The Case of the Leaky Shower
Hear this story read aloud.
The morning fog clung to the windshield of my trusty woodie wagon like a bad alibi. I flicked on the wipers and tightened the brim of my fedora—yeah, the same fedora I’ve worn for the last twenty years. Still fits, still classy.
My name’s not Sam Spade or Phillip Marlowe… folks just call me The Stone Detective. I find cracks, stains, and secrets buried deep in marble and tile, and I never walk away from a mystery.
I was headed to a house on the coast—big, white-columned number with more windows than sense. The kind of place that smells like lavender and money. A woman named Lenora Temple had called me. Said her marble floor was changing color. Whispered it, like she thought her house might be listening. Her voice had a hint of desperation… and maybe a few too many cats.
Before facing whatever waited for me at Temple Manor, I needed fortification. I pulled into my regular joint, a greasy spoon where the eggs are as overworked as the waitress.The bell above the door gave its usual half-hearted jingle. That’s when I saw her.
Flo.
Hair done up like she was expecting Sinatra to walk in. Red lipstick that could stop traffic. And me, a sucker for sharp heels and sharper sarcasm. “Well, well,” she said, pouring me a cup of Joe without asking. “If it ain’t the man who makes rocks talk.”
I tipped my fedora and gave her my best crooked grin. “Morning, gorgeous. Got anything on the menu that doesn’t look like it fought back?”
“Just the cook,” she said with a wink. “You look like you’re headed into trouble.”
“Aren’t I always?”
I finished my coffee, flirted just enough to keep it interesting, and hit the road. Lenora greeted me at the door in a robe that looked like it cost more than my wagon, with eyes darting like a squirrel on espresso. She led me through the house with a whispery voice, telling me the marble in her bathroom was “glowing” and “moody.” Moody marble. That was a new one.
The bathroom was a marble-lover’s fever dream. White stone everywhere—floor, walls, shower. But she was right about the floor. It had a strange, dull splotch, like the stone had caught a cold. I knelt down, ran my hand across it. Cool. Damp. Not good.
“Been mopping lately?” I asked.
“I haven’t touched it,” she replied, clutching a silk scarf like it might fly away.
I narrowed my eyes. I’d seen this before. But I needed to be sure. That’s when I popped the trunk on the wagon and pulled out my secret weapon: the infrared camera. Sleek, silent, and good at spotting trouble. I fired it up, scanned the floor, and there it was—an unmistakable hot spot tracing out from the edge of the walk-in shower like a trail of breadcrumbs. Moisture was escaping, finding its way beneath the marble, just waiting to cause chaos.
“You’ve got a leaker,” I said, standing up and tipping my hat.
“Leaker?” she gasped, as if I’d accused her of espionage.
“Your shower’s got a plumbing issue. Water’s getting out, soaking under the floor. That marble’s not moody—it’s just miserable.”
She blinked twice, then nodded like she’d just gotten a telegram from the president. I gave her the full report, offered her a few reputable plumbers, and left her clutching her scarf like it was a lifeline.
On the way back, I stopped by the diner. Flo gave me a look like she’d been expecting me. “Another case cracked?” she asked, sliding over a slice of pie.
“Shower leak,” I said, digging in. “Marble was sweating more than a politician in a lie detector test.”
She laughed. “You and your rocks.”
I tipped my fedora, took another bite, and smiled. Another day, another stone mystery solved. That’s the life of the Stone Detective.
