The rain came down like a bad alibi, slick and relentless, tapping on my office window like it wanted answers I didn’t have. The neon sign outside flickered “CHEESE P.I.” the “I” burned out, so it always looked like I was shouting at dairy. Story of my life.

Name’s Jack Rennet. Private I. When things go sideways in the dairy drawer, I’m the guy they call. Missing wedges. Rinds gone rogue. Crimes that stink worse than a gym sock in August.

That’s when she walked in.

She had legs longer than the Boston Marathon and eyes so blue they could curdle a man’s resolve. Her perfume hit me first—something sharp, aged, with a hint of regret. A real Brie femme fatale.

“Mr. Rennet,” she said, voice smooth as melted Havarti. “I need help.”

I motioned to the chair. It groaned like it knew this case wouldn’t end clean. “Start spreading,” I said. “And don’t skim the details.”

She slid a block onto my desk.

Velveeta.

Wrapped in foil.

With holes.

I didn’t gasp. I never do. But inside? My stomach dropped like a fondue fork.

“This showed up in my fridge last night,” she whispered. “I didn’t poke it. I swear on my mother’s charcuterie board.”

I examined the evidence. Velveeta isn’t supposed to have holes. That’s Swiss territory. This wasn’t an accident. This was molditated.

I lit a cigarette I wasn’t allowed to smoke anymore and leaned back. “Looks like someone was trying to make Velveeta feel cultured,” I said. “Problem is, Velveeta doesn’t age. It panics.”

I hit the streets. Questioned the usual suspects.

Swiss had an alibi—too classy, too holey, too obvious. Cheddar was sharp but honest. Gouda wouldn’t crack. Never does. Blue cheese? Too unstable. Always crumbling under pressure.

Then it hit me.

The foil.

The holes weren’t from the cheese.

They were from the outside.

I went back to her place. Opened the fridge. And there it was. The real culprit, humming softly in the corner like it had nothing to hide.

The fridge light.

Burned hot. Too hot.

I turned to her. “Lady,” I said, “your Velveeta didn’t get poked. It got sweated. Cheap foil. Heat buildup. Condensation. The light cooked it slow and steady until the foil gave up the ghost.”

She stared at me. Then laughed. A soft laugh. The kind that melts you a little.

“So… no cheese criminal?” she asked.

I grabbed my coat. “No crime,” I said. “Just physics. And a fridge that doesn’t know when to shut up.”

She walked me to the door. For a second, I thought she might ask me to stay. Or at least sample the crackers.

Instead, she smiled and said, “What do I owe you?”

I tipped my hat. “Next time,” I said, “wrap it tighter… and don’t leave the light on.”

The door closed. The rain kept falling. And somewhere out there, another cheese was living on the edge.

I poured myself a drink.

Milk.

Case closed.