Theft at the Snowshoe Resort

Gunther Plump had been a janitor at the Snowshoe Ski Resort for more than 20 years, but he had never seen as much excitement as the night of February 15. He couldn’t remember the last time a police officer had been to the resort, let alone twelve of them! And yet the manager of the resort had gently asked Gunther to show discretion when determining whether to discuss the evening’s events with the other staff members. It took several attempts for the manager to satisfactorily define the term “discretion” for Gunther, whose vocabulary had never included that word.

Not ten minutes after this conversation with the manager, Gunther found himself in the employee lounge, surrounded by the rest of the housekeeping and custodial staff. And what was Gunther to do? Not share his story with the waiting audience? That was not a decision Gunther was capable of making. So he regaled the low-paid, overworked staff with his story.

Gunther had been using the dry mop in the front atrium sometime just past midnight. The slopes had been closed for eight hours, the restaurant finished with its last customer, and the bar contained only a couple on their honeymoon, love and lust dragging their attention away from the rest of the world. Gunther had been humming a Hank Williams Jr. song (try as he might, he couldn’t remember which one--his audience was able to convince him that it really didn’t matter to the plot) when he heard an ear-piercing scream. Dropping the mop, Gunther hustled up the stairs toward the scream just in time for a person dressed in all black, including a ski mask, shove past him on the way to the emergency exit. Forty years ago, when Gunther was a teenager in eastern Texas, he might have considered attempting to catch the masked escapee. But alas, the years had not been kind to Gunther Plump’s knees, and he instead found himself stumbling in the same direction as the masked person. As quickly as he had appeared, the bad guy disappeared through the back stairway as the emergency exit sounded.

Gunther turned to the direction from which the runner had come. He saw a white-haired lady in a bathrobe sink to her knees. She was sobbing as she screamed for someone to call the police. Gunther looked around, and, realizing he was the only one in the hallway, tried to explain to the forlorn victim that he did not have a cell phone. (The staff audience rolled their eyes at this--they had heard about Gunther’s abhorrence and distrust of cell phones ad nauseum). Gunther did, however, hobble to the victim’s aid. Helping her to lean against the wall, he was able to calm her screaming.

By this time, several other guests had cautiously peeked at the scene in the hallway. Luckily, one of them was able to use the technology that had been widely available for more than three decades to inform the police that a crime had been committed at the Snowshoe Resort. As to the nature of the crime, nobody had been able to extract that information from the victim, who had just now transitioned from full-on wailing to a more subdued whimpering.

The ever-helpful Gunther had used his master key to enter the victim’s room to fetch a cold wash cloth (he locked his key in the room in his hurry) while other onlookers comforted the victim, whose name had been revealed as Ruby Gustafson. The name was evidently supposed to spark awe in Gunther according to the way the onlookers spoke it in hushed whispers, with a telling look. But Gunther was not well-versed in big-time investors from New York City, so the name fell flat. The more cultured witnesses knew that Ruby Gustafson’s husband, Charleston Gustafson, was a major player behind the success of many of New York’s freshest fashion franchises. After several obscenely successful investments, Mr. Gustafson was considered one of the premier venture capitalists in the country. After a witness in pajamas tried to explain this to him three times, Gunther feigned understanding (“Oh, that guy! Of course!”) and was properly awed.

It was eventually revealed that the intruder had hidden in Mrs. Gustafson’s closet until she got into bed, at which time he burst out and snatched a handful of priceless jewels from her traveling jewelry case. He had worn the mask the entire time, and Mrs. Gustafson was unsure of when or how he had entered her room. A wheelchair was brought for Mrs. Gustafson, and the manager of the resort personally wheeled her to his office, where they waited for law enforcement to arrive. It was then that the manager had his confusing conversation with Gunther about discretion, which led to Gunther immediately taking the elevator to the employee’s lounge in the basement.

Far above the employees, the police officers had cordoned off Mrs. Gustafson’s room. Crime scene techs were already dusting for fingerprints and looking for other things that might prove helpful.

---

As Gunther finished his tale for his coworkers, there was a loud knock on the lounge door. Without waiting for a response, it swung open aggressively.

A cocky looking man with an unlit pipe swooped into the room. A tweed deerstalker hat sat upon his head, covering a growing bald spot quite nicely. Scanning carefully, the questioning look on his face became a smug smirk. He strode across to the middle of the room and tossed his briefcase on the table. Folding his hands behind his back, he paced, staring each member of the staff in the eye. A few anxious maids shifted in their seats. Suddenly he stopped pacing and pulled out a chair, putting his foot in the seat and leaning an elbow on his knee.

“Well, well, well...so there’s been a crime at the old Snowshoe Resort,” he bellowed. His foot slipped off the chair as he said this, ruining his authoritative intentions. Several staff members stifled laughter into coughs. Clearing his throat, the gentleman continued. “My name is Shaddock Chisholm, chief investigator with the Snowshoe Police Department. You may refer to me as Chief Investigator Chisholm.” As he spoke, he waved his pipe in the air as if it was a conductor’s bow. He put the stem back in his mouth to unlock his briefcase and retrieve a notepad, quill, and bottle of ink.

“Now, I’d like to get started with a few preliminary questions.” The staff’s eyes grew wide at the sight of a man in the 21st century casually utilizing quill and ink. “Where did this alleged robbery occur?” Several employees looked at Gunther, who was distractedly trying to figure out why the gentleman was holding a feather. The custodian standing next to Gunther elbowed him.

“What? What’s happening?” Gunther asked, startled. Chisholm rolled his eyes. He detested working in the backwater hicktown of Snowshoe. In his mind, the populace here was not of the same import or status as himself. Of course, he had only ever solved one case, which is a big reason the state police department had sent him to a more rural area to run out the clock on his career.

“I asked where the alleged crime occurred.”

Gunther looked around the room, unsure of the definition of “alleged.” He decided to take a stab in the dark. “Uh, it happened upstairs. Right outside the room near the ice machine.”

“And who are you?” Chisholm asked with a snarl. A small drip of saliva fell onto the table from the mouth end of his pipe.

“I’m Gunther Plump, your honor. Second shift custodian.” Gunther gave a small bow as he stepped forward.

“Mr. Plump, a pleasure to meet you.” Chisholm rolled his eyes as he made a note. “And how do you know the location of the incident?”

“Because it only happened a few minutes ago, your majesty, and I have a pretty good remembery,” Gunther responded, wondering why the man with the bird’s feather had asked such a silly question.

Jerome Broomer, the custodian standing next to Gunther, stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Chief Investigator Chisholm, if I may--Gunther was cleaning a stairway near to the incident and heard the screams. He saw the perp fleeing toward the west exit. He pursued on foot but was held up on account of his poor joints.” Jerome looked around proudly. He fancied himself an amateur detective and was severely disappointed that Gunther was the one who had witnessed the crime.

“Thank you for clearing that up. Mr. Plump, what was the perpetrator--” Chisholm caught himself, “or the bad guy--wearing?”

An easy one. “Well your highness, it appeared he was wearing all black. And a black ski cap. And he was mighty fast!” Gunther chuckled at his memory of trying to catch the bad guy. “Like a bunny with ants in its britches!”

“Thank you for that description, Mr. Plump. How tall would you say this person was?” Gunther thought for a second.

“Well, I reckon they was about my height, maybe a little taller.”

“And what was their build?” Chisholm asked. Jerome leaned over and whispered an explanation of “their build” in Gunther’s ear.

“I would say they were real skinny. Kinda like I was before I married Martha and started eating her cooking every day!” Gunther patted his protruding belly as he looked around to see who else was laughing at his joke.

“Very well, thank you Mr. Plump. Would you please stick around? Do any of the rest of you have any information pertinent to the investigation?” The crowd shook their heads. “Then you are dismissed, but please do not leave the premises. We absolutely cannot rule anyone out!” Chisholm waved his pipe for emphasis as he said this. The pipe slipped out of his fist and flew toward the wall, barely missing a maid’s shoulder. This time the staff couldn’t contain their laughter. Chisholm’s face turned beet red as he hurried across the room to retrieve the pipe. “That’s enough, thank you!”

---

The next morning, just before 8:00, Gunther and Chisholm sat in the break room. Chisholm had commandeered the room, making it the headquarters of the investigation. Last night he sent Gunther home with instructions to return in the morning. After Gunther left, Chisholm interviewed Mrs. Gustafson, studied the security tape, and created an extensive red-yarn bulletin board on the wall.

Now, Gunther had returned and paper coffee-cups were wadded up and thrown in the direction of the trash can. Chisholm sighed, removed his hat, and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

“Well Mr. Plump, let us review the possible scenarios.” Chisholm rose and moved to the bulletin board, motioning toward a particular thread. “The first option is that someone broke in and stole the jewels. This is unlikely, of course, because how would this person know where the jewels were hidden? Additionally!” he aggressively stabbed the air with his finger as he said this, “there is absolutely no evidence of anyone breaking in on the security footage. The second option,” Chisholm held up two fingers, “is that one of your fellow staff members broke into the room.” Suddenly, Chisholm darted across the room and put his nose inches from Gunther’s face. Gunther leaned back in his chair, eyes wide.

“Who did it, Plump?” Chisholm said through gritted teeth, spittle landing on Gunther’s cheeks. “Which of your coworkers did this dastardly deed?”

“I--I don’t know,” Gunther stammered. Chisholm stood back up and smiled greasily.

“That’s fine, Mr. Plump, that’s fine. I suspect that soon enough, we’ll know who did it.” Chisholm picked up his quill and tapped his chin with it, looking thoughtful. “Mr. Plump, how much do you know about investigating a crime?”

“I’ve seen almost every Scooby Doo, your royal highness!” Gunther said proudly.

“Yes, that’s excellent,” Chisholm said disgustedly. “I don’t suppose the Scooby Doo franchise has ever touched on the “impostering method” of investigation, hmm?”

“Not that I know of, your excellency.”

“Essentially, the impostering method encourages the investigator to become the criminal.”

Gunther gasped. “You’re...going to steal Mrs. Gustafson’s jewels?”

“No, of course not! How ridiculous. I simply mean that I must get in the mindset of the criminal. I must think like him.” Gunther nodded as if he understood. “And I believe this is where you come in.”

“You want my help thinking like a criminal?” Gunther sighed. “I don’t always do a good job thinking like myself, ya know?”

“No no, I can handle the thinking portion of the project. Every case I’ve ever solved has been done with the imposter method.” Chisholm thought back to the lone case in his portfolio. It was more than a decade ago, when he was a junior investigator on the city’s police force. Late to a meeting, Chisholm had been speeding down Third Street toward the station. His pipe fell out of his mouth onto the floor, and his vehicle swerved erratically when he reached down to pick it up. When he looked back up, it was too late: he rammed into the back of a car stopped at the light ahead of him. When the driver of the other car stepped out to survey the damage, Chisholm quickly recognized him as the suspect in a recent bank robbery. After the thief’s arrest and conviction, Chisholm was the hottest new detective and was promoted to Senior Investigator. It remained the only case he had “solved” in more than twenty years in the business.

“I need your unsurpassed unlocking abilities in order to have complete access to all areas of the resort. If I have to wait for permission to enter all areas, I’ll--we’ll--never solve this case. Do you think you could assist me in this manner?”

Gunther swelled with pride. “Of course, your majesty! I’m at your service.”

“Wonderful! Then let’s get started.” Chisholm grabbed his magnifying glass and headed for the stairway.

---

“Now, we must be very quiet, Mr. Plump. We wouldn’t want to notify anyone that we are entering Mrs. Gustafson’s room.” Chisholm and Gunther stood outside Mrs. Gustafson’s room. They had stealthily watched around the corner for a half hour, waiting for her to head downstairs for breakfast before hurrying to unlock the door. Gunther now fumbled with the keys while Chisholm tapped his pipe on his palm anxiously. “How many more keys do you have to try out?”

“Almost there, my lord,” Gunther nearly shouted, prompting aggressive shushes from Chisholm. “I still don’t understand why we can’t let Mrs. Gustafson know that we’re entering,” Gunther said in a stage whisper.

“Because we’re putting ourselves in the thief’s shoes,” Chisholm responded. Gunther quickly looked down at his own steel-toed work boots, making sure he wasn’t actually in the thief’s shoes. “Additionally, Mrs. Gustafson apparently wasn’t very impressed with me last night and has requested that I be removed from the case.”

The reality was that during his meeting with the victim the previous night, Chief Investigator Chisholm had repeatedly mispronounced Mrs. Gustafson’s name (Gustardson, Gustofwind, and--with no apparent cause--Smith) and had spilled his entire bottle of ink all over the table, dripping onto Mrs. Gustafson’s brand new Jimmy Choo evening shoes.

“Aha!” Gunther exclaimed as the door swung open. “It’s always the last key you try.”

Chisholm hushed Gunther as they hustled into the room. Mrs. Gustafson’s alligator skin suitcase lay open in the corner of the room, pristinely folded clothes visible from the door. The bed had not been made, and a paperback mystery novel was splayed open on one of the pillows. The ink stain on the wooden dinner table and white area rug had not faded much since the previous night. A pair of glass tumblers--one of which contained a half inch of amber liquid--sat on the ink-stained portion of the table. Chisholm made note that someone had been in the room after he had left Mrs. Gustafson around 11:00 the night before.

“Aww, that’s nice,” Gunther commented from the living room area of the suite, where he had picked up two pieces of paper from the coffee table. Chisholm strode toward the couch.

“What are you doing?! I told you not to touch anything!” Chisholm reached for the documents Gunther was holding: boarding passes for Ruby Gustafson and Clive Slinkerton to fly to Zurich, Switzerland later that afternoon. Chisholm didn’t recognize Slinkerton’s name and made a mental note to check that out later.

“Sorry, Chieftain Chisholm. I saw these papers and wanted to know where Mrs. Gustafson was headed next. I hope they have a great time in Switzerland when they leave here today!”

“Just put them back where you got them.” In response, Gunther put the boarding passes back on the coffee table. Chisholm pulled his magnifying glass out of his trench coat pocket and began inspecting the thick carpet for footprints.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway caused the pair to look at each other. Chisholm put a finger to his lips, then used that same finger to point toward the closet when the footsteps came close to the room’s door. Mrs. Gustafson’s muffled voice came through the door, and it sounded like she was on the phone. “Just a moment, my dear. Let me retrieve my key to unlock my room.”

Keys jangled as Gunther hobbled his sore knees toward the closet. Chisholm gave a completely unnecessary roll, and jumped to his feet just in time to close the closet door before Mrs. Gustafson entered the room.

“Alright, I’m back. Anyway, yes, the plan seems to be working perfectly.” There was silence while the person on the other end spoke. “No, they don’t suspect a thing!” She cackled like a hyena. “They sent a positively simple, half-witted, imbecilic detective to investigate. He will never discover our dastardly deed.” In the darkness of the closet, Chisholm’s face turned an angry red. Mrs. Gustafson spoke with an almost British accent, the kind used by wealthy people in movies Gunther had watched. Gunther wondered when and where rich people learned to talk like that.

Mrs. Gustafson hadn’t put anything in the closet during her short stay, but there still wasn’t an abundance of space. A shelf holding extra pillows and blankets was low enough that Chisholm and Gunter had to crouch to fit underneath. Just underneath the shelf was a bar with several wooden clothes hangers, one of which held a fluffy bathrobe.

“I must say, I make a terrific actress. Perhaps I missed a call on my life to be a Hollywood movie star.” Mrs. Gustafson was silent as the other voice spoke. Chisholm’s brain started turning, putting the pieces together. When had Mrs. Chisholm been acting? What was the “plan” she was talking about? Was the whole thing fake? Mrs. Gustafson’s next statement solidified his thoughts. “Yes, I’m leaving in fifteen minutes to meet you at the airport. Then we’ll fly to Switzerland and open a savings account for all the insurance money. And we’ll still have Charleston’s jewels! It’s a foolproof plan.”

Chisholm’s jaw dropped. She had faked the whole thing! But who was her partner? Was it Cliver Slinkerton? Again, Mrs. Gustafson’s next statement answered his question. “Oh yes, my dear Clive, of course we’ll spend forever together! You’re the one I love. Marrying Charleston was a mistake--except for all the money we’ll have when we combine the insurance money with the money we’ll make selling the jewels!” Mrs. Gustafson giggled. “Alright, my love, I’ll see you at the airport soon. Ta-ta!” There was a beep as Mrs. Gustafson hung up the phone.

Gunther--who was doing a shockingly good job of being quiet--and Chisholm held their breath as they heard Mrs. Gustafson shuffling around the room; humming and packing her things. After a few minutes of this, Mrs. Gustafson picked up the landline phone and dialed the operator.

“Yes, front desk?” Mrs. Gustafson’s voice had changed from an arrogant, strong tone to a weak, scared tremble. “This is Ruby Gustafson. Is there any news on the whereabouts of my priceless jewels?” Fake sobs as the receptionist spoke. “Oh dear, how positively discouraging! Well, unfortunately, I’m ready to check out. Please send a bellhop to bring my bags downstairs.” The bellhop arrived quickly, and they both left the room.

“Boy, do I have a crick in my neck!” Gunther shouted almost as soon as the door closed behind Mrs. Gustafson.

“Mr. Plump, do you realize what just happened?” Chisholm put his hands on his face in shock.

“Of course I do! We almost got caught snooping around Mrs. Gustafson’s room! Glad you thought quick and pointed to the closet. I was gonna try to hide under the bed covers.”

For what felt like the millionth time since he had launched this investigation, Chisholm rolled his eyes. “No, Mr. Plump. Mrs. Chisholm just confessed to stealing the jewels herself in order to get the insurance money.”

“My goodness, Chief Information Officer Chisholm--that’s some great detective work you’ve done! How’d you solve it?”

“I’d be happy to discuss my capabilities later. But for now, we must hurry and stop Mrs. Gustafson before she can get to the airport! We only have a few minutes. Please open the door Mr. Plump.” Gunther, who was closest to the closet door, turned the handle. But instead of opening the door, it fell off in his hand.

“Aw, shucks,” Gunther said sheepishly. “I’ve been meaning to fix this handle…”

“Can’t we just push the door open?”

“No can do, Sire. The latch is still in the hole thingy in the doorframe.”

“Well...then…” Chisholm, at a loss for words, was beginning to feel panicked.

“Plus these door frames are metal, so they ain’t goin’ anywhere. And there isn’t enough space in here for me to get a running start to bust the door down. Yep,” here he mocked Mrs. Gustafson’s pretentious voice, “I’d say we’re positively stuck.” Gunther slapped his knee and laughed at his own joke.

“I left my cell phone in my briefcase--do you have your phone?”

“Oh no, Dr. Chisholm. I don’t have one of those newfangled machines. I don’t do that well with technology, plus--”

“Yes, yes, I remember,” Chisholm snapped. “What do you suggest?”

“I could stick a screwdriver in there and push the latch out of the thingy with a hole.”

“Do you have a screwdriver?”

“I sure do!” Gunther said triumphantly.

“Excellent! Then let’s use it.”

“Oh, I don’t have it with me. Sorry, I thought you meant ‘do I have one,’ like, anywhere. I have six or seven in my toolbox in the workshop, and another couple at home in the shed. And I might even have one in my truck somewhere...I can check on my way home, if you’d like.”

Chisholm took several deep breaths, trying not to scream. He took off his hat and wrung it in his hands, then pulled a pocket watch out of his trench coat: it had been about five minutes since Mrs. Gustafson left. The airport was about thirty minutes away, which meant they only had twenty-five minutes to alert airport security that she was coming. If I fail another case because I got locked in a closet again, I’ll never hear the end of it, Chisholm thought. “What about a pen, Mr. Plump? Do you have an ink pen?”

“Nope. I’m more of a pencil guy, myself.”

“Then do you have a pencil?”

“I sure do! I have a bunch of ‘em--”

“Do you have any pencils with you right now, Mr. Plump?”

“No siree bob!”

Another ten minutes passed. The pair took turns banging their fists on walls and shouting to no success. The closet felt increasingly stuffy and small. Sweat dripped down Chisholm’s nose as he felt the case slipping away as quickly as he had solved it. He wished he had some tobacco to put in his pipe, which he was now absentmindedly tapping against his thigh.

“Wait a second, Esquire Chisholm! What about your pipe? It’s about the same size as a screwdriver, and I might be able to push the latch out of the hole thingy with it!”

“Brilliant! Mr. Plump, what an incredible idea!” Chisholm quickly wiped his saliva off the end of the pipe and handed it to Gunther. Gunther, who had plenty of experience breaking out of rooms in which he had locked himself, deftly pushed the latch out of the slot in the door frame, pushed the door open, and handed the pipe back to Chisholm. The unlikely duo came tumbling out of the closet and Chisholm dashed toward the phone.

“Hello sergeant, it’s Chisholm. We’ve got our perp.”

---

Sometime that afternoon, Shaddock Chisholm and Gunther Plump shared a victory whiskey and reviewed the details of the case. The authorities had apprehended Ruby Gustafson as she tried to enter the airport. She led them to her partner, Clive Slinkerton: suspect in a host of jewelry, art, and cyber theft cases. Evidently, he and Ruby had fallen in love and in the midst of their torrid affair, he convinced Ruby to leave Charleston and to rob him of some priceless jewels in the process. Slinkerton would likely spend the rest of his life in prison, and Charleston Gustafson had already filed for divorce from Ruby, who would face major fines and probation for her part in the heist.

The mayor of Snowshoe issued the highest commendation for Gunther and Chisholm, and promised a ceremonial key to the city later in the week. Charleston Gustafson had called to thank the pair and had offered his penthouse if they ever found themselves in New York City. Two reporters had already visited the resort to interview the heroes, and a televised interview for a national news channel was scheduled for that evening.

“Mr. Plump, I thank you for your help in this case. Your quick thinking to use my pipe was masterful.”

“Aww, it was nothing. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve locked myself in a room, I’d--” Gunther was interrupted by a shriek from outside the door, followed by a yell for help.

“Someone, please help! My car was just stolen!”

Chisholm shot out of his chair, knocking it over backward. “Just when I thought our work was finished. Mr. Plump, are you coming?” Gunther rose slowly, his knees howling. He locked eyes with Chisholm and nodded confidently.

“Your eminence, I’m with you like fleas on a dog.”