Dear Future Maxine,

Well, ain’t this something? Me, writing a letter to myself, hoping that one day I’ll slap it down in front of Amos and say, “See? Told ya we were a couple of fools.”

Now, picture this: it’s the early 1980s, the world’s got more grit than polish, and the movies are still dark enough to hide all manner of sins. Back then, I was still the sharpest thing in sensible heels, playing right-hand woman to Amos Earl Klaus, Private Investigator—thirteen years my junior and just as stubborn. He was the quiet storm to my full-blown hurricane, and Lord help me, neither one of us ever had the good sense to open an umbrella.

One night, we found ourselves at the Rialto Theatre, its marquee lights flickering like they couldn’t quite make up their minds. Our mark? A slippery embezzler who loved classic film noir almost as much as skipping out on the law. The plan was simple: blend in, keep our eyes peeled, and try not to end up in the morning paper.

We settled into the back row, watching more than just the movie. A few seats ahead, a silver-haired couple was bickering about the plot like their retirement depended on it. I nudged Amos. “This could be us in a few decades.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “If we ever retire.”

I chuckled. “Think we’d solve mysteries in a retirement home?”

Amos smirked. “I’d watch that movie.”

And just like that, we were back on duty. Our guy slithered in, looking around like a man with too many secrets and not enough places to hide ‘em. He was nervous—real nervous. Probably meeting his contact. I whispered as much to Amos, and he just gave me a quick nod before murmur-in’, “Keep your eyes on the prize, Dollface. I’ll circle around.”

(Dollface. Lord help me.)

We split up, working different angles. I caught the handoff—a folded note, slick as you please. Most folks wouldn’t have noticed, but we weren’t most folks.

Now, here’s the kicker—I was sitting there, doing what I do best, but my mind wandered. Because if life was a movie, I’d be wondering if this thing between me and Amos had a neat little ending too. If maybe someday, we’d be the ones sitting in the dark, silver-haired and arguing over plot points, instead of tailing criminals.

The night wrapped up like most of our cases—tense, unpredictable, and with the promise of another chase on the horizon. As we slipped out after our suspect, Amos glanced at me, that half-smile playing on his lips. “Think we’ll ever figure us out?”

I met his gaze, streetlights dancing in his eyes, and said, “Maybe when we’re old and gray, sitting in rocking chairs, we’ll finally solve that mystery.”

He chuckled, and just like that, we disappeared into the night, partners in crime-solving—and maybe, just maybe, something more.

So, Future Maxine, if you’re reading this, tell Amos I told him so. And if we did end up in rocking chairs, I hope they don’t squeak—Lord knows we’ve had enough mystery for one lifetime.

Yours in mischief,
Maxine Gerimatter

P.S. If you ain’t told him yet, go do it. Life’s too short to wait on a sequel.