her car keys.”

Ellie scowled. “That violin was worth $80,000.”

She decided to do what Brad wouldn’t – to sleuth as a hund.

First stop: the museum’s guest list. Second: her cat-gnawed notepad. Third: gossip.

The gala hosted plenty of suspects—Mayor Denby, local teens filming TikToks, even handsome new antique dealer Vincent Clark. But it was Mildred Booker, the museum’s longtime volunteer, who caught Ellie’s attention. Sweet, doddering Mildred, who “couldn’t even lift her purse without help,” suddenly confessed.

“I took it,” she told Officer Loomis, wringing her gloved hands. “I’m sorry. I saw it unattended and thought it needed… polishing.”

“Where is it now?” Brad asked.

“I… I don’t know,” Mildred mumbled. “I think I left it in the kitchen.”

No violin was found in the kitchen. Or anywhere else.

Brad, satisfied with the confession, closed the case.

Ellie was not satisfied.

Mildred’s confession didn’t make sense. Polishing? She had arthritis. And a tendency to protect artifacts like sacred relics. No, someone wanted the heat off themselves.

Ellie revisited the guest list. Then she remembered: Vincent Clark had admired the violin, calling it “a rare Italian piece.” Too rare for a newcomer to know so intimately.

She strolled into his antique shop under the pretense of browsing. Among dusty shelves of clocks and oil lamps, a peculiar violin lay half-covered beneath a lace cloth.

“An impressive instrument,” Ellie said, lifting the bow.

Vincent froze. “Replica. Not worth much.”

“I’ll bet the serial number carved inside says otherwise.”

His smile faltered.

Moments later, Officer Brad arrived—Ellie had texted him en route. Vincent tried to run away, but tripped over a footstool and landed face-first in a crate of porcelain owls.

“You should’ve dusted your fingers,” Ellie said, picking up a violin cloth. “Sticky fingers make for sloppy thieves.”