Detective Lovely & The Case Of The Silver Lining Crimes, Chapter 5

    Iggy braked with a sweet screech - 'sweeech!' -  outside the eponymously-coloured door to Pinky Pawridge's cave mouth. Det. Lovely reached over to the Igster's backseat and grabbed the emphatically still edible Slurpysloopcious Bananayummy Sundae. With brisk poise, Dec.Lovely carried Kizmet’s confectionary masterpiece to the entrance, alive to an ominous drip of icecreamage seepage thru the brellowing swaddle of bannanskins. She stood in her sensible policewoman shoes on the ’Home Is Where The Honey Is’ doormat and rapped on the familiar pink door. She heard a muffled banging like trainers in a tumble drier, the sound of Pinky's bearhemoth furry feet stomping to the door, and then a second later the creaky pink door was opened with sheepish sluggishness. 
    ‘Oh, Duh-duh-detective Lovely, I’m puh-puh-pleased to see you, thuh-there’s been a duh-duh-develuh…Something's happened!’ the bear with balbuties greeted  Detective Lovely as she good-naturedly braced herself for another patience-trying exchange. 
    ‘Well, I’ve had a development myself, Pinky - a nom nom development!’ announced Det.Lovely and thrust Kizmet's artwork of an afters into Pinky's paws. Det.Lovely felt a tinge of disappointment as she saw him roll his eyes heavenwards then hellwards, rather than stalk out with ocular salivation. 
    'I'm suh-suh-sorry, Detective Luh-luh-lovely, but I'm fuh-fit to buh-burst!'
     He let our lovely lady cop heroine in thru to the lounge, where Pinky disclosed to her not only the answer to why his bearbelly was now so bulbous, but also the solution to the mystery of the missing bumblebeegee honey.
    'Wuh-wuh-well it seems my cousin, Boris Horace Morris, wuh-wuh-woke up and after polishing off his own stuh-stuh-stash of bumblebeegee honey, that inconsiderate guh-guh-guzzly grizzly decided to bur-bur... '
    'Burgle?' interrupted Det.Lovely, her heart guiltily lifting and pulse ambivalently quickening at the suspicion of naughtiness. 
    'No, buh-borrow mine! But buh-Boris cuh-came round after you left with 17 whole honeycombs of the purest buh-buh-berbil-bumblebeegee honey to replace the juh-juh-jars he snaffled, the cheeky suh-suh-suh-beefburger!' Pinky Pawridge then looked sheepishly at the floor of his cave, plushly carpeted by his own constant neurotic moultings and added, 'I'm ah-ah-fraid I've been bit of a pig.'
    Det.Lovely warned Pinky not to be speciesist according to the correct politically correct police protocol, which gelled well with her own personal credo that all King Lindsians were equally lovely  (well, except dem diddicoy hobgobs!). But she harboured that unlovely feeling called hypocrisy too, as she had agreed with your Nimple Sarrator that Pinky looked 'sheepish' - twice in fact if you count the 'sheepish sluggishness' of his doddery door-opening! I'll go easy on Pinky this time she decided, her integrity sparkling with diamond discretion.
    ' Old Piggy Porkbridge off King Lindsey III Road doesn't gobble 17 Bumblebeegee honeycombs in one sitting, does he, Pinky? Pigs might seem greedy to you because they eat turnips and termites, trotternails and trough mould five times a day, but they don't hibearnate and then have a hungerzilla of a honeycomb spring binge so there's no room for Slurpysloopcious Bananayummy Sundae, do they, he he?'
    But even with this minor reprimand, Pinky's fur started to fly like a stirred snowglobe if it had been a dome of flamingo alopecia floating in antifreeze, so striving to spare Pinky undue duress, Det.Lovely brought him back to the break in the case which was no case of a break-in after all.
    'So, Pinky,' said Det. Lovely in a thoughtfully thorough fashion, 'How did Cousin Boris enter your cave? I'm positive you'd be a sensible-head and lock your pink front door securely before you bunk down for your 40 winter winks...' 
    ' Wuh-wuh-well, we bears alwuh-wuh-ways have a secret tuh-tunnel into our caves, but uh-uh-ursine kin, including bear cousins like Boris Horace Morris, are uh-uh-allowed to know each other's secret passages - they're just kept confuh-confuh-confuhden...kept hush from those that aren't furmily.'
    'Fair enough, so where's Boris Horace Morris the bear now, Pinky?'
    'Huh-he's on the toilet, muh-muh-marm. With a bit of grr-grr-grumbleguts, y'know: bumblebeegyp.'
    'Erm, well he's in the right room if his honey tummy's runny, eh, he he? Oh, before I forget: Mr.Smicks is designing you a revolutionary new bearclock where the hands don't drop off at 6 months. You might even get up in time to taste your honey hibernoshup before Cousin Boris Horace Morris demolishes the lot!' teased Det.Lovely. She was partially distracted, pondering the bizarreness of a bear's boghouse, which is a hermetic patch of woodland in a boxroom in the modern bearcave. She had had to have a tinkle in bearloo once herself, whilst caught on the hop undercover when wearing a bearsuit under the alias, 'Buster McFuzz'. 
    Det. Lovely's mind wandered back down the frozen food aisle of memory: she had been investigating a conspiracy of naughty bears who had behaved like the most uncouth of sleuths to some bearded mermaids ('sleuth' as in the ursine collective noun, rather than in the sense of detectives like Det.Lovely or Father Dowling a.k.a. 'Sherlock Hymns'). These innocent, Amish-chinned femmes fishtailed had swam up the River Uzi to King Lindsey, on a natatorial girls' day out from their home in Newfoundyarmouth, a chillaxed Atlantis of paradisean bays and coastal waters twinkling like glitter freckles upon a Smurf rockstar, where Queen Kipperella's benign monocular watch promoted permanent Piscean peace. But the poor dears had met with said sleuth of peckish kodiaks, kamchatkas and kermodes who had been most ungentlebenly to the bearded mermaids' fishy bottoms:  'Buster McFuzz' had to bust all those naughty bears on a rap of Bum-biting in the First Degree! Bears will be bears, but the law of the land is loveliness - Det.Lovely saluted this dictum in her mind for she was the law (in King Lindsey, not Mega-City 1). However, she still wondered how bear bathroom suite fitters squeezed a patch of forest sky indoors and into the caveycomb of a bear bathroom. She supposed it might just after all be a room without a roof, but she wouldn't be happy about it if she had to relieve herself in the rain even tho' she was indoors! 
    Upon hearing an unholy parp issue from behind the door to Pinky's condensed weewee and whoopsie woods, Det. Lovely's retrospection was shattered (with particular emphasis on that first syllable!). She decided her work at the cave was done. 
    'Adios, Pinky, I'm relieved that there's no thief here as well - no paperwork pen-ache for me, maybe an ice cream headache from these Slurpysloopcious Bananayummy fumes, he he!' Verily her faith in loveliness had been rewarded by there being zilcho naughtiness afoot, but her upstanding soul could only muster an anticlimactic halfsmile at this - why?
    'Ba-ba-ba-ba-babybel-byebye, Duh-duh-tective, yuh-you're one of the only humans I feel at ease whuh-with. Whuh-whuh-why, I've hardly stuh-stuh-stuttered at all!'
    'Mhmm, I've noticed, Pinky, really!' Det.Lovely humoured the stammering pink bear with even pinker bald patches. 'Look after poor Singcheetara! Mind how you go, Boris Horace Morris! Toodle-ooo' her dulcet departing as she passed the door to the little bear's room, but her chirpy cheerio's counterpoint was only another beary bum bomb rudely raspbearing. And the whiff of it was deffo a lot less sweet than honey - she was glad to be off! Det.Lovely didn't know who were more dissolute: goblins, gorillas or bears...
    5 minutes later (human ones, tho' I am confused myself being a Nimpleton), the loveliest detective in the 5% of the universe that isn't dark energy or dark matter was ensconced in the aluminium isolation of Iggy's interior, whizzing back to the precinct to file her reports. Iggy's tooter made a much more pleasant honk than the abominable trumping of Bear Cousin Boris Horace Morris, that flatulent furry honeyoholic who was not seen but most definitely heard. And what she heard of him also had a most unpleasant honk, he he!
    But the niggle she had discussed with Iggy earlier still niggled. She'd been called to three crimes where there hadn't been a crime whatsoever: no clockhand pocketer, no golden pants pilferer, no honey ransacker - well no honeyjacker against whom Pinky was willing to press charges. It was an article of faith to her that crimes were unlovely by definition and so it would of course be preferable if they weren't commited at all, but catching naughties meant she was at least solving crimes like a police officer was supposed to, not picking up after King Lindsey's sillybillies. As a quaint day calmly died and the sun threatened to set , Det.Lovely was a mite melancholic, her gaze immersed in the apricholia of the late orange afternoon outside. Iggy didn't hoot, wail or even rev, respectfully sensing this would puncture his comely cop-panion's introspection. A good partner knows when to button it (as your Nimple Sarrator said to Mrs. Nimple Sarrator just the other day)!