To the consternation of my parents and their neighbours, their cul-de-sac street is the hive of drug activity. Late at night cars will pull up and park in front of my parents house and drug deals will take place. Fabulously, these drug dealers will not be the least intimidated by my leaving the house and going to my car. In fact, they are quite friendly about it and wave me a happy wave as cash and white powder sachets are passed forth. It’s nice to have friendly drug dealers, I think.
Matters came to a head yesterday however. Normally drug deals are done in the middle of the night, the cars illuminated by my parents’ and neighbour’s bedroom lights as they indiscreetly open the windows to watch these events take place. However, the next door neighbour Sandra, witnessed a drop off during the day. As you do when these things take place you do NOT call the police but rather, gather all the neighbours together to see “what we can do about it” What we can do about it involves Sandra, my parents (both 70 +) and the neighbours across the road, Harry and Mary (also 70 +). When Sandra came gasping to the house that major drug deals were taking place and erroneously assuming my parents would be of some use in this, I had to tag along. My parents would be lucky if they knew what a joint looked like, let alone anything heavy. My mother would be more likely to add cocaine to her tea.
So in the middle of the street began the inaugural meeting of the No 1 septuagenarian Detective Agency. First point of order was to visit the scene of the crime, the clump of trees at the end of the cul-de-sac street.
In said clump of trees is the drug container. Never having seen a drug container before all five of them were ill prepared to be looking for it. Everyone looks into the trees and cannot see anything. In the crook of the tree is a small cylindrical container. It is well hidden and easily identifiable but I am enjoying the drug-deal where s Waldo that is taking place before my eyes.
Eventually Mary finds it. “I found it!” she screams, announcing to us, the street and any drug dealers within a fifty mile radius that she has indeed found it. The No 1 Septuagenarian Detective Agency. – Discretion is our middle name.
“Dont touch it, it might be wired” Sandra advises. Okaaaaaaaaay…… Wired with what? I am thinking however I suspect Sandra, and thus everyone else, believes it may be wired with dynamite. Everyone looks puzzled as to how to handle the potentially lethal, highly explosive drug filled container.
“Hit it with a stick, Harry!”, Mary helpfully suggests. Harry thinks this is a marvelous idea and begins whacking the container for all he is worth. After we didn’t all blow up, everyone looks incredibly pleased with themselves. (Seriously, these people are needed in war zones. There would never be another mine death ever.)
Now what to do, decide the detective agency. “Should we look at it? ” my mother helpfully suggests. Everyone nods in agreement. Those years of watching Midsomer Murders are finally paying off for my mother. “Dont put fingerprints on it though” Sandra offers. Everyone murmurs their assent at this. Harry goes off to look for some gloves to open the container.
Harry returns with a piece of shag carpet instead. The gardening gloves are in the wash, we are advised. With Harry using the carpet square to hold the container in place at its bottom, my Dad then opens the lid off the container with his bare hands. Then the detective agency pass it around to each other ensuring that all of them share the fingerprint love. The No 1 Septuagenarian Detective Agency. – Discretion is our middle name.
Inside the container are three items: what looks like an ornament you put around a wine glass, a list of code numbers and dates and a plastic card.
Rather wonderfully, the detective agency continue their modus operandi of contaminating all crime scenes by taking out each individual item and handing it to each other. Harry continues to hold the container using the shag carpet. The bottom of that container will be print free. And here is where all those years of crime shows have paid off for my parents. After earnestly examining the plastic card for a good ten minutes,
my father states; “I have no idea what that means” This is what you get when your chief exposure to crime fighting deduction is a show about a sassy plant pathologist getting together with her sassy gardener friend and solving crimes relating to herbs.
No one in the detective agency understood any of the clues left for them, to be fair. The drug list clearly indicated when the next drop off was going to occur but they completely missed that. And, to be honest, I wasn’t going to tell them as they would only be standing outside with burning torches when the next drop-off occurred. The detective agency would probably burn themselves alive before while they waited.
With the first case of the detective agency screeching to a halt, my mother came up with the first bright idea of the day. “Perhaps we should call the police.” Which they did. And the police were, it was considered, completely useless. Not only did they not come out to the street with their sirens blaring bringing the teams from CSI and NCIS with them, but they considered the matter quite trivial in the scheme of things, when an average police day includes attending to murders and holding speed cameras. My policey friends who read this blog should hang their heads in shame after they stop laughing.
I am not sure if they detective agency is going to paint my parent’s Winnebago funky colours, hire a great dane and travel Australia solving crimes however I have suggested they do so. I suspect they will not have time. I feel sure after this the police will be knocking down the door to have them solve all the outstanding murders for which Adelaide is known. Now THAT would make for an interesting blog.
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