Hey, I hope it’s okay that I’m writing. How’s it going?

First of all, last Saturday night was amazing. I almost didn’t even go; I thought I looked pretty dumb in that costume, but my housemate Eric convinced me to take a chance.

I think Beth—“Lady Macaroon”—knew exactly what she was doing when she seated us together at dinner. Your stories of growing up in the Russian ballet were so detailed! They seemed almost real. I know my accent was terrible. Eric had loaned me his dialect CDs, but I only made it through one and I probably sounded like a Scottish hillbilly. I could have sat and talked all night, but then they announced Admiral Hastings was found stabbed to death in the wine cellar.

I remember how the lights flickered and you grabbed my hand. I wondered if you could feel my heart pounding but you only said, “Inspector, let us search the grounds before this monster escapes!” Who was I to argue?

It was freezing in the woods behind the house and we huddled under my tweed cloak. I admit that I was in no hurry to find any clues, but you spotted footprints leading out of the cellar towards the rose trellis and pulled me along.

Climbing into the bedroom, we found the trail had gone cold. You looked so lost, staring out the window; I couldn’t help but put my arms around you. You confessed that the murdered Admiral had been your secret father. I swore to see justice done.

Suddenly we were falling onto the bed. It took me forever to remove that stupid cloak. “Remind me what safety feels like, Inspector Griggs,” you whispered into my beard—sorry it kept sliding around, Eric said double-sided tape was a bad idea—“…give me reason to dance again.” It was the happiest moment of my life.

Afterwards, looking under the bureau for your slipper, I spotted it: the Admiral’s lost will, placing blame squarely on kindly Doctor Treadwell. We had solved the murder! (Connor is still pissed; he really thought he got away with it, but then he’s from Yale and has never been able to handle losing.)

I found you in the foyer waiting for a cab. “Damn that train taking you back to Scotland Yard in the morning!” you sighed. I said I actually had the next day off from Wicker Park Pets but you only looked away.

“Godspeed, Inspector!” you called from the cab window. “You have brought peace to my father’s restless soul!” I shouted to see if you were on Facebook but I guess you didn’t hear me.

So I’m wondering, would you want to grab coffee sometime? Beth told me you’re really busy with acting classes. She only gave me your contact information after I promised to clean her house, starting with the bedroom.

I know we talked about touring the Scottish highlands by zeppelin, but I’d also be down for driving to Madison some weekend, if that’s cool. Let me know.

Oh, and my name is Brian.