Peter, left: “Dr. Greenstreet, my wife and I are quite grateful that you were able to come on such short notice. We called you in because the whole town knows you are a specialist at analyzing odd objects that have not been properly framed by the cinematographer. What is this thing?”

Dr. Greenstreet, right: “Well, I’d have to fondle it more intimately to know for sure, but it appears to be a small statue of a falcon. Of course, if you had the mental capacity to pick up a phone and call me, one would think you could also surmise that this was a stone bird. No matter, I’m here now and I might as well earn my fee. Where did you find such a thing?”

Mary, center: “It found us. Or at least me. I woke up this morning and there it was on the nightstand. At first I thought it might be one of those ancient martial aids that archaeologists are always digging up and then prominently displaying in the more forward-thinking museums.”

Dr. Greenstreet: “Marital aid? Hmm. The bird does seem to have a rather harassed look, as if he’s seen things he wished he hadn’t. Still, how did it end up in your bedroom? Have there been any recent excavations in there?”

Mary: “None at all, if you get my drift, so initially I was quite pleased that Peter had invested in some props that might assist in reviving our passions. So I grabbed the bird and I was trying to figure out where to put the batteries when my husband came in and the situation drastically changed.”

Peter, nodding: “I had been in the bathroom, giving myself this home perm, when I heard Mary stirring and I went to see if she wanted me to pop out for some lox and bagels. Imagine my surprise when I came upon Mary holding this thing in her lap with both hands and muttering ‘I can’t find the hole!’ It gave me pause, I assure you.”

Dr. Greenstreet: “Yes, I can imagine how that might have added a certain tension to the scene, and one never needs extra tension in the atmosphere while waiting for your perm to set just right. It’s a good thing that you called me.”

Mary: “So, doctor, do you think this is one of those mystical things that we will mull about for years but never quite figure out?”

Dr. Greenstreet studied the bird a moment longer, tracing a thin seam on one side of the silent statue. “Actually, I don’t think it will take us very long at all.” Suddenly, he raised the bird over his head and slammed it down on the table, shattering it instantly.

Mary gasped. “Did it try to attack you?”

Peter: “Should we call for backup?”

Dr. Greenstreet stirred the dusty rubble around and then plucked out a small rectangle of glittery paper. “No, but you might want to call a limo and find something pretty to wear.” He held out the little treasure so the other two could read it. “It appears that you just found the last remaining golden ticket to the chocolate factory.”

Mary: “I beg your pardon. That seems a bit personal, although I’m not sure why.”

Dr. Greenstreet: “You were the one who over-shared about not being able to find the hole.”

Peter: “I’m really confused. Perhaps it’s the chemical solvents eating at my scalp.”

Dr. Greenstreet: “I’m trying to say that this is an invitation to experience Willy Wonka in person.”

Mary: “Oh. Well, I find that a rather festive idea, especially since I’m married to Willy Won’ta.”

Peter: “I feel that you are shaming me in some way.”

Mary: “Darling, you did that all by yourself when you bought the home perm. And neglected to tell me about your love of show tunes before we exchanged vows. It seems like something we should have discussed, although this does explain why you spent our wedding night sobbing in the bathroom while I searched for batteries, which is apparently the theme of my life.”

Dr. Greenstreet: “Now I’m the one that’s confused. Do you want this ticket or not?”

Mary: “Oh, we both want the ticket. Because we both want a willy.”

Dr. Greenstreet: “Ah. Well, then. I’ll just leave the ticket here on the table and show myself out. And if you ever need anything else, please don’t call me.”

The door slams, which causes a chunk of the destroyed falcon to fall on the floor.

Mary and Peter study the chunk, reflecting.

Mary: “You know, that gives me an idea. Perhaps what we need is a third partner in our relationship, one that will satisfy us both.”

Peter: “Oh, I like that idea. And he should be a male, right?”

Mary: “Of course, that would make the most sense. But we should call him Paul, not Willy.”

Peter: “Peter, Paul and Mary. I like the sound of that. It has a certain harmony to it.”

Mary: “Done. Let’s go place an ad in the local newspaper.”

Peter: “I’ll be right there. I need to rinse my head first before the chemicals frizz me out and my hair is blowin’ in the wind.”

Previously published in “Crusty Pie” and “Bonnywood Manor”. Revised and extended for this post. And yes, I realize this one only works if you get the references. But it’s Bonnywood, and these things happen…