October 2025

“The Dusty Shelf” smelled like a mixture of stale Earl Grey, and the residual sweat of panicked graduate students.

My name is Lindsey and I’m a marriage counselor, hunting down a clue left behind by my murdered client, Tom Martin, whose final, scribbled note in my office read simply: Get the Booby.

I shared the information with the police, who had been polite, but dismissive. They had deemed his death a suicide and acted as if I was overreacting.

But the nagging desire to find out what happened to him gnawed at me. 

I spent hours researching, until I stumbled upon the blue-footed booby. Its vibrant, almost comically blue feet, its distinctive mating dance… it felt significant.

That’s what led me to the used bookstore, and why I now faced the avian literature section.

This was my last hope. I’d scoured online databases and local libraries, but no one had a readily available book on blue-footed boobies. Then I remembered the old book store Tom once mentioned. Perhaps, a dusty, overlooked volume might be hiding here. 

“Excuse me, are you finding what you need, dear?” croaked Mrs. Eldridge, the store’s owner.

“Just trying to understand male mating rituals,” I replied. “They’re less complicated than my typical caseload. At least the Blue-Footed Booby knows what he wants—a female impressed by his flashy footwear. My clients seem to have given up trying to impress their ladies, which is why they come to me.”

Mrs. Eldridge blinked, adjusting her spectacles. “A fascinating comparison.”

I shrugged and returned to scanning the cluttered shelf. Tom's wife, Clara, was convinced he was having an affair.

Clara mentioned Tom had recently become obsessed with the Booby, claiming the bird held the key to his "greatest secret." She thought he meant a mistress.

Then I saw it, a massive field guide: Aviation Oddities: Peculiar Courtship Rituals. My pulse quickened. I pulled it out and flipped it open, scanning the index. Booby, Blue-footed: pg. 77.

The text described their nesting habits, their solitary nature, their reliance on specific mating rituals. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Disappointment crept in. Ready to close the book, I brushed against something tucked between the pages, it was a postcard - with blue boots. 

Flipping the postcard over, I saw a stamped logo for a shoe store across town. Below the logo, Tom had written one short line: Always check the heel.

I looked up at Mrs. Eldridge, who was pretending to dust the 18th-century erotica.

“It seems,” I announced, “that Tom wasn’t worried about finding a new mate at all. He was worried about finding a new sole.”

Mrs. Eldridge smiled. "Shoes. They truly are the foundation of all dysfunctional relationships, aren't they, dear?"

I nodded. I had seen Clara wearing the blue boots from the postcard. A new clue.

As I stepped out from the quietness of the bookstore, the bustling city street felt jarring, but I knew what I needed to do next. The Booby had shown me the way.