Angela Tewksbury's Triskaidekaphobia?

Kneesa Thighson was happy. She had a job she loved with a man she respected, she got along well with her roommate from back home and, most important of all, she had not gained a single pound since moving to Pittsburgh from Indiana. Her five foot ten inch frame was assembled in perfect proportions and her blazing red hair, which fell to her shoulders, enhanced the blue of her eyes. In a word, at twenty nine years of age, she was gorgeous.

Magro Heff was happy. His reputation as a cunning and perceptive private investigator had spread far beyond the tri-state area. His five feet nine inches of height was not intimidated by Kneesa’s extra inch and even though in his mid forties, his waist was a mere thirty two inches, and his hair, with its wisps of gray, was still plentiful and luxuriant. On the recommendation of Detective Captain Charles Crawford, he had been invited on several occasions by the police departments of other cities to help solve some difficult cases. He did not always come up with the answer, but he did often enough to establish an impressive track record.

Thus it was, on that cold December morning, when the phone rang, neither Kneesa nor Magro knew what to expect. But they could not have imagined what was about to transpire.

“Magro Heff, private investigator,” Kneesa said into the receiver.

“Good morning,” the female voice on the incoming line said. “My name is Angela Tewksbury, and I believe I could use Mr. Heff’s help.”

“In what way?” Kneesa inquired.

“Is he there?” The voice answered the question with a question.

“Yes, he is,” Kneesa said.

“May I speak with him?” the voice insisted.

“Of course,” Kneesa admitted defeat. “Just a moment.”

She pushed the button on her end of the intercom. “There’s an Angela Tewksbury on the line. Says she wants to talk with you about helping her.”

Magro pushed the button on his end of the intercom. “Did she say why?”

“No,” Kneesa said, “I couldn’t get it out of her. She just asked if she could talk with you.”

“OK,” Magro said, “put her on, but you listen in so we can compare notes later.”

“Gotcha,” Kneesa said into the intercom, then into the phone, “Mr. Heff will talk with you now.”

“Thank you,” the voice said.

Magro picked up the phone. “Magro Heff.”

“Mr. Heff,” the voice began, “my name is Angela Tewskbury. I’m a mystery writer. I’ve had twelve of my books published, several of which were best sellers I might add, and I am about to embark on number thirteen. But I’m afraid I just can’t seem to get started. No ideas are flowing into my brain, and I’m stymied. I guess you could call it writer’s block.”

“How does that involve me?” Magro asked.