“Mary-Kate, where did I leave my black Manolos?”
“Ash, I’m not your maid. And what I mean by that is ask the maid.”
Ashley huffed. The door was on the other side of the room and the ten paces it took to get there were too much for her to put up with. She took a drag from her cigarette, then exhaled a scream, “Loretta, where are my black Manolos?!”
After a minute or two, a girl, dressed in an old maid uniform (not the sex dungeon variety) appeared in the doorway with a pair of black high heels. She dropped them on the ground with a huff, “First, I’m not your maid. Second, my name is Elizabeth. I’m your sister.”
“OK, Loretta,” grumbled Mary-Kate, “That’ll be all. You can go home now.”
“My name’s not–” and Mary-Kate closed the door. “I don’t understand when the help decided that it was fine to start talking. When did she even learn English?”
“I don’t know,” Ashley muttered as she slid the pumps onto the soles of her feet, “All I know is that I’m ready to get downtown. This week has been cray and I’m ready to dance.”
“You talk like you’re in an 80s movie sometimes, Ashley.”
“At least I don’t do coke like I’m in one.”
“OK, you know what, I’m done with your bullshit. And don’t even pull that two minutes older crap on me.”
“You wanna go? I can go all night.”
Suddenly, in a distant corner of their Manhattan loft, two phones rang. The girls stopped, their eyes locking on each others’. There were only two phones in the loft, and they were both in the attic. An attic that the girls thought–were certain–had been closed off for the rest of their lives.
“THE PHONE IS RINGING! SOMEBODY GODDAMN GET IT!” Yelled Loretta/Elizabeth. Mary-Kate and Ashley blinked and both headed for the door.
The stairs to the attic creaked as the twins ascended. Mary-Kate reached the door first and opened it with less effort than she thought a door that old and heavy would require. Maybe her juice cleanse WAS making her body stronger. She smiled to herself as Ashley joined her in the room. At the same time, their eyes fell upon the old wooden table, covered in cobwebs, and adorned with two rotary telephones.
“Why did we have rotary phones? Those were old even when we were kids,” wondered Ashley aloud.
“What happened to Clue?” Mary-Kate asked, pointing to the mummified remains of their dog lying in a chair next to the telephones.
“We don’t have time for these mysteries, Mary-Kate, the phones are still ringing.”
They both felt a deep, primal urge calling from the depths of their nature to start singing, but there wasn’t enough time. It had already taken them half an hour just to make it up the stairs, and yet, the phones were still ringing. The pair approached the table and, with a nod to each other, picked up the receivers.
“Olsen and Olsen Mystery Agency.”
“We’ll solve any crime…”
“Right, yeah, I don’t exactly have a lot of time here, girls,” Blurted a phlegm-filled voice from the other end of the line. A voice that sounded like it had not only seen better days, but better cigars. “This is Artie T. Vulture. You girls the same girls who solved a mystery at Thorn Mansion in Transylvania almost ten years ago?”
Ashley looked to Mary-Kate, “Yes, we are that Olsen and Olsen Mystery Agency. What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Vulture?”
“Natasha Thorn, the granddaughter of Mr. Thorn, who was the supposed ‘ghost’ of the original case,” Mr. Vulture stopped for a moment to cough, “has been murdered. And, since you have such a fine relationship with the Thorn family, they have requested that you come to sort this whole mess out. I mean, it’s a mess. Blood everywhere. She even had bees in her throat. It was a sick sick cluster–”
“Alright, Mr. Vulture,” interrupted Mary-Kate. “Say no more, we’re on our way.”
The girls hung-up their phones and exhaled sighs. At the same time, they were both thinking the same thing: what the hell were they doing taking cases this late in the game? They’d retired, hung up their hats, killed their dog through neglect. This was a young girls’ game, and here they were getting back into it. But, they’d made a commitment, and dinnertime was fast approaching.
“You ready?” Ashley walked over to the wall, picked up her trench coat (which, luckily, still fit from when she was in elementary school) and turned to Mary-Kate who was already dressed in hers (which, frankly, seemed a bit big on her now).
“I woke up this afternoon ready.”
And with that, the girls took their private elevator down to the garage and walked to their bikes. Using their Blackberries, they had mapped out the shortest destination to Transylvania, and, like that old dead guy once sang, ‘Get on your bikes and ride!’
TO BE CONTINUED. . .