Unable to decipher the meaing of this cryptic clue, I sat down on the couch and helped myself to a jar of olives. Who was this Uncle Argyle and how was he involved with the ambassador's assassination? The puzzle pieces were all there, I just needed to make them fit. My eyes drifted to the olive jar. And then I had my answer. Counterfeit olives!
I raced down to the basement, my heart thudding in my ears as I made my way to over to the washer and dryer. I flung open the door of the dryer, poked my head inside, and sure enough there was an entire underground facility dedicated to counterfeiting olives. And all operated by furry felines with nimble paws!
I rang Constable Jenkens, who was quick to lead a task force into the dryer to shut down the operation. Those pimiento-stuffing, olive-shucking privateers were wrangled and cuffed, though no one was able to single out the mastermind, that fiendish Spaniard known as Uncle Argyle. He had escaped without a sound, no doubt to plan some other wiley scheme.
As the Constable's vehicle drove away a solitary figure watched from a window across the street, purring loudly and nuzzling a jar of olives...
1 comment:
Hahahahaha! This will make Liz a happy girl :)
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