Goldfish??

            I had to write a "detective story" for an English class that the professor is really presenting as a film class...but whatever; the class is over tomorrow, and then Tuesday begins my FINAL TWO CLASSES! And then I'll be done and the proud owner of a BA in Creative Writing. In the meantime, I thought I'd share the odd story I put together for this class. It was rather fun to write...maybe I'll expand it. Let me know what you think in the comments!

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          The goldfish was gone. That much was more than apparent. Why it should be gone, or where it might be, or who might have taken it was the mystery, and an odd one at that. Detective Arsinoe Chambers scanned the typewritten report before her. She didn’t care for these kinds of cases—thought they were silly, really, but a taxpayer had filed the complaint, and she was the taxpayers’ servant. So, again, why was the goldfish gone? Her first guess was that someone was sick of looking at the stupid thing. It was an ugly-ass two hundred fifty-pound plaster statue painted a garish, almost fluorescent orange. God knows, she was sick of looking at the hideous thing. Perched up on a twelve-foot pedestal in the center of the Town Common paying homage to some legendary giant goldfish that supposedly saved some kid from drowning in the Mill River in the 1800’s (As if, Arsinoe sniffed), the goldfish had superseded the town’s identity, and everyone referred to Moulton-Barrett as “The Goldfish Place” instead of by name. Privately Arsinoe thought the surname of the poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s family far more elegant than this sorry town deserved, but supposedly EBB’s father had once visited, which Arsinoe found as believable as the goldfish story seeing as how Edward Barrett Moulton-Barrett was born in Jamaica and moved to England as a child. The odds of him popping in to visit Nebraska seemed nil.

            Arsinoe sighed and picked up her cold coffee. Grimacing, she finished it off, debating where to begin. The obvious first step would be to check out the Town Common. Photos from the crime scene (Ha! she snorted) failed to show any tire tracks. The stupid goldfish weighed two hundred fifty pounds—no one could just pick it up and walk away, not even someone that could lift 300 pounds. The solid mass of it weighed too much for someone to be able to carry it any kind of distance, and as it sat literally in the middle of the Common a car would have had to leave the road and park in the grass of the Common for loading. What if people were looking too close to the center of the Common, she suddenly wondered. Suppose someone—or someones—carried it ten or fifteen feet? Arsinoe stood and pulled on her jacket. Time to go see what there was to see.

            Chaos greeted Arsinoe at the Town Common. Idlers, officers, reporters, and cameras were everywhere. For gods’ sake, she thought, you’d think someone had been murdered. What was being murdered was any possibility of finding any useful clues because people were tromping all over her crime scene. No wonder Sherlock Holmes was always so short-tempered if these were the types of idiots he’d had to deal with on a regular basis.

            “Detective,” Sergeant Gilbert Parker greeted her. His scowl indicated he was as frustrated as she was. He was an excellent officer, knowledgeable, intuitive, and forthright. She was trying to convince him to sign on as her partner. “Look at this mess. I’ve told people to clear out, this is a crime scene, but you can see how well that worked.”

            “So much for footprints,” Arsinoe sighed as she scanned the crowd. “Anyone seem off to you? Too excited, not excited enough? Overly eager to help with the investigation?”

            Gilbert grinned. “I knew you were going to ask that. Everyone just seems kind of shocked, more flabbergasted that someone would want to take off with the statue. Lucinda Ambrose has her panties in a twist, but that’s to be expected, I suppose.”

            “I suppose so,” Arsinoe agreed. Lucinda Ambrose’s great-great-great uncle or cousin or whatever was the kid supposedly saved by the mythical giant goldfish of Mill River. Really, the kid had probably been tossed an orange life preserver. Lucinda Ambrose was the one who had filed the complaint, pulling Arsinoe from important, real cases like missing persons and murders to look for a stupid goldfish. Lucinda Ambrose was also the one currently standing by the now-empty pillar gesticulating wildly for the numerous cameras, lipstick perfect and not a hair out of place. Arsinoe filed that thought away. Lucinda Ambrose had once appeared as an extra in a couple forgettable two-bit films and spoke often about how Hollywood had never appreciated her or her talent. Could orchestrating the theft of the goldfish be a desperate bid for relevance?

            Sergeant Parker broke into her thoughts. “I was here first thing, before this whole fracas,” he waved his arm at the crowd behind him. “I circled the pillar, looking for tracks. No footprints at all, no indentations from ladders, no tire marks. I even walked in a spiral, going to about twelve feet out. Nothing.”

            “Damn.” There went her earlier theory. Arsinoe looked up, squinting in the sunlight. “What the hell did they do, take it out by helicopter??”

            Gilbert looked at her, eyes wide. “D’you think so? That’s a good question.” He looked up also, scanning the sky.

            Arsinoe shook her head. “Someone would have heard it, and seen it. It would have had to fly low, and those things are loud.”

            “What about the fireworks from Fluffernutter Day over in Greendale last night? Could those have masked the copter’s noise?”

            “No…I flew those things in Syria,” she said. “They’re noisy. No fireworks display would drown them out. And someone would have seen it. I know a lot of people went to Greendale last night, but not everyone.”

            “Well crap,” Gilbert muttered. “I was hoping we had some kind of direction, but it wouldn’t explain why.”

            “I think I’m starting to know why,” Arsinoe nodded at Lucinda Ambrose theatrically boo-hooing for the cameras.

            “You think it’s a bid for fame?”

            Arsinoe shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me. What do we know about her?”

            Gilbert crossed his arms and scowled. “Has-been wanna-be actress with as much plastic in her as Barbie, no children, makes no secret about how much she hates children, never married, claims to have broken Robert Redford’s heart.”

            “She’s not old enough,” Arsinoe scoffed.

            “Not smart enough either,” Gilbert said. “She’s petty enough to do something like this, I just can’t see how it was done.”

            Arsinoe shook her head. “Me either. Okay, any hope of finding anything here is gone, and if you say that you didn’t see any footprints or tire tracks I’ll take that as gospel.”

            Gilbert beamed. Detective Chambers’ approval meant a great deal to him. “What’s your next move?”

            “We’re going to dredge the river.”

            A reporter had wandered close to where Arsinoe and Gilbert stood. “Do you think the goldfish of Moulton-Barrett is in Mill River, Detective?”

            Several other reporters made their way over, leaving Lucinda Ambrose standing with her arms up, gawking. “It’s only a theory, but unless it’s been smashed, the easiest place to hide a statue that size is in the river,” Arsinoe said. Gilbert stepped away speaking on his phone, calling the dive team, she knew.

            “Detective, do you have any theory as to how the statue was removed?”

            “None whatsoever. There were no tire tracks or footprints, a helicopter would have been seen. We are asking that if anyone may have some information that they stop at the police station and give a statement. In the meantime, we will see if we can find it in the river.”

            “You can’t do that, Detective,” Lucinda Ambrose proclaimed dramatically as she approached. “The river is sacred! You mustn’t disturb the river’s sacred flow.”

            The woman was off her rocker. “The river is what?”

            “It’s sacred! That is why it chose great-great-great cousin Filbert as a sacrifice, but the holy great goldfish chose to spare his life. Now the holy great goldfish has returned to the sacred river, awaiting the next sacrifice.”

            “Riiiight.” Reporters and Gilbert were staring at Lucinda Ambrose, goggle-eyed. “Sergeant Parker, get me the most recent missing persons reports. I want to know if any children are reported missing. And keep a detail on Ms. Ambrose.”

            Gilbert’s shocked what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you face quickly turned into his habitual scowl. “Absolutely, Detective Chambers.”

            Lucinda Ambrose waved a manicured hand. “Oh Detective, you don’t think I had anything to do with the great holy goldfish disappearing, do you?” She fluttered false eyelashes in what she not doubt thought was an endearing manner.

            “After that statement? Yes. What you had better hope I don’t find is that you are involved in the disappearance of any children”

            “Vile creatures. I haven’t been near any of those things, I assure you. I can’t see why the sacred river would have any interest in them.”

            Arsinoe felt a migraine coming on. “Care to tell me how the statue might have gotten into the river? Because now I know we’re going to find it when the dive team goes in.”

            “The ways of the great holy goldfish are unknown to his disciples,” Lucinda Ambrose proclaimed. The press was eating this up; Arsinoe didn’t want to play into this ridiculous fantasy, but if the woman confessed it would make her life a whole lot easier.

            “So, you’re telling me a two hundred pound statue got up and walked into the river?”

            “Oh, heaves no. It floated, carried on the wings of song sung by the sacred river’s disciples.”

            Arsinoe walked away without another word, to the edge of the Common where the river bordered it. What about a crane, or a cherry-picker? Was the river deep enough here for a boat with a crane? She looked up at the tree branches hanging over the water. Some were broken, others looked dinged, scraped, as though by a..

            “A crane,” Gilbert said, looking up. “The river’s almost 25 feet deep; a barge could come up this way, but from where I have no idea. It’s not like we’re a port town. Detective, do we seriously have some fish-statue cult here in town?”

            “It would appear so. Any missing children?”

            “No, thankfully. Just a weird former actress.”

            “Well, thank heaven for small mercies.”

            Just then a head popped out of the water covered in a red dive hood. The officer in the water waved to Gilbert and Arsinoe and pulled off his mask, spitting out his mouthpiece. Other heads popped out of the water. “We found it, Detective, just like you thought,” he shouted. “The statue is down here. Broken, though. Whoever pulled it off the pillar probably just dropped it in the water. It broke into three pieces. Might be fixable, but no loss if it isn’t. Stupid thing was ugly as sin.”

            The crowd of reporters and Lucinda Ambrose had made their way to the river’s edge. Murmurs of “It’s been found” and “Found, but broken” circulated. “What do you mean it’s broken?” Lucinda Ambrose shrieked. “The great holy goldfish is unbreakable! He will swim in the sacred river and save us all!”

            “Detective, a call came into the station from someone who says they saw a barge sailing upriver last night. He said the barge has a crane on deck.”

            Arsinoe nodded. “They get a name from the boat?”

            “Yes, they did. As far as they could see, it was called Dungeon Crawler.”  

            “Gilbert, this case just gets weirder and weirder.”
photo from: https://www.mirror.co.uk/science/busted-top-8-animal-myths-11031729