The Casebook of Justice and Dixon.

The Case of the Just Deserts, Part 1.

The name's Dixon.

Trixie Dixon Girl Detective.

Let Hercules himself do what he may.

Cat will mew and dog will have its day.

I don't know precisely what would make a prince of Denmark say a thing like that,

much less say it in English instead of rough seafaring Danish,

and even less to say it in the sort of iambic twaddle that generally failed to tie my doublet and hose in a knot. But in all fairness,

at least part of the reason that I don't know this is because by the time my studies had

reached Hamlet, I had paid my debt to teen society and had been sprung from reform school,

and was spending valuable class time testing my newfound powers to to fricassee the hormones of the poor, simple males seated nearby,

who also learned nothing in English class. At least, not where princes of Denmark and their pronouncements were concerned.

I digress. That happened sometimes. I like a random Shakespeare reference as much as the next girl,

and whatever Hamlet might have been trying to say,

I am quoting him to imply that everybody seems to get what they deserve,

sooner or later.

That simple belief is what kept me sane as I returned time and again

to the mighty world headquarters of Justice and Dixon, and the

haircut that walks like a man who often dwelt within.

On the other hand, I shuddered to suppose that this questionable destiny may actually be my

great reward, and not a speed bump on the road to it. And as for Jack, I suppose that he must

...