The Case of the Stone That Wasn’t
It was one of those mornings where the air stuck to you like gum on a hot sidewalk. I was somewhere deep in Alabama—so deep I was pretty sure the GPS had given up and was just guessing. I rolled out of bed in some no-name motel, slapped on my wrinkled shirt, and headed outside in search of two things: a rental car and a proper cup of coffee.
Only problem? I had no idea what car I rented—or where I parked it. Occupational hazard when your office changes zip codes weekly. I held the key fob high, like a TV remote that might catch a better signal if I aimed just right. Hit the panic button. Bingo. A gray sedan just a few steps away lit up and started screaming. Found it.
I climbed in, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and asked Siri for a greasy spoon. Fast food chains lit up the screen like a Christmas tree, but one name stood out: Flo’s. I nearly choked on my own laugh. I figured that had to be a sign from the universe—or at least from the last cup of gas station coffee I survived. I told Siri to take me there.
Just as I was about to peel out of the lot, my phone buzzed. It was an architect. You know the type—buttoned-up, speaks in specs, and uses words like “fenestration” in casual conversation. He was restoring some grand old Southern mansion and wanted to know if I could confirm the stone was limestone and figure out if it was restorable. I told him I was on the road and it’d have to wait—unless, of course, it was close by.
Turns out, it was just an hour from my motel. I told him the stone gods had smiled on him and I could swing by the next morning. He emailed me the info, and I told him I’d meet him on-site, bright and early.
Next morning I rolled up to a property that looked like it had been ripped straight out of Gone with the Wind. Big white columns, wide veranda, the kind of place you half expect a butler to answer the door and hand you a mint julep. A tall gentleman stood on the porch, looking like Clark Gable’s long-lost cousin. He waved, and we did the elbow bump—still a thing, I guess.
He led me into a circular foyer with grand staircases and more columns than a Roman courthouse. “All limestone,” he said, puffing up with pride. “Quarried in—” I stopped listening. Not to be rude, but I’ve been lied to by stone before. And this one had a tell.
As I got closer, I spotted cracks in the columns and rebar peeking through the floor tiles. Rebar? In limestone? That’s like finding a microwave in a medieval castle. I knelt down, ran my fingers across the surface, and noticed a few subtle form lines—like the ones left when concrete gets poured into a mold. The texture was all wrong too—less stone, more faux.
I stood up and gave the architect the look. You know the one—part pity, part “brace yourself.”
“Hate to break it to you,” I said, “but this ain’t limestone. It’s cast stone.”
He blinked. “No, it can’t be. They didn’t use cast stone back then.”
Now, telling an architect he’s wrong is like telling a cat it’s not allowed on the counter. You’re in for a fight.
So I pulled out my phone and asked Siri to settle the score. Up came the receipts:
– Cast stone’s been around since 1138.
– It took over London in the 1800s.
– And by 1920, it was all the rage in the U.S.
I showed him the screen. He stared for a second, then shrugged. “OK, OK.”
“The good news?” I said, sliding my phone back in my pocket. “It can be restored. I’ll put together a spec.”
Another case closed.
Oh, and that Flo’s diner? Found it on the way back. Grits, eggs, sausage that may or may not have been legal—delicious. And the coffee? Strong enough to wake the dead or at least keep me alert for my next case of mistaken identity—stone or otherwise.
In this business, things aren’t always what they seem. But lucky for you, the Stone Detective always gets to the bottom of it.
