The Case of the Political Pie Thrower

Effecton is the major town that serves as the hub of several small villages south and west of Norwich. I am a detective constable for the Effecton CID, and I had just been called into the Superintendent's office and was sitting in front of his desk. "Constable Nettles, please summarize the progress on the political pieing of Mayor Wyman."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I'm only assisting Inspector Casey on the case. Shouldn't he be the one providing the summary?"

"Normally, yes, but on this occasion I particularly want your point of view."

"Well, as you know, a week before the incident occurred, a person calling his- or herself 'The Political Pie Thrower' left a note that he or she was going to throw a pie into the face of Mayor Wyman at the town council meeting. As a precaution, we sent several uniformed officers to prevent that from happening. Each of the officers thought that he or she had seen someone holding a pie and gave chase. Right after that, a bunch of noisemakers and smoke bombs went off. After the commotion had died down, everyone discovered that the mayor had indeed been pied. We've interviewed everyone who was in attendance, and nobody, including the mayor, saw who threw the pie."

"Good. Constable Nettles, I pulling you off the mayor's case and putting you on a related one. As you know, His Majesty is going to pass through Effecton on his tour of Great Britain. This morning, I received a note that read, 'I, the Political Pie Thrower, am going throw a pie in his Majesty's face.'. We've already checked the note against the previous note: the notes might be by the same hand, but, as the first note was written in cursive and the second used block letters, the experts can't be certain. It might be the PPT, but it might also be a hoax or the work of a copycat. What we want you to do is to investigate the latter two possibilities."

"Yes, sir". As it was dinner time, I went back to my desk, tidied it up, and went home for the evening. When I got home, my husband's car was still in the driveway, so I knew that he hadn't left for his magic/hypnotism show that he performs 5 nights a week.

As I walk in the door, my husband gives me a kiss and says, "Lord Howard is throwing a party this Saturday." Unfortunately, Lord Howard and my husband are friends, so we're always invited.

"You already know that I don't want to go to one of his parties. His parties always end in a pie fight. I would much rather stay home and read a good book while you go to the party and, hypothetically speaking, have you pick up some bored lady for a one-night stand than be covered in chocolate cream pie in my finest clothing and jewelry." (For the record, my husband had always been faithful.)

"I promise you that there won't be a pie fight at the end of the party."

"What? Are you trying to convince me that the Baron of Buffoonery isn't going to have a pie fight at one of his parties?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what are you saying?"

My husband sheepishly added, "The pie fight is going to be in the middle of the party.:

I rolled my eyes .and shook my head. "So what humiliation awaits us at the end of the party?"

"We're either going to voluntarily jump or be semi-voluntarily thrown into his lordship's clay pit."

"A pie fight and a mud bath???? I don't like going to his parties when there is just a pie fight. What makes you think I would want to go if it also included a mud bath?"

"You don't have to participate if you don't want to. You can just stay in the Grand Ballroom."

"That's just loads of fun. Since everybody else chooses to participate, I'd be alone in the ballroom counting the steps in the staircase and staring at statues and paintings I've stared at a million times before. If thumb-twiddling ever becomes an Olympic sport, I'm a shoo-in for the gold medal. Let's face it, there is no way that I am go" and then it hit me. "Oh no, I think I have to go."

I explained the situation with the two notes and the threat to his Majesty's dignity. He responded, "I'm sure it's just a hoax."

"Perhaps, but I have to investigate it, anyway.

During the rest of the week, I look for whatever clues I could find. However, there were no fingerprints on either note, and the handwriting didn't match that of anyone I interviewed. When it came time to get ready for the party, I had nothing and was in a foul mood. Nevertheless, I touched up my makeup, put on my finest sparkling pastel blue gown, and accessorized my look with high-heel shoes that matched my gown, my finest pearl necklace, my diamond solitaire white gold earrings, some white gold bracelets, and a glittering silver handbag. Had I been in the sunlight, the reflection would blind oncoming drivers.

My husband, who was dressed in a white tuxedo, waited for me in the foyer. He complimented me on my appearance as I came down the stairs. We went down to the car. He opened the passenger door to let me in, and then went around the car to get in the driver's side. He started the car, and we drove to the party. He could tell that I was in a bad mood, so he wisely said nothing.

The first half of the party was uneventful. We mingled, ate dinner, and retired to the Grand Ballroom to mingle some more. I was drinking a glass of Martinelli's to maintain the illusion that I was partying with the rest of them. In reality, I was trying to eavesdrop on every conversation I could to try to get a lead on who might have written the note, a process that was hampered by the amorous attention of a worse-for-wear Mr. Hughes. I finally had to remind Mr. Hughes of what I did for a living before he left me alone. In any case, I didn't learn a thing.

Then the announcement came stating those who wished to join the pie fight should retire to the game room. I hung back, hoping that somebody, anybody would remain in the Grand Ballroom. No such luck. I knew that I had to face my fate, but I hung back a little bit longer to try to enter unnoticed. Again, no such luck. Mr. Hughes hit me in the face with a surprisingly well aimed chocolate cream pie. After that, the feeding frenzy with me as the victim, Soon, I was as covered in pie as everyone else. As I continued to watch the action (and get hit by the occasional wayward missile), I wondered, why is it that everyone joins the pie fight. Surely, there must be some of them who don't like to throw pies at each other. I might be able to understand everyone joining if this was a one-time affair for charity, but it wasn't for charity, and Lord Howard did this every month. Why did everyone join the pie fight? I looked over to my husband, who was gleefully smooshing a pie into Lord Howard's face, who was just as gleefully accepting it. It was then that I knew. All I could do was put my head down in a mixture of rage and admiration. I knew that the second note was indeed a hoax. I knew that the writer of the notes was a Norwichian who probably didn't remember even writing the notes. I knew that the "Political" Pie Thrower wasn't political. I knew that the Pie Thrower would never be caught, and even if he were, I couldn't testify. And lastly I knew that this whole charade was a brilliantly choreographed practical joke by my husband the HYPNOTIST, I picked a butterscotch cream pie that had somehow gone unobserved and stormed over to my husband. I smooshed the pie into his face and twisted it several times. Lord Howard laughed. When he could, so did my husband. However, only my husband and I knew what my husband's laugh meant. When I was done smooshing the pie, I said, "Let's get this over with. Do we jump into the clay pit like this, or do we take a shower first."

My husband replied, "We take a shower first.


As expected, His Majesty toured Effecton without incident.