Bell Detective Agency

Agent Walter Bell and I met every morning at SoDu Cafe in South Durham to discuss the criminal landscape of the North Carolina Triangle—a region where crime, as we liked to dramatically declare, was "always rampant." 

Truth be told, we didn't concern ourselves with ordinary crime—the garden-variety misdemeanors that kept the Triangle's finest police officers occupied. No, we specialized in the fringe elements that often slipped through the cracks of conventional law enforcement, the cases that raised eyebrows and occasionally defied explanation.

Walter was a joyful and genuinely friendly man, and the world's number one supporter of his beloved alma mater, Clemson University. A retired FBI agent with a treasure trove of stories—each one more hilarious than the last, not just because of their bizarre subject matter but because of Walter's unmatched gift for storytelling—he had me in stitches daily. 

After wiping away tears of laughter one morning, I suggested we formalize our coffee meetups into something more official. Thus was born the Bell Detective Agency, with Walter as our senior investigator and me serving as the computer forensic specialist (which meant I knew how to Google answers that Walter couldn't get from Siri).

We decided to focus exclusively on crimes that slipped through society's proper, polite cracks—offenses as unique and diverse as the Triangle's eclectic population. The cases that came our way would have made streaming television writers throw their scripts in the trash for being "too unrealistic."

Take, for instance, the Duke Healthcare System's renowned weight-loss program. The program is so effective it's barely advertised, surviving purely on whispered recommendations that keep it perpetually at the fire marshal's occupancy limits. 

With such a large group sharing the same lifestyle came an inevitable subculture, and where culture blooms, crime inevitably follows. In this case, it primarily involved black market protein shakes and scalping tickets to movies in the city's extra-wide seat theaters. 

Then there's Durham's reputation as an extraordinarily gay-friendly city. LGBTQ+ individuals flock here from around the country, drawn by the radical notion of being treated like everyone else. This openness created another vibrant subculture, accompanied by its own brand of criminal activity, mostly involving glitter theft and the occasional drag competition scandal.

The third subculture stretching across the Triangle, from Chapel Hill to Raleigh, involved divergent religious practices. The rebellious spirits of students from Duke, UNC, and NC State attracted a dazzling array of spiritual practices. You could encounter faiths in the Triangle that existed nowhere else: Reformed Santeria, college-dorm Voodoo, and what Walter called "Convenience Store Wicca" (practiced primarily near the beer and chips aisles).

In short, as Walter would deadpan with perfect comedic timing, the Triangle was essentially a hotspot for "fat, gay, zombie criminal activity." A phrase he delivered with such earnest professionalism that it took me three weeks to realize he was joking.

Our routine was sacred: meet at SoDu Cafe each morning to assess criminal activity and prioritize our day's investigations. We came ostensibly for their unbeatable flat whites—truly the best in the Triangle—but we were equally there for underground intelligence gathering (and the occasional cheese danish).

Our primary informant was a barista named Amy Normal, the self-anointed "Emergency Backup Mistress of the Greater SoDu Night." To clarify, she filled in when the official Mistress was detained elsewhere. It was a stressful position, as Walter would say with exaggerated gravity. Her real name was Awet, though we suspected even that was an alias (Walter had a complex theory involving witness protection and social media avatars).

Awet and the mysterious primary Mistress reportedly used their "mystical wiles" to keep otherworldly criminals in check. During our tenure, the biggest problem appeared to be vampire cats—yes, you read that correctly. A cat named Chet had apparently been the emotional support animal to a bipolar vampire with severe anxiety. While I understand anxiety struggles all too well, I doubt my midnight panic attacks compare to those of a centuries-old bloodsucker with vitamin D deficiency.

Walter and I would diligently collect intelligence from Awet and formulate our daily plans with MI6 precision. Our operations involved surprisingly little action—neither of us particularly enjoyed being out after dark (Walter needed his eight hours, and I preferred to avoid both mosquitoes and the undead). Nevertheless, we reasoned the feral vampire colony knew we were tracking them, which theoretically dampened their nefarious activities.

The Bell Detective Agency operated for about two years until Walter relocated to Charlotte to live with his son. I missed him terribly—still do. Walter resides with the angels now, where I'm certain he keeps heaven in stitches with his outlandish stories of fighting crime from the Kansas City FBI office. 

I haven't heard his voice in some time, but I can still hear his distinctive laughter in my mind. And I know with absolute certainty that on college football game days, he can be heard throughout the celestial realm, shouting with characteristic enthusiasm, "Go Tigers!"

The world is quieter and even a little boring without Walter Bell in it, but somewhere out there in the afterlife, a group of angels is wiping away tears of laughter as Walter regales them with tales of our vampire cat investigations. And that thought makes me smile every time I think of it.

Sleepy Hollow Revisited

"There is a little valley, or rather a lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose, and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquility." 

--Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

We first learned about the Sleepy Hollow covered bridge from William Magnum's wonderful book of original paintings, "Carolina Preserves." On page 105 is the artist's depiction of a red, barn-like structure spanning an icy mountain stream, new snow gently clinging to the boughs of fir trees that stand in the foreground—a scene so perfectly pastoral it could make a Currier & Ives greeting card blush with envy.

(Google it now, in my opinion, because you won't be able to break away after reading the next paragraph.)

Ms. Wonder and I first searched for the bridge years ago and wrote about our adventure in The Raleigh News & Observer. Finding it the first time was no simple task, involving what I diplomatically described as "spirited navigation discussions" and what Ms. Wonder less diplomatically called "your stubborn refusal to ask for directions."

By the time we arrived, the heavy cloud cover had ceased its idle threats and decided to let loose with the determination of a weather goddess that had been saving up all morning just for this very moment. The narrow bridge lay in deep shadow cast by several big-toothed aspens standing at the far edge of a sandy-floored meadow.

Wynd Horse entered the one-lane bridge slowly, and the loose floorboards shifted against their joists as her tires pressed down on them. The sound they made was like horses' hooves on packed earth—pumble-lunk-lunk, pumble-lunk-lunk—a rhythm that would have made excellent percussion for a Bob Dylan folk song in the pre-electric guitar era.

Entering the bridge, I was reminded that, in an earlier age, posted signs would caution travelers to "Cross This Bridge At A Walk," and the warning often specified a fine for crossing at a faster pace. Severe damage to the bridge and to draft animals could result from weak boards—a concern that modern drivers, accustomed to interstate highways engineered to withstand Trump's tank divisions, might find quaintly alarming.

We exited the bridge onto a small lap of land, grassy and inviting, and hemmed in by steep hills that rise far above it like the walls of a natural amphitheater. Who knew that Mother Nature had such a profound appreciation for intimate acoustics?

We parked at a wide bend in the road, sheltered from the rain by the thick forest canopy that performed admirably as nature's umbrella. Thickets of rhododendron growing on the creek banks muffled the noise of traffic from the nearby highway. The steep hill behind us blocked out all other noise, creating what acoustical engineers would probably call "optimal ambient isolation." I call it the world's most comfortable outdoor cathedral.

Only the twittering of juncos could be heard above the constant gurgle of the stream and the heavy static of rain—a soundtrack that no streaming service could ever quite replicate. I love knowing that nature can surpass the best attempts of digital technology. The quiet was so mesmerizing we spoke very little for the first several minutes, both of us apparently under the spell of a silence so complete it seemed almost ceremonial.

Suddenly, I was transported to another Sleepy Hollow, one that sheltered me for the first eighteen years of my life—a place that existed not on any map William Magnum might paint, but in the carefully preserved geography of memory.

In the heart of one of those spacious coves that indent the northern shores of Lake Chickamauga, at a broad stretch of the Tennessee River, lies a small rural community, known to some as Yaphank, but properly called Shady Grove. The confusion over names was, I suspect, entirely intentional—a way for the locals to keep outsiders guessing and tourists from finding the good fishing spots.

The name supposedly came from a much earlier time when the good people of the area would take their lunch in the cooling shade and then linger until the last minute before returning to their gardens and livestock. Whether this is true or not, I can't say; though knowing my ancestors, it's entirely possible they named their community for their favorite pastime: the strategic avoidance of afternoon labor.

This little village, perhaps no more than half a mile long, is nestled among high hills and ridges, making it one of the quietest places in the world. A small brook glides through it, creating a soft murmur, just enough to lull me to sleep in the front porch swing on the lazy summer afternoons of my youth.

The only sounds breaking the uniform tranquility were the sweet song of a mockingbird, who seemed to know every tune from the Billboard Top 100, and the sharp rap of an acorn dropped by a blue jay onto the tin roof of my father's workshop. That Jay had a remarkable sense of comedic timing.

Mr. Irving concluded his opening description of Sleepy Hollow with these words: "If ever I should wish for a retreat, I know of none more promising than this little valley." His words aptly describe this Sleepy Hollow in the North Carolina mountains, and that Shady Grove in the Tennessee foothills.

Serenity's Revenge

Earlier today at the Circular Journey Café, Island Irv and I had coffee with a friend named Elliott, although Irv and I call him Brambles for his insistence on wearing wild, unkempt hair, a wispy beard, and bare feet. 

The trouble began, as troubles often do, with excellent intentions and a sixteen-ounce flat white. "Gentlemen," Brambles announced, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had discovered a conspiracy of cosmic proportions, "I believe my coffee has been poisoned."

"Poisoned?" I repeated, glancing at the cheerful café atmosphere around us. "How? Why?"

"My ex-girlfriend, Serenity, is operating the espresso machine today," he said. "I had no idea she worked here when I ordered."

Island Irv, who believes that all coffee-related drama stems from the Enlightenment, said as he looked deep into his own espresso, "So you think she put something in your coffee? Maybe she’s just genuinely committed to good customer service.”

Elliott was having none of it. He shook his wild, unkempt head. “She gave me that smile when she handed me my drink.”

“That’s standard protocol," I said.

“No,” he said. “It was the smile that says, ‘I hope you enjoy your little cup of regret for dumping me, Todd.’”

“Your name’s Elliott,” I reminded him.

“She used to call me Todd when she was mad at me. It was a thing. I'm sure she put something in it."

“What would she put in it that would be so terrible?” asked Irv, giving the cup a sniff.

“I don’t know. I'm convinced she's added something that will either make me projectile vomit on the nice couple at table three, or send me rushing to the restroom when someone else is occupying it."

I examined the coffee: it looked perfectly ordinary, though I reasoned that was the mark of a well-planned poisoning. “I think you’re being a little paranoid,” I offered.

"Why don't you simply order another coffee?" Irv suggested with the practical wisdom of a man who had never overthought a beverage.

"Can't," Elliot said. "She's watching me. Every time I think she's occupied somewhere else, she materializes like some sort of caffeinated apparition. It's as if she has radar."

He wasn't far from right. As if on cue, Serenity looked toward our table and waved with the enthusiasm of someone who is genuinely pleased to see her ex-boyfriend.

"Right," I said, rising with the determination of a man accepting a noble mission. "I'll get your coffee. I'm expected to order at least two every Sunday morning. She won't suspect anything."

She was waiting for me when I approached the counter. “Back already?” she asked sweetly.

"Sixteen ounces of the very best African bean, blended with oatmilk, and a dash of nutmeg," I said, avoiding eye contact like a spy delivering a password.

"Elliot takes his espresso with cinnamon, not nutmeg," she said, her tone as innocent as a cherub.

I froze. How could she possibly know? I tried to remain stoic, but she read my face like a TikTok meme.

"Lucky guess," she said, beginning to prepare the drink with movements that seemed almost too deliberate. "Tell him I said hello."

I returned to our table feeling I'd been outmaneuvered by a master.

"Well?" Ned asked anxiously.

"She knows," I reported. "Somehow--I don't know how--but somehow she knows."

Island Irv stood up, cracking his knuckles like a gunfighter preparing for a showdown. "I'll take care of this. I've got experience with difficult women."

"All women are difficult when it comes to you," I pointed out, but he was already striding toward the counter.

Five minutes later, he returned with an expression of bewildered defeat. "She asked if I wanted extra foam for Ned's latte before I even had a chance to order. Then she talked me into trying something she called a turmeric shot. I felt powerless. It went down hot."

In the next few minutes, Serenity disappeared into the back room, and Irv made another attempt only to see her re-materialize like caffeine-fueled mist just as he reached the register.

“Anything for you, sir?” I heard her ask Irv, and she wore that now-familiar smile—the one that apparently meant “Todd.”

After three more rounds of this game—each ending with one of us ordering unnecessary baked goods or, in Irv’s case, an alarming second turmeric shot—we decided to try honesty.

I approached her and said, “Serenity, did you put something in Elliot's drink?”

She looked me in the eye and said, “I put love and care in every beverage I make.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” I observed.

“I believe a little mystery enhances the flavor,” she replied," and we strive to exceed the expectations of every customer on every visit."

"Well, could you at least promise not to put anything unpleasant in his next order?" I asked.

Serenity paused in her cleaning, considering the request with the gravity of a judge weighing evidence. "I could," she said finally, "but I won't."

"But why not?"  I asked.

"Because," she said, her smile taking on a distinctly mischievous quality, "where's the fun in that?"

I retreated in tactical defeat, leaving Elliot to contemplate his potentially sabotaged beverage with the expression of a man facing his doom.

"So what do I do?" he asked.

Island Irv shrugged with his characteristic philosophical acceptance of life's absurdities. "Drink it or don't drink it. Either way, you'll know."

"That's your advice? Drink the potentially poisoned coffee?"

Without asking for permission, Irv took a tentative sip of the suspected latte, his face immediately contorting into an expression of profound confusion.

"Well?" Elliot asked.

"It's..." Irv said, taking another sip, "actually quite good. Excellent, even."

Elliot stared at him in astonishment.

"The best coffee I've had in months," Irv continued, draining the cup with apparent relish. "Rich, smooth, perfectly balanced. Whatever she put in it, it worked."

From behind the counter, Serenity's laughter chimed like silver bells, and I realized we'd witnessed something far more sophisticated than mere sabotage. It could only be described as the most elaborate hoax designed to mess with someone's mind in the history of café culture.

And so we left the cafe this morning with Elliot clutching a second cup of Serenity's mysterious brew, and Irv praising the consciousness-expanding powers of turmeric-induced enlightenment. 

I suspect Serenity's real revenge was in watching us spend half an hour convinced we were part of some evil conspiracy, when all along she was simply doing what any talented barista would do—making sure every cup was memorable. I'm beginning to believe that baristas wield more power than sorcerers.

Day's Unveiling

The predawn hour lulls you into thinking the world is still asleep, wrapped in a blanket of quiet. But if you listen closely, you hear the rustle of leaves, the faint chirp of a bird who didn’t get the memo about sleeping in. It’s nature’s way of a good stretch and a big yawn, getting ready to throw back the covers and greet the day.

The Unveiling of Morning

On this particular morning, the air had that crisp, new feel, like a freshly minted hundred-dollar bill. There was a faint scent of possibility wafting on the breeze coming uptown from the Atlantic.

The ancient oaks lining Third Street, usually so stoic, seemed to shiver with excitement, their branches reaching greedily for the sliver of light just peeking over the horizon. In my mind, I could hear them say, "Kvncvpketv [Gun-jup-ghee-duh" in the language of my ancestors, meaning "Don't get too cocky."

I parked in front of the Circular Journey Cafe, and when I stepped out of Wynd Horse, a solitary bird let out a tentative trill. Then another joined in, and another, until the whole neighborhood seemed to hum with a quiet, growing chorus. It wasn't the full-blown orchestral performance of mid-morning, but more like tuning up before the main event. 

A Daybreak Melody

It reminded me of those early Manilow tracks, the ones where the piano gently introduces the melody before the full brass section kicks in. "Daybreak," I thought, "it's always the gentle beginning, the quiet promise of what's to come." 

And sometimes, what's to come is just another day of trying to convince the sewer harpies to leave Princess Amy alone so we can get some work done on the media empire we're quietly building to bring some sanity back to the world.

Haven't you heard about that project yet? Oh, I thought I'd mentioned it. Hmm, maybe there's a good reason I haven't brought it up. I'll give it more thought. There's no rush; I was interested in getting your opinion, but we can talk about it later.

Until then, I'll leave you with a bit of public service: Keep smiling and be assured that good things are coming. Until next time, be happy, be healthy. As simple as they are, even those words seem filled with grand possibilities on a morning like this.

Daybreak

There’s something about daybreak that feels like the universe’s way of apologizing for the night before. That’s how I described it to Island Irv this morning as we sat outside The Circular Journey Café, sipping our coffee and watching a jogger arguing with a Canada goose about sidewalk right of way.

“The goose is going to win,” Irv said, nodding toward the honking bird, which had assumed a power stance and refused to yield the path.

“The jogger might as well take the long way around,” I agreed. “It’s better to respect the wildlife hierarchy. They carry a grudge for a long time.”

We both leaned back, letting the morning light fall across our faces like a kindly grandmother’s shawl. This was daybreak as it should be—golden, a little smug, and just humid enough to remind you of your laundry situation.

That’s when Lupe appeared, wearing sunglasses that suggested she either hadn’t slept or had just come from a press conference.

“Good morning,” she said, drawing the phrase out like it owed her money. “Why are you two sitting here like you just solved world peace?”

“Because daybreak,” I said.

“Because goose standoff,” added Irv.

She took a long, suspicious look at our coffee mugs. “Are those egg sandwiches I smell?”

“Indeed,” said Irv. “I ordered the Signature Sunrise Delight. Genome here went for the Cheddar Nest.”

Lupe narrowed her eyes. “Brave choices. The new barista’s name is Serenity, but I wouldn’t count on her emotional availability.”

“I liked her,” I said. “She called me ‘chief’ and asked if I wanted my sandwich to feel cozy or adventurous.”

“She looked like someone who might have taken a weekend ayahuasca workshop,” Irv whispered. “The kind where they talk to raccoons about forgiveness.”

Just then, Serenity herself emerged from the café with a steaming mug and a single pastry balanced on a plate. She had the aura of someone who spoke fluent tarot and possibly knew what our credit scores were.

“I brought you a chai, Princess,” she said, setting the mug before Amy with the solemnity of a moon priestess. “And a lemon scone with rebellious energy.”

Lupe stared at it. “Is it safe?”

“It has the consciousness-expanding power of a shot of turmeric," Serenity explained.

We all paused.

“Well, alright then,” Lupe announced and eagerly set in on the scone.

“Signal if you need anything else,” Serenity said, before floating back inside.

“I miss the old barista,” Irv muttered. “He couldn’t steam milk to save his life, but he never asked about my birth chart before handing me a bagel.”

“You’re just cranky because you dropped egg yolk on your shoe,” I pointed out.

He looked down at his foot, sighed, and then muttered something about ‘being targeted by the sun.’

We lapsed into silence again, watching the goose chase a squirrel, abandoning the pursuit halfway through in what appeared to be a mutual agreement.

“I think this is what Barry Manilow meant,” I said eventually. “About the moment when the night is through. You know—that sparkle that insists, ‘things are actually okay, despite everything you dreamed about in the third REM cycle.’”

Lupe looked up from her scone. “Barry Manilow also said to get up and look around, so how about getting me a napkin?”

She said this in the tone of someone who would lead a rebellion if her lemon glaze started to flake.

So I stood and handed her a napkin with ceremonial reverence.

“You two are ridiculous,” she said, dabbing delicately.

“But it’s daybreak ridiculous,” Irv said. “The best kind.”

We all fell quiet again, watching the light climb the palms and listening to the bird gossip carried on the gentle breeze. 

The coffee warmed us. The scone, as it turned out, wasn’t cursed. And then, as if by magic, Vintage Vinyl, the record shop next door, turned up the outdoor speakers to play an old vinyl recording of Daybreak itself.

As Mr. Mannilow crooned, Lupe leaned back in a zen-like repose, Irv seemed lost in let's remember, and even the goose seemed to mellow out.

“Let’s stay here forever,” I said, "like Sugar Mountain." My two companions nodded in agreement because at daybreak, anything feels possible—even miracles.