Tom...Charleston

I tapped Tom on the shoulder while waiting for a spot at the counter at Gaulart & Maliclet (better known as Fast and French) on Broad Street. The conversation went something like this:

LM: I think we're both wearing Prince of Wales Plaid.

Tom: Yes, I do believe we are.

LM: I hate to be so forward, but I know I've seen you somewhere before.

Tom: Really?

LM: Are you by chance a member of the Caledonian in London?

Tom: No, the Athenaeum.

LM: I see. Do happen to vacation in the south of France?

Tom: Occasionally, but my wife and I usually stay with friends in La Perche.

LM: Last question, I promise. You're not by chance an endocrinologist?

Tom: Attorney.

Two seconds later, he was called to the back of the restaurant—most certainly very relieved to have escaped my prying. For the next few days, I racked my brain trying to figure out where I'd seen him. Then, one night, while drinking a bourbon and browsing through an old Ben Silver catalogue, I saw Tom looking dapper in a cashmere and wool windowpane suit. Case solved. Agatha Christie would be proud.