The Case of the Dixie Trixie

The Case of the Dixie Trixie

         He was at the tail-end of a boring week that followed another boring week. As good as he was, it didn’t seem anyone wanted to hire a good P.I. It didn’t bother Spam all that much. He’d had a couple of successful cases that had him set financially for awhile. But the boredom was about to drive him nuts.

         Spam’s girl-Friday, Cassidy, however, was busy every day. Spam had no idea what Cassidy was working on; however, whatever it was, worked. The bills were paid, electricity was turned on, the telephone worked, and things just seemed to operate smoother. He knew that she didn’t have to stay with him, but she did. Cassidy was devoted to Spam.

         Spam left the office early that afternoon to visit his favorite joint, Hannity’s Bar. A few cigarettes and a few more Jack Daniels helped to kill the rest of the day.

          “Want another shot, Spam?” Jocko Hannity asked.

          “No, Jocko, I’ve had my limit. I need to be getting back to my digs.” Spam was a drinking man but was known to not overindulge. He was disciplined.

          “Well, would you be opposed to buying me one?” the voice connected with the question was Southern—very Southern.

         Spam turned toward the voice. Raven hair framed a perfectly shaped face. He saw long eyelashes and well formed lips that carried with them just a hint of a pout. Eyes as green as emeralds looked at him questioning.

          “Sure, Doll, but you’ll have to drink alone. What will you have?” Spam replied.

          “I love magnolias—the flower and the drink. Mr. Hummer, did you know that the magnolia is the state flower of Louisiana? I’ll have a Magnolia Blossom. You will keep me company while I sip my drink, won’t you?” A bat of her eyes told Spam that this one was used to getting her way.

          “Sure, I’ll keep you company.”

          “You’re a real gentleman, Mr. Hummer”

          “You know who I am?” Spam quizzed.

          “Why yes Mr. Hummer. Any self-respecting daughter of the South would never talk to a stranger.” She replied in her smooth Southern cant.

          “Do I know you?”

          “Why, no, Mr. Hummer, you don’t. But I know you. And I do believe that that’s good enough. My name is Annabelle Tricia Spencer. My friends call me Trixie. I’d like you to be my friend.” Her warm smile and emerald eyes were inviting and convincing.

          “Well, Doll, why would you want to be friends with me? You don’t know me from Adam.” Spam added suspiciously.

          “Why, Mr. Hummer, I do believe that you are wary of the opposite sex. In Baton Rouge, any man would gladly be my friend.”

          “I’m sure that’s true, Doll. But, this is not Baton Rouge and beautiful women asking for drinks usually want something.”

          “Oh, alright, Mr. Hummer. I do declare that you are a suspicious soul. And as a matter of fact, I do want something of you.”

          “Go on,” Spam encouraged.

          “I need someone who is a friend of the police and who can be trusted with precious valuables. I need your help, Spam. Whatever your fees are, I will gladly pay them,” Trixie urged.

          “What do I have to do to earn my pay, Trixie?”

          “Have you ever heard of the Logos Veritas, Spam?”

          “What is it, a car?”

          “Not hardly, it’s a very old, very rare book. It is a Latin manuscript written by early church fathers. It’s a one of a kind volume. My father, Clarence Spencer, was a professor of early theology at Louisiana State University. He was the owner of the Logos Veritas. It was stolen fifteen years ago. My father died five years ago and his attempts to recover the book were unsuccessful.’

          “Interesting story, Trixie, but that still doesn’t tell me what it’s got to do with me?”

          “I’m getting there my dear Mr. Hummer. I have recently been in contact with persons who claim to have the Logos Veritas. They will part with it for a price. Although I will be willing to pay for the book, it is stolen goods. I want these people to pay for what they did to my father. I don’t want the book. It can be donated to the museum. I want you to get the police to monitor the exchange and bring these people to justice. However, the people holding the book will only talk to me. In addition, I don’t have the twenty-five-thousand dollars that they are asking for ransom.”

          “So, I take it that you want me to use my contacts with the police to have them put up the money and nab the bad-guys when they make the exchange.” Spam added seeing that things were falling into place.

          “That’s about it Mr. Hummer.” Trixie Spencer smiled at Spam and flashed a generous portion of southern charm.

          “Oh, one other thing, Spam. In order to verify the copy of the Logos Veritas, I need to compare it with the Logos Principa, a companion volume. Our local museum of history has a copy of the Logos Principa. They will not give it to me, but they will cooperate with the police. I will need to take it with me when I retrieve the Logos Veritas. I need you to provide security of the Logos Principa, while I have it on loan.”

          “I’ll take your case,” Spam affirmed, “but, I’ll have to have a thousand dollars up front.”

          “Of course, Mr. Hummer. Will you take my personal check?”

          “Sure, Doll, write your check; but, I don’t do anything until the check clears.”

          “As you wish Mr. Hummer. However, I am going to give you my contact at the museum. You have your own contacts with the police department. I expect to complete the transaction by Monday of next week. Until then, you can reach me at this number. Here is my card. Call me anytime—any time at all, you hear.”

          “Shouldn’t be a problem, Trixie. I’ll be in touch.”

          “Until later, Mr. Hummer.” Trixie leaned over and kissed Spam lightly on the cheek, turned with the grace of a southern belle, and walked out of Hannity’s as if it were a scene in Gone with the Wind.



         Spam knocked once on the door and then entered. Lieutenant Frisco’s office was cramped and cluttered, just what you’d expect of a cop that did most of his work out on the pavement.

         Frisco spoke first, “Spam, I’d like you to meet Dr. Brewster Baker. He’s the curator of the museum. He’s the guy who’s gonna get the other book for us.”

          “It’s called the Logos Principa, and its much more than just a book Lieutenant” the portly fellow with a crooked bow-tie corrected.

         Spam and Dave looked at each other and shrugged. “It’s just a book to me, Mr. Baker. No offense, but it’s just a book.” Spam stated mater-of-factly.

          “And, so that may be Mr. Hummer. However it is valued at more than you make in a year and it has been revered for centuries—something that you will never equal.”

          “Enough of this. Are you ready to make the drop Spam?” Dave quizzed.

          “Sure, but I’ve got a couple of questions for the Doctor here.”

          “How may I assist you Mr. Hummer?”

          “It’s about Trixie’s story. Have you checked it out? Is she on the level?” Spam asked both men.

          “Fifteen years ago the police department in Baton Rouge reported the theft of a rare antique book.” Lieutenant Frisco confirmed. “It was the Logos Veritas. The police department confirmed that it was stolen from the private collection of Spencer. They have also confirmed that they have been in constant communication with Spencer’s daughter. They are anxious to find that book too. Seems as if she is under foot constantly, even for a fifteen year old case.”

          “In addition, Mr. Hummer. It is factual that the only way that the Logos Veritas can be affirmed to be authentic is to compare it with the companion volume, Logos Principa. Only a scholar or someone closely trained by a scholar would know that. I am certain that Miss. Spencer will be able to confirm the veracity of the document. I must also add that the museum is quite excited about completing the collection by reuniting the two volumes.” Brewster Baker appeared to want to continue the lecture but thought better of it.

         Spam stared at the two men who were, for very different reasons, both anxious to proceed. “OK, if you’re satisfied, I’m satisfied. Where’s the book and the money?”

         Dave placed a suitcase on the desktop and opened it for inspection. Half of the space was occupied by a wrapped object. Spam assumed that was the Logos Principa. He recognized the contents of the other half immediately; it was twenty-five-thousand dollars in one-hundred dollar bills.

          “OK, I suppose you will have a tail-car behind me all the way?” Spam spoke to his friend.

          “Certainly, I trust you, but that’s a lot of money Spam. As soon as Trixie makes the drop. We will go in. Just have her make the drop, get the book, and get out of there.”

          “That’s the plan, Dave. Now, let’s go catch some bad-guys.” Spam closed the suitcase and carried it from the room.



         Trixie flung her head to the side, causing her long raven hair to align on her shoulder and out of her eyes. She swung her legs into the car and closed the door. Spam decided that if all southern girls looked this good, he would have to take a very long vacation in Baton Rouge. She noticed his approving stare and turned on the charm. Her voice seemed to have an extra portion of southern drawl.

          “Mister Hummer, I’m all yours. Do you have our little package?”

          “It’s in the suitcase in the back, Doll. You ready to get this over with?”

          “Mister Hummer, I’m always ready,” she grinned innocently at Spam.

         The drive to the warehouse was a short one. Spam kept the tail-car in sight. They were pretty good; however, a really knowledgeable bad-guy would spot them. Spam doubted that there was anything to worry about. The warehouse was located in a district that contained dozens of the same building. The only difference between them was what was contained inside of the buildings. Spam parked close to the door. Trixie had a short walk to the door and that meant he was closer if she needed help. The large parking lot prevented the tail car from sticking close. They were parked around the corner, watching from a distance.

         Spam watched Trixie carry the suitcase to the doorway, pause, and then enter. Just that short walk caused him to consider that he may be in love. But then he determined that that love was not what it was. After the case was finished, he was going to get to know Trixie much better. But, for the moment he needed to wait. Trixie told him that it may take as long as an hour for her to verify the Logos Verita manuscript. That was too long in his books to wait. But, he would do it. However, at one minute past that he and the police were going in if she did not come out sooner.

         The moments passed. After exactly one hour, Spam loaded a round into the chamber of his 45 caliber handgun and reached for the door handle. At the same time the tail-car screeched to a stop next to him. They all rushed to the doorway. A similar thing was happening to the back door, which had also been under surveillance. A brief pause at the door to assure that everyone was in place and then they burst through in force.

          “Police! Down on the Floor!” was shouted by a dozen voices as the men systematically combed the aisles and rooms of the warehouse. No one was there. There was no sign that anyone had met in the building. It was as if Trixie had been a figment of their imagination.

          “Hummer!—where’s your pigeon?” Lieutenant Frisco yelled from across the room.

          “What’dya mean my pigeon? More importantly, where’s your money and that blasted book?”

         Curses were voiced by a dozen voices. “Lieutenant!—you better come and see this!” a voice called from the periphery of the activity.

          “What’dya got, Lewis?”

         Spam and Dave Frisco entered a side room adjacent to the main building. An open window greeted them. On the floor, under the window was a wilting magnolia flower—a single magnolia blossom.

          “Frisco, my friend, we’ve just been had.” The realization struck both men at the same time. “My vote is that you’re the one that’s gotta tell Mister Baker that his fancy book is gone.”

          “Thanks, Spam. You hiring? I may need a job,” The lieutenant replied.



         The lighting in Hannity’s is appropriate for a bar—not too bright. The two friends sat at the bar and nursed their drinks. Regardless of the turn of events, Spam still only drank two drinks in the evenings. This was his second.

          “Spam,” Frisco broke the silence, “thanks for what you did. I don’t even want to know how you came up with that kind of money. If you hadn’t of replaced that money that we put up, I’d be bustin rocks down-state.”

          “Naw, they’d never send an honest man like you up. But you’d be washin dishes for Jocko here. It was my pleasure. It was just some extra cash that came in from a case I closed a few months back—a very grateful client.”

         Frisco shook his head and continued, “The last time I saw Baker he was cleaning out his desk. When I told him that Trixie climbed out the window he asked how that could be. He said that Trixie was a sixty year old matron confined to a wheelchair for the last four years. Man, I can’t believe we got suckered so badly.”

         Spam fished in his inside coat pocket and retrieved a card. “I thought you might want to see what I received this morning.”

         He handed the card to Lieutenant Frisco, who opened and read the message. He smiled and tossed the card to Jocko, who eagerly examined the card. On the front was a solitary magnolia blossom. Opening the card, Jocko read one word, “Thanks!” Jocko chuckled to himself.

         Spam gently slapped his old friend on the back and said, “Dave, my friend, you win some and you lose some. And, some of them teach you a lesson. The way I’ve got it figured we just went to grad school.”