Heinz Noonan, the “Bearded Holmes” of the Sandersonville Police Department, was not having a great day. It was not as bad a day as it could be but, when he got right down to it, it was a miserable day. His wife was out of town and before she left, as was her wont, she left a list of tasks for him to perform. Some of those tasks were simple as ‘clean the toilets.’ Others were obscure as ‘make sure the birds have mealworm bricks’ or ‘our supply of suet is low.’ Nothing was said of feeding the tetras or sprinkling unsalted peanuts on the back lawn for the magpies and pigeons. But Noonan knew his wife would ask if he had performed that function when she got home.

            All was going well until he got the lint call.

            “Sorry?”

            “This is the ‘Bearded Holmes,’ right?”

            “That’s correct. How’d you get my home phone?”

            “My lips are sealed.” The voice was that of a young woman, maybe in her 20s. Soft and nervous.

            “Lint?” Noonan asked. “Lint as in what is left in a dryer?”

            “That’s correct. See I collect lint.”

            “Collect lint?”

            “That’s right. But it’s not what you think. I mean, I am sure you’d want to know why anyone collects lint.”

            “Got me there. Why do you collect lint?”

            “I’ll tell you but I don’t think you’ll believe me.”

            “Try me.”

            There was a pause on the other end of the line – and it was the hard line in Noonan’s home, not the electronic Beelzebub connecting him to the two people to whom he could not say ‘no:’ his wife and the Sandersonville Commissioner of Homeland Security.

            “I’m an avant-garde artist. I make pieces of art unlike any on the market. It’s not a good living but a good part-time job.”

            “OK. Again, the lint.”

            “My specialty are small clay figurines, sometimes in setting of multiple people or animals. Very small. Clay is a marvelous medium, so to speak, but it has problems. It is difficult to manipulate when it comes to small items. Bowls, plates, plaques and the like, not a problem. But with very small figurines, it is unusable.”

            “But you said you made small figurines.”

            “Yes. What I do is mix lint with the clay, add some glue and dish soap and the substance is usable. I have to work quickly but the lint makes the clay malleable, if you know what the term means.”

            “I do. But you haven’t told me about the lint.”

            There as a pause for a moment, then she said, “Someone stole about six month’s supply from my workshop.”

* * *

            “Lint,” Noonan said as he shook his head, “is not one of those items I see regularly on a police report. By the way, I need your name.”

            “Geraldine Sanchez. I live in Nags Head but my workshop is outside the city. In the boonies.” Then she him her phone number. “Yes, I know. Lint is something that does not have a value. Rather, it has a negative value. People don’t collect it; they dump it.”

            “Well, if people don’t collect it, where do you get yours?”

            “Local laundromats. Owners love me. I go around every week or so and clean their lint screens.”

            “So how much lint are we talking about?”

            “About the size of a queen-size box spring. Weight does not matter because, you know, it’s lint.”

            “How did someone steal it? I mean, did they break into your workshop and leave with the lint?”

            “The lint was in the workshop garage in large cardboard boxes. The workshop has a garage door with a code and a back door with an old, conventional lock. There’s nothing of value to steal in the garage. There are pottery wheels, of course, but nothing you could sell in a pawnshop.”

            Noonan looked around for a pen and paper. He had to settle for a broken pencil and the back of the list of items he was supposed to buy before his wife came home. He wrote down the name ‘Geraldine Sanchez’ and then her phone number.

            “Do you have a sheet of paper and a pen?”

            “Give me a sec.” Noonan heard her put the phone done. A handful of seconds later she was back on line – wire line, not electronic whatever. “OK, I’ve got a pen and paper.”

            “I’m going to give you some questions. I’ll call you back in a few days and get the answers.”

            “All right. What are the questions.”

            “Here goes, who knows you had the lint, do you know anyone else who uses lint for any purpose, how often to do you sell your clay menageries, who buys them, have you had any construction done on your workshop lately, who comes to your workshop, was anything other than the lint missing, when was the lint actually stolen?” He paused and then said, “That’s all I can think of right now.”

* * *

            Noonan read the local papers regularly so there was no need to plumb the journalism for regional stories on lint. Wikipedia did not help. It simply told him what he already knew – or could have guessed. Lint was simply the accumulation of small fibers from textiles. It had been around since, well, clothing made of textiles. Losing lint from an article of clothing was normal and, over a long period of time, the buildup of lint caused clothing to become thin.

            There were, surprisingly, a lot of uses for lint, none of which gave him a clue as to why someone would steal lint rather than collect it themselves. Lint could jammed into empty toilet paper rolls and used a fire starter, as garden compost, bedding for pets, stuffing for toys, for soaking up spills like oil on a garage floor, and for papier-mâché. All in all, Noonan did not see a dime’s worth of a reason to steal lint.

            The Nags Head police had never heard of Geraldine Sanchez so he tried the North Carolina State Troopers. One officer knew Sanchez but it was not because of any crime or an investigation.

            “I know her, Captain.”

            “Heinz. Until there’s a crime I’m just Heinz.”

            “Fine. Heinz. I know Geraldine. She’s an artist. Clay person. My wife occasionally uses her kiln. You know what a kiln is?”

            “Place where you fire clay to make it hard.”

            “Yup. Geraldine makes little people and animals. Puts them in settings and sells them at malls, fairs and the like. Not much money but she has a husband who works. Must be nice.”

            “Really? What’s her husband do?”

            “Entertainment manager. Concerts and the like. Tickets, reservations, bus tours. Behind the scene, not the concerts themselves. Boring stuff. Nice guy. Very supportive. Helps her set up and take down her displays.”

            “Has she ever filed a theft report?”

            “Nope.”

            Noonan thought for a moment. “Any usual crimes up there?”

            “Heinz! It’s tourist season! Everything is unusual because everyone is unusual. Here for six weeks and gone!”

            “No strange thefts?”

            “None that are out of the ordinary.”

            “Any high-priced exhibits coming into the area?”

            “If you mean through the area, yes, lots of them. But only through the county. On their way to Nags Head or out of Nags Head to somewhere else. We, the troopers, are not responsible for what happens in Nags Head.”

            “Fair enough. Anything unusual happening in the county?”

            “A lot of renovations because of the flooding last year.”

            A dull gong sounded in a deep convolution of Noonan’s brain.

* * *

            When Geraldine Sanchez called back, Noonan had a few more questions.

            “Just a few more items, Geraldine. Concerning the items you sell, do you sell most of your artwork at the malls and fairs or out of your shop?”

            “Well, that’s actually two questions. I sell quite a few items at the malls and fairs but they are small.” She chuckled. “That is, small as in only a few figurines. Usually onesies and twosies. Big money for me is corporate. A company might want a scene for a front window. Maybe six or seven small figures around some desks and a logo in the background. I have to make those pieces of artwork in sections. That’s where I make my big money.”

            “What kind of customers buy those pieces?”

            “Mostly companies that cannot advertise in the usual way. You know, like insurance companies and investment houses. My husband knows some of those people and he is my best salesman.”

            “Your only salesman?”

            She laughed. “Got me there. Yes, my only salesman. Insurance companies have been good because the smaller ones do not have advertising money. So they buy a piece of artwork and then generate news stories and the like.”

            “How long will it take you to collect enough lint to return to what you had stolen?”

            “I don’t work like that. I collect the lint weekly and it builds up. When I have a big job, I use a lot of it. Other times, not so much. The lint that was stolen was about a six-week buildup. If I do not do any work it will take me six weeks to get that much lint again. The reason there was so much lint was because I had been at a fair in South Carolina and not in my workshop. Then I took a two week vacation. Otherwise there would not have been that much lint in storage.”

            “Was anything else taken from your workshop while you were gone?”

            “Not that can pinpoint.”

            “I see. Now, the answers to my questions.”

            “I don’t know what help it will provide, but here goes. A lot of people know I collect lint because I tell them. When I talk about my artwork, I tell them how I use lint. I know of some people who use lint but only a few. Lint burns quickly so it is not a good idea to stuff it in a toy for a pet. When it is in paper it’s more stable, I guess is the term I’d use. I’ve told you how I sell my artwork and to whom. Let’s see, I have lots of people coming to my workshop, some to see what I have done and others to outline what they want. Other people who come to my workshop include repair people, other artists who use my kiln, some art classes from the local school and local artists. The lint disappeared all at once, the reason I knew it was gone, a week and a half ago. I guess that answers all of your questions.”

            Which gave Noonan zip.

            “You said the lint is burnable. Do you keep the lint close to your kiln?”

            “No way! It is incredibly flammable. It burns quickly, explosively. Completely too. I mean, after all it’s just fibers. They burn to a crisp and what’s left blows away.”

            “One last question. Over the last few months, did you make any large pieces of artwork for an insurance company?”

            “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

            And the distant chime in Noonan’s brain went to a resounding gong!

* * *

Noonan was hiding out in his office when Harriet, the office manager and common sense guru came it his office with a sheet of paper and a figurine. She put the figurine on his blotter and then sat in the empty chair next to his desk.

“You don’t have to hide out anymore,” she said snidely. “His majesty has gone home. Said he tested positive for COVID.”

Noonan visibly relaxed. “A fine excuse but it means he won’t be back for ten days!”

“You got it,” snapped Harriet. “That’s this Thursday and Friday and then all next week.” She let her gaze drift upward but not to heaven, to the ceiling tiles where, two floors up, the Sanderson Commissioner for Homeland Security had his throne room. “One of these days I want to have a job where I can take a ten-day break from work and still be paid!”

“We all have our wishes,” Noonan said as he tapped the figurine. “Let me guess, Geraldine Sanchez.”

“Yes and no.”

“I hate answers like that. What’s the ‘yes’ part?”

“Geraldine Sanchez. She made the figurine.”

“OK, and the ‘no’ part?”

“Harrison, Harrison and Harrison Insurance Brokers, Inc. of Nags Head.”

“Harrison, Harrison and Harrison? Let me guess, a family-owned business, grandfather, father and son.”

“Actually, no. Three wives of three brothers.”

“Could make some kind of a sitcom.” Noonan pointed at the letter. “The letter’s from the Harrison, Harrison and Harrison people?”

“Nope.” She showed him the letterhead. It was from Harrison HVAC Mechanical of Nags Head.”

“Let me guess. Same Harrison family.”

“Probably. You know what HVAC is?”

“Heating, Ventilation and Air Conditioning. What’s the letter say.”

Harriet fanned the letter. “The usual. Thanks for the lead. We contacted the State Troopers and solved the problem. Here’s a gift of thanks.” Harriet set the letter aside. “Now, tell momma, all about it.”

“Nothing to tell, just a lucky guess.”

“Impress me.”

“Geraldine Sanchez uses lint to make the clay for her figurines malleable,” Noonan said as he pointed to the figurine. “She came back from vacation and someone had stolen all her lint.”

“Lint, like in what I dig out of my dryer?”

“Got it. Lint, fuzzy stuff.”

“She uses lint in clay figurines?”

“Yup. A lot was stolen so she called me. I did some research and discovered it burned fast and clean. No residue.”

“So?”

“I guessed the lint was going to be used in small fires. It would burn quickly and leave no trace. Arson was not a possibility because fire usually leaves clues. So the fires had to be small. Very small. Burn quickly and leave no clues.”

“Where would a fire like that occur?”

“My guess,” he pointed to the letter, “was in a ventilation shaft. It could be shoved in with a stick or broom handle and then lit. The lint would explode and then burn out. When the blower was turned on, the smoke would blast out into the building.”

“And the air would scatter whatever was left of the burned lint, right? Then everyone would think the building was on fire?”

“Probably not. But it would cause alarm. The building manager would then call an HVAC company to do an investigation.”

Harriet shook the letter. “But if the lint evidence was gone, what would the HVAC people find?”

“Zip. Even if they sent cameras down the ventilation shafts. Zip. So the question was, ‘Why would anyone want to put a flammable into the shafts in the first place?’”

“Good question, why?”

“That’s exactly what I asked.”

“And the answer is?”

“My guess, there was some hanky-panky with one of the companies in the building where the lint was being burned. Insurance people were certainly called because everyone expected a fire. They would want to make sure they were covered. So insurance agents would do their due diligence.”

“And find nothing. So?”

“Correct, there was nothing to find. But the scent of fire gave the insurance adjusters and claims examiners the excuse to do extensive investigation. My guess, some paperwork would disappear out of files or new paperwork inserted. Put the right paperwork in an investment file and you could make some big bucks. The smell of burning lint was just strong enough to worry people so they called in their insurance company.”

“How’d anyone know about the lint in the first place?”

“My guess, her husband. I’m sure he tells everyone about his wife’s work.  Someone heard the word ‘lint’ and figured he – or she – could get a large supply without raising any suspicions. Whoever it was knew Geraldine was away for two weeks. Her garage is not burglar proof because, well, who would steal lint?”

“Apparently you were right,” Harriet said as she pointed at the figurine. Then she picked up the figurine. “This will fit perfectly on my mantle. You, alas, a servant of the people, cannot accept gratuities so I,” she shook the figurine, “am saving you from an investigation.”

Noonan smiled. “Possibly. By the way, do you know what it means when you find lint in your dryer?”

“Oh, no! A joke.”

“No meat for 40 days.”