The Case of the Wax On, Wax Off
It was another muggy Florida morning, the kind that makes your shirt stick to your back like a cheap suit. I was parked at my usual greasy spoon, giving Flo my best one-liner, when the phone rang. Figures.
“Stone Detective,” I grunted into the receiver.
On the other end was an office complex manager with a voice like a squeaky hinge. “Detective, I’ve got a marble floor that’s showing footprints. Tenants are raising a fuss. Think you can help?”
“Sure thing, pal,” I said. “I’ll be there faster than you can say ‘wax on, wax off.’”
The place looked like it belonged in an architectural digest, all glass, chrome, and enough marble to make a Roman senator blush. The lobby was a sprawling expanse of white Carrara marble with dramatic gray veining that snaked across the surface like the tracks of a detective on a cold case. Polished to a high shine, it looked like a mirror—too perfect.
I was admiring the place when the manager waddled over. He had a belly that could double as a punch clock and eyes that darted around like a rat in a cheese shop. “Glad you could make it,” he said, shaking my hand with a grip like a limp noodle. “It’s these footprints, see? Clients are complaining their shoes leave marks. It’s driving me nuts.”
I nodded. “Let’s take a look.”
We strolled across the marble. With every step, footprints—big, small, high heels, wingtips—appeared like ghostly shadows in the waxy surface. It was like a crime scene where the suspects all left their signatures.
I knelt down and ran a finger across the surface. It came up greasy, like the kitchen floor of a diner at closing time. I sniffed. “You’ve got a thick coat of wax or acrylic on here, pal. It’s soft—shows every print.”
He blinked at me, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. “But we clean it every night!”
I arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, with that mop over there?” I pointed at the sorry-looking rag dangling from a bucket like yesterday’s spaghetti. “That thing’s dirtier than a politician’s promise.”
His shoulders sagged. “What can we do?”
I cracked a grin. “Simple. Strip off the wax, get this floor professionally polished, and keep it that way. No more dirty mops, no more footprints. In other words: wax on, wax off.”
He gave me a look that said he didn’t know whether to thank me or throw me out, but that’s the way it goes in this line of work. Another case solved, another cup of joe waiting for me at Flo’s.
