Three years had passed since untimely end of my friend Shamrock O'Malley. Even with the passage of time, the void that he left could not be filled.
I had misplaced my favorite bowler, and it occurred to me Shamrock would have implicated elves or mechanical rats powered by steam or some such nonsense. The thought of Shamrock's profound propensity to come up with the most convoluted explanations for the simplest of problems made me smile.
I visited Shamrock's grave that day. Emotions welled up in me and I fell to my knees.
"I say, my dear Walton, what are you doing?"
~~~
More cases from the files of Shamrock O'Malley
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