The rain rapped steadily on the roof and ran down the windows. Gosalyn watched it pound the street and race down the storm drain. She was so bored. It had been raining for eight days straight. Gosalyn hated being stuck inside, she felt she was going to go nuts. There were only so many times one could play and beat Whiffle Boy.
"THUMP!"
Gosalyn sat bolt upright on the couch.
"What was that?"
She said aloud, looking up toward the stairs, the noise had come from somewhere above. Another thump sounded, this time not as loud as the first. Gosalyn rolled off the couch, muttering, "What's Dad up to now?"
Quickly she made her way up stairs. Upon reaching the top landing, she saw that the door to the attic was open and a light was on.
Her father was kneeling on the dusty floor in front of a large wooden trunk, going through its contents. The rain was twice as loud up here.
"Wat'cha ya up to, Dad?"
Drake Mallard gave a start, hitting his head against the trunk's lid.
"Ouch!" He rubbed his head as he stood up. "Oh, hey sweetie. You gotta stop sneaking up on me like that."
She walked over to the trunk and peered inside. It was full of photos, letters, and old newspapers.
"Wat'cha ya doing?" She repeated.
"Oh, just trying to straighten up the attic."
Gosalyn glanced around at the stacks of books, boxes, and various other clutter.
"Yeah, I can see that, looks spotless."
Drake rolled his eyes, "you're one to talk. Have you taken a good look at your room lately?"
Gosalyn smirked, "Well, do you want any help?"
"You? Help clean? You must not be feeling well."
He put his hand on her forehead, "well, you don't feel feverish to me."
She swatted him away, "Daaadd! Knock it off. Helping you up here sure beats sitting on the couch doing nothing. I'll go get a garbage bag, you can throw all this junk away." She pointed to the overflowing trunk.
"Old Junk!" Exclaimed Drake, "that trunk belonged to my father."
"Really?" Gosalyn asked, her interest sparked. "What are all these old newspapers? Was he a reporter or something?" She reached in, pulling one of them out.
Drake shook his head. "No, he was a homicide detective. He would save the papers if any of his cases ever made it to the front page."
Drake turned, rummaged in a nearby pile, and pulled out an old black and white photo.
"Here he is, that's my Dad."
Gosalyn took the photo, looking back at her was a handsome, tall duck, with a strong, well defined beak.
"Hey," she smiled, "that hat he's wearing looks familiar."
A broad smile spread across Drake's face, "Yeah, he past his old fedora on down to me."
Gosalyn then shifted her gaze to the newspaper she held. The headline jumped right out at her.
The St. Canard Ripper's Reign of Terror Finally Over
"The Ripper?" Gosalyn looked questioningly at her father, who took the paper from her, scanning it slowly.
"Those were some very dark times here in St Canard. We had a serial killer stalking the city."
"And your father cracked the case?! Keen Gear! That's so cool! How'd he do it!?"
"Well," Drake replied slowly, sitting back down.
"I was only eleven at the time, but I remember it clear as bell, even to this day. The city was in the grip of a pretty ferocious heat wave. It was mid-July when the killings began."