“NOW REMEMBER TOM. I do the talking. I ask the questions. You just sit there.”
We’re standing in front of the door to the President’s Mansion having just rung the doorbell. I c**k my head to one side and smile. “Come on, Helen. How often have we done this?”
She sighs and shakes her head. “I know, Tom, but hope springs eternal.”
I am about to make what I hope comes across as a witty retort when the door opens. Instead of being greeted by Richard Davenport, or perhaps a housekeeper, Helen and I find ourselves face-to-face with a perky slip of a girl clad only in a long, pink Care Bears t-shirt.
“Hi,” she says in a voice too chipper for even 10 a.m. in the morning. “Can I help you?”
I consider this question for a moment, but Helen says, “Absolutely not—ahem, I mean, yes. I’m Delective H
