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The Case of the Double Jinx

THE SCARLET SLIPPER MYSTERY

You’re Nancy Drew and you drive a blue coupe.

You drive fast. Your mother is dead.

She’s the new-hired help and you’re a nosy houseguest.

She’s a model turned jewel thief and you’re hot

on her trail. She’s a pretender to the fortune

of the county’s richest missing bachelor.

You’re solving mysteries that stump the cops.

You sass them back. You’re flip-haired and eagle-eyed.

You’re a daredevil detective on the trail of a breathtaking

escape. She fooled you once and won’t again.

THE FOOTPRINTS IN THE FLOWERBEDS

You’re peering in her windows. You’re watching

as she hides the proof beneath the sink,

as she scrubs her hands with lye. She splashes bleach

across the tile. You’re watching as she runs

the bath. You watch. She’s wasp-waisted

and flaxen-haired. You’re not the better sister.

You’re no one’s good-time gal. You’re a bayou,

a river caught fire. You’re armed with flashlight

and revolver. You’re casing the estate.

Ned will get you for your date at four. He’s late.

THE MYSTERY OF THE WOODEN LADY

She’s a cocktail dress and you’re day-old rye.

You find a blond hair on the sofa bed,

stockings in the spare room. You come home late

one night and find your house lit like a birthday.

You tiptoe to the window, your skirt’s hem

catching on the hedges. She’s in your house.

She’s dancing slow with fickle Ned. She laughs

at all his jokes. Now you’re a pincushion.

You’re the sulfur smell of rotten eggs. You do

the only thing you can. You run.

THE CLUE IN THE BREAKFAST NOOK

You run home to River Heights. You bolt the door.

You’re a sure shot, an expert swimmer,

a gourmet cook. You bake birthday cakes

and ice them all with arsenic. You learn to knit.

You believe in the jinx. You won’t say his name,

won’t look at the phone. She’s a damsel

in dishwashing gloves. She’s at your kitchen table,

sugaring her tea. Ned’s a lost sock.

She smiles your smile and wears his jacket.

She hums. You’re gimlet-eyed. You’re losing steam.

THE SECRET LOST AT SEA

This time you’re the belle of Miami Beach.

You’re busting up a gang of smugglers.

You drink rum and dance all night. You learn

to surf. A strange man licks the saltwater

from your hair. The smugglers are setting sail

for Cuba. You’re an inside job. You’re on their tail.

There’s a girl here dressed as you. You surprise her

on the ship’s back stairs. Now the jig is up.

You’re found out, tied up, left to drown.

You tapdance SOS against the cabin’s roof.

THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING HUSBANDS

You’re on vacation in the snow-stunned Alps

when the innkeeper comes to you for help.

He’s getting threats from a dark-wigged woman

who claims that she’s your twin. You’re snowed in.

He tells you all the town’s most handsome men

go missing after dark. You wear a borrowed mink

and sleuth by candlelight. You smell Ned’s soap.

She’s a false wall. She’s a trap door. You’re dangling

from the rafters. Ned’s tied up in the basement.

He’s bound and gagged. He’s never been so grateful.

THE STRANGE MESSAGE ON THE TRAILHEAD

You get him back but he won’t stay.

Silly Ned, he wanders off. He’s lost

in state parks, disappears on dinner dates.

You’re on the case. He’s lucky. You rescue him,

time and time again. You get him back

in pieces. You swear you hear his voice

before the dial tone clicks on. You find

his toenail clippings on the tile. His name’s

a rock you rub against your teeth.

He’s a wishbone saved beside the kitchen sink.

THE INVISIBLE INTRUDER

You’re digging through her trashcan. You’re watching

as she slips the proof beneath her skin.

Her body now the briefcase full of unmarked bills.

She scrapes her palms against the wall’s fresh paint.

She swings a bag of bones into the yard.

Her hands flush red and you know you’ll never

see that boy again. Born different

you could have been sisters. Like those butterflies

in shadowboxes, pinned and mounted above the mantle.

Now you’re the double agent. You’re calling all the shots.

THE GIRL WHO COULDN’T REMEMBER

You’re creeping through her flowerbeds.

There’s no crime to detect here but your own

and Ned’s long gone. You’re the back door’s loose latch,