Looking out my Backdoor: The Mystery of the Purloined Scarf

The episode began innocently enough. I had walked over to see Carol about something so mundane I don’t even remember. She came out of her door with a stunning pink scarf wrapped around her neck. I commented on the beauty. Scarf and woman — they enhanced one another.

“Do you know to whom this belongs?” Carol asked. (She really said, “Whose is it?” But I’m writing an adventure mystery based on a true story so I’ll tell it my way.)

“I found the scarf after the birthday gathering the other night. I set it out on a table meaning to ask around and forgot about it. John and I leave later today for Chicago, so I should find the owner. Though I’d love to keep it. You wear scarves so I thought it might be yours.”

“Yes, it might be.” I draped the lovely snippet of fabric, soft and pliable as kitten fur, around my neck. “I love it.” I heaved a sigh. (How often do I get a chance to write that line?)

“Alas and alack. I cannot tell a lie. The scarf does not belong to me, much as I would like to claim it. I think I remember JRae wearing this scarf at your party. Maybe she dropped it when you took her inside to show her the work you’ve done on your casa?”

Tom and JRae had taken off the morning following our birthday cake bash, back to the dreary winter rains of Washington.

Sadly, though I dearly wanted to lay claim to the scarf, it is true, I cannot tell a lie. No, that’s not right. I could tell one but you would never believe me. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, every thought that crosses my mind telegraphs itself onto my face. I cannot get away with prevarication. I’ve learned. Don’t try. So while my eyes lusted after the swath of pink wool, my mouth upheld honesty.

“Can you see that the scarf is returned to JRae?”

“Of course. I’ll give it to Leo to set inside her casa and I’ll let her know you found it.” Leo is gardener for Tom and JRae and has keys to their house.

I hugged Carol, wished her a good trip to Chicago. Chicago and good do not belong in the same sentence, but, oh, well, such is life. I slung the scarf back around my neck, accompanied the gesture with an evil cackle worthy of Oil Can Harry, immediately switched character and in my best imitation of Pearl Pureheart, returned to my own casa, where I hung the scarf on my coat tree until I saw Leo, meanwhile humming, “Here I come to save the day.”

Leo, scarf and my intention never crossed paths at the same intersection over the next few days. I draped my zarape over the scarf on the coat tree one evening. Out of sight, you know the rest. And so it went over the week, covered, uncovered, forgotten.

Julie walked in this morning, snatched the pink scarf off my coat tree. “My scarf. Where did you find it?” she asked as she arranged it around the blue scarf already adorning her neck.

I told her the story, glad I’d been remiss in getting it to JRae’s house.

That night I wrote Carol and told her the whole saga of the found scarf.

“And you believed her?” Carol said, with her own version of the Oil Can Harry evil laugh.

The moral of the story is muddy. We all lusted after the scarf. Carol and I both would have gladly kept the found item. Our intentions were honorable. JRae, to whom we attributed ownership, never even knew about the kerfluffle, but had she seen the scarf, she would have wanted it. Julie recovered it.

The above little fable proves I have no future in writing whodunits. I couldn’t even conjure up a decent villain. And the stupendously lovely pink scarf, turned out was a treasure Julie had picked up for a couple bucks in a second-hand store in Minneapolis.

I’d best stick with essays, poetry and letters to my friends.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].