Sheila

He was running the vacuum cleaner when the phone rang. A large grumpy looking man made his way across the derelict office. Endless piles of paper work lay on or below nearly every surface all but framing the room. A rug ran down the centre of it from door to window, and despite a few recent stains remained all but pristine. This had been thanks Sheila (well the clean parts anyway) the man's assistant; who he hadn't seen for at least a week.

“Hello! This is Tad Booker's Private Investigation Agency... Tad Booker speaking.” the words almost hurt coming out. What kind of self-respecting private eye answered his own phone? Or for that matter vacuumed his own floor? He thought again of Sheila; she was and had always been a wonderful cleaner, but he'd never seen her even try to answer the phone. It was something they'd have to discuss whenever she returned.

“Hey...uhm...Hi is your refrigerator running?” asked an adolescent voice on the other line.

It hadn't been, Tad knew, not since that horrible day; it was the last time that he'd seen Sheila and the day he'd made the mistake of deciding to bring ice cream for lunch. He glanced at the nearly toppling pile of documents on the fridge itself at the case marked Why isn't my refrigerator running and his heart dropped. How could this anonymous caller know that? And if he did... what else could he know? Was he under surveillance even now? Had he seen him vacuuming his own floor? Tad moved toward the window, carefully stepping over the bucket that was collecting dripping water from the pipes overhead. He felt the telephone cord tighten and reached out just in time to watch his phone fall from the desk and knock the bucket onto its side. He swore to himself and turned back to the window.

“Uhm... Hello are you still there?” the voice from the other line said warily.

Peering through the blinds of the third story office he scanned the streets below. The shops and stalls had all closed for the night and there wasn't a car in sight. He looked again to his decrepit ice box; how could he know? Tad decided to do what he did best; play it cool and investigate further.

“Of course, my refrigerator is running son, why wouldn't it be? And if it weren't don't you think that I Tad Booker of Tad Booker's Private Investigation Agency could you know, solve the case?” He said confidently, while staring at the pile of unsolved cases a top the fridge. Many of which were beginning to slide slowly off, Tad reached out hopelessly across the office as they fell from the machine.

“Well...you'd better go catch it ha-ha!” CLICK!

“Who are you!” shouted the P.I, but the line was already dead. A prank call? Maybe? A lesser detective would certainly think that. No, this joke had been a bit too on the nose given the circumstances. Something smelt fishy and it wasn't just the general smell of fish the office had, given its close proximity to local fresh seafood market. Tad gritted his teeth and walked over to the refrigerator. Kneeling down he gathered the papers on the floor surrounding it and noticed something. He gently moved it away from the wall, careful not to dislodge anything else. Reaching behind he grabbed something large and circular. “My God! Sheila how'd you get back here?” pulling her free Tad saw the cord of the fridge had been ajar and plugged it in. It started with a WOOSH. He looked around embarrassed before placing Sheila down on the carpet and pressing her power button. He sat down and watched her for a moment. Slowly moving across the carpet, she bounced off of the leg of his desk, then the leg of his chair and then the bucket, before crossing the entire room and getting stuck under the couch and powering down. He didn't know how she'd gotten back there or who the mysterious caller was, but from the looks of her she made it clear she would never go back there again.