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don’t have one.” It was Friday around noon, and I had told him the big news about our new case.
    I stood in front of his big metal desk, like a child called before the teacher. “But—”
    “Olive, you are not a private investigator.”
    “I didn’t say I was.”
    “No?”
    “I’m pretty sure I said I worked for a detective.” I was pretty sure.
    Uncle Bob shook his head. “Well, since you got us the case, if we got the case…”
    I held my breath.
    “You can work it.”
    “Woo hoo!” I did a little happy dance on the dirty brown carpet.
    “This is serious, Olive.” My uncle’s voice sounded serious too, but his eyes sparkled at me. I think he was glad he had a protégée.
    Marge had written down Charlie’s daughter’s name and phone number with a note saying I should call her at four thirty Eastern Standard Time. Uncle Bob helped me prep, pulling up the police report on the computer and spending the next twenty minutes going over the case with me. My case.
    Then he said, “Gotta go. I got a lunch meeting with Pat Franko.” The law firm of Franko, Hricko and Maionchi was my uncle’s biggest client. “You think you got it?”
    “Yep,” I replied. “If Amy, Charlie Small’s daughter, wants to hire us, I need to interview her to see why she wants to find out more about her dad’s death, which will almost certainly be ruled suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning. If she’s hiring us because she doesn’t think he would kill himself, I need to find out more about Charlie, why she thinks it isn’t suicide, and why she cares.”
    “Be careful with that last part,” said Uncle Bob. “That’s mostly for us and maybe Charlie’s attorneys. Just want to make sure she’s not giving us the runaround to get some extra cash from the estate.”
    “Got it.”
    My uncle waved goodbye as I moved my stuff over to his desk so I could spread out and prepare for my interview with Amy Small. I liked the idea of having hard copies for posterity, so I had printed out all the info and put it in a manila folder marked “Case #1: Charlie Small.” I took out the police report. I had already read it, but I went over it again carefully.
    I knew most of the facts: At 5:31 a.m. on Wednesday, April 5, Bernice Grete called 911 to report a car running in a neighbor’s garage. Hank Snow of the Sunnydale posse responded at 5:35 and the fire department arrived at 5:37, at which time they gained access to the house via a key box. They determined that a Ford Taurus was idling in the closed-up garage and found Charlie, already dead, in the driver’s seat of the still-running car. There were no signs to suggest anything other than suicide, and it was expected that the postmortem would confirm the cause of death as carbon monoxide poisoning.
    At 1:25 Arizona time, I got out my notebook where I had questions prepared for Amy, who was vice president of sales for a nanotech company in Boston. I dialed her office at precisely four thirty Eastern Standard Time.
    “Hello, Advanced Precision Technologies, can you hold please?” The woman answering the phone spoke rapidly, like she was announcing the legalities at the end of a radio commercial.
    “Actually I was asked to call—”
    “Thank you,” said the rushed woman. After a click, a Muzak version of the Beatles “Let It Be” filled the phone line. Soon I found myself humming along to the catchy tune. Without really thinking about it, I began singing along. “When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary…”
    The receptionist came back on the line and said, “You’re holding for Mary? One moment please.” Another click. “Cracklin’ Rosie” was playing. I knew better than to sing along this time.
    “Hi, this is Mary,” said a weary sounding voice.
    “Actually, I want to speak with Amy—”
    “This is Mary .”
    “Yes, the receptionist made a mis—”
    Another click and a bit more Muzak. I remembered hearing that “Cracklin’ Rosie” was about drinking.