write a whodidit about a washing machine and the disappearance of socks

The Case of the Missing Lefts

By the time the seventh sock disappeared, everyone in the laundry room had a theory.

“The dryer eats them,” said the ironing board.

“The washing machine dissolves them,” said the dryer.

“Perhaps,” said the laundry basket, “they simply want more out of life.”

I said nothing. I was the washing machine, and I preferred evidence.

Also, my mouth was full of towels.

Mrs. Bell discovered the latest disappearance on a Tuesday.

“Another one?” she said, holding up a solitary sock with tiny yellow ducks on it. “Where do they go?”

She looked directly at me.

Four years of faithful service. Countless grass stains. That regrettable incident with the lasagna. And this was the trust I got.

After she left, I called a meeting.

The dryer sighed. “Some of us have work in the morning.”

“You have forty minutes of tumbling and then you sing.”

“It’s a demanding song.”

I ignored him.

“Seven socks have vanished in three weeks,” I said. “All entered this room. None left in a pair. We have a thief.”

“Or a murderer,” whispered the laundry basket.

The room grew quiet.

From behind the utility sink came a tiny metallic click.

I began with the usual suspect.

“Open your lint trap,” I told the dryer.

“Buy me dinner first.”

“Open it.”

Inside were gray fluff, a receipt, and enough golden retriever to assemble a smaller golden retriever. No socks.

“Your exhaust hose?”

“Clean.”

“Your drum seal?”

“Detective, please.”

He checked. Nothing.

I turned to the laundry basket. Wicker. Two handles. A record of concealing underwear beneath larger garments.

“Where were you Tuesday afternoon?”

“Here.”

“Witnesses?”

“Everyone. I’m a basket.”

Fair point.

The ironing board claimed she had been folded against the wall all week. There was dust on her feet. Her story held up better than she did.

Finally, I examined myself.

It wasn’t pleasant.

I searched my drum, checked my filter, and probed the dark folds of my rubber door seal. I found two coins, a hair clip, and a raisin that had survived things no grape should endure.

No socks.

But there was a thread.

Blue wool.

Caught on the outside of my door.

“Tell me about the missing socks,” I said.

The basket rustled thoughtfully.

“One blue wool. Two black office socks. One red sports sock. Two striped. One duck.”

“Sizes?”

“Mixed.”

“Clean or dirty?”

“Clean. Mrs. Bell always notices while folding.”

That changed everything.

I’d been looking for someone who could take socks during a cycle.

The thief was taking them afterward.

I surveyed the room again.

The folding table stood beside the utility sink. Under it sat a bottle of bleach, a stiff brush, and a faded clothespin bag.

A bag I hadn’t seen used in months.

A bag that looked rather full.

Then I heard it again.

Click.

That night, I laid a trap.

The basket supplied a small cashmere sock. The dryer warmed it just enough to make it inviting.

“Careful,” he said as the basket tipped it onto the edge of the folding table. “That’s hand-wash only.”

We waited.

At midnight, something stirred behind the sink.

A nose appeared.

Then whiskers.

Then a small brown mouse, dragging a clothespin.

She climbed the table leg, seized the cashmere sock, and began hauling it away.

“STOP RIGHT THERE,” I boomed.

Unfortunately, I also locked my door and started a rinse.

Everyone jumped.

The mouse dropped the sock.

“Inside the bag,” I said, once I had drained. “Show us.”

She hesitated.

Then she lifted the flap.

Seven missing socks lay tucked together in a soft, colorful nest.

Inside them slept five pink baby mice.

“Oh,” said the basket.

The dryer made a noise like a belt slipping.

“I needed bedding,” said the mouse. “The floor gets cold.”

“And the clothespins?”

“To pull them up the table leg.”

I considered the evidence.

Premeditation. Repeated offenses. Extremely small children.

“You can’t keep stealing socks,” I said.

“What about the singles?” asked the basket. “The old ones. There are plenty at the bottom of me.”

The mouse looked hopeful.

“Those can be donated,” I decided. “But the seven stolen socks must go back.”

“After the babies wake up,” said the dryer firmly.

Mrs. Bell found every missing sock on the folding table the next morning.

She counted them twice.

Then she looked at me.

“Knew they’d turn up,” she said.

No apology. Typical.

Still, the disappearances stopped. The mouse family slept warmly, the dryer’s name was cleared, and peace returned to the laundry room.

For six days.

Then Mrs. Bell came downstairs holding a fitted sheet.

“Has anyone seen the matching pillowcase?”

Under the sink, someone sneezed.

I sighed and opened a new cycle.