Bang!

"Help!

My dog's been shot.

" Mrs.

O'Reilly, living with Arnold Really O'Reilly, in a cozy Cape Cod bungalow overlooking the Atlantic in late November was moderately frantic over her wounded pet Arnold, who'd always wanted to write a mystery, had a fine collection of unpublished poetry, philosophy, and Quaker theology.

Arnold was a tall man, thin as a rail, with deep set sleepy eyes, wispy hair on top, and a savage pink scar across his left cheek His hands were.

.

.

"The dog?

What about Mrs.

O'Reilly mourning her favorite pet who'd just been shot?

" 'Not to worry.

She didn't like the dog much anyway and Whiskers had only been nipped in the left hind paw.

" "But.

.

.

" "As I was about to say, Arnold's hands were his favored visible physical feature.

Grey-veined they put him in touch with his beloved computer and a hundred other little.

.

.

.