Fur Your Consideration

The detective inspector gathered the suspects in the solarium.

The victim? An eccentric old man who went by the name of Baron Clempt. Per the detective inspector’s research, neither half of his chosen moniker was true. He was not a baron by title, and all official documents listed his surname as Hanson. Still, he was fabulously wealthy, and this, of course, made him a target for murder.

The suspects themselves–a cadre of six sad family members and hangers-on–could each expect placement in Baron Clempt’s will, such was his generosity when it came to those within his inner circle.

Some wore their financial strife on their sleeve, like the Baron’s weepy nephew, Paul, whose drinking had cost him his job (which the Baron had lined up for him) within a company that produced laminate flooring. When one felt bitter towards such a product, it became hard to reduce flare-ups of anger. After all, floors were unavoidable, and even those of a different material brought to Paul’s mind the business that had spurned him. But while others might quietly seethe at such a reminder, Paul, three sheets to the wind before lunch, would sob violently.

Others suffered in secret. Take Baron Clempt’s gardener, Gerald, for example. He and the baron had grown quite close over the course of his employment, and, as such, the man was greatly overpaid. But the detective inspector discovered he’d invested the sum total of his savings into a company that promised to cross-breed grass with rose pedals, making for beautifully fragrant yards. The company failed in spectacular fashion, leaving Gerald suddenly destitute and fast approaching an age where he would be expected to retire.

But the Detective Inspector turned his attention to neither of these two.

“I bring you to this room of glass, on this fine day, because, just as the sun has burnt through the morning clouds, so too have I broken through the fog of this case.” And then, he focused his gaze upon the washed-up former Hollywood starlet who the Baron allowed to live in a suite of attic rooms while she worked, apparently, on a one-woman show that would turn her career around.

“Miss Laila, was it?” he said.

Laila tensed. “Yes?”

“You told me, during my interrogation,” the detective inspector said, “that, at the time of the murder, you were in your suite, giving your beloved Maine Coon, Harley, a shave in anticipation of the summer months ahead, when the temperature in the attic climbs far beyond what would be comfortable. And yet, nobody reported hearing the buzz of the razor despite several being within rooms underneath your own. Furthermore, an inspection of your living space revealed only the standard amount of cat hair. No clumps of fur crowded the corners or rolled like tumbleweeds across the floor. Care to explain how this is possible?”

“Well, it’s actually quite simple,” Laila said. “I used my FurMe Ultra Pet Grooming Vacuum Kit. It comes with a variety of attachments, such as clippers, as well as a grooming tool, a de-shedding tool, and multiple cleaning tools. It works quietly yet efficiently, its decibel level rarely even approaching the volume of a hair dryer while its powerful vacuum sucks up 99% of waste produced by the job.”

“Oh,” said the detective inspector. “Well, I guess that answers that. Back to the drawing board for me, then.”

“Jeez, can we wrap this up, already?” Paul said, swaying on his feet. “If I don’t get my inheritance soon, I’m gonna kill somebody else.”

All eyes shifted to him.

“Wait,” he said, “did I just say that out loud? Man, I really need to cut back on the screwdrivers at breakfast. They mess with my judgment.”