Red Headed Jealousy

Irene was inquisitive. Always had been. It was her nature. Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie had been her staples as an early reader, and she knew that this had honed her skills in finding mysteries all around her and solving them. She considered this her true talent, which she tried to utilise for the betterment of others. As she removed a jumble of socks and shirts and shorts from the dryer (it was her turn to do the washing this week), she realised that it had been some time since she’d solved a mystery. Was she becoming inattentive? Was she losing her edge? Was life getting too settled? These questions troubled her as she peeled apart T-shirts bound by static – she had forgotten to add the dryer sheets again. As she tugged on a particularly tenacious white shirt with some sort of beer logo on it, she noticed a single red hair. 
 
Irene was perplexed. She had always been a natural blonde; well, pretty natural anyway. This hair was nowhere near her hue. As she looked closer, she found several more of the offending hairs in the lint trap. These were hairs from a true redhead. Neither tinted nor treated. They were silky and enviable and suggested seductive ruby tresses.
 
Irene was confounded. How had these offending copper strands attached themselves to Bruce’s white T-shirt? Neither of them knew anyone with such lustrous red hair. And Bruce had never mentioned any redheads in the office. Yet there they were: clues in her latest mystery.
 
Irene was suspicious. At dinner, Bruce was his usual self: affectionate and amusing. Still, Irene got the feeling that he was hiding something. Worse than that, he made no mention of their anniversary, which was today. That was unlike him. When he went to take the rubbish out (it was his turn this week), she grabbed his mobile phone and jabbed at the SMS/Text icon. She had to scroll quickly but soon found a short exchange with someone called Maxine.
 
Bruce: Can I come on Thursday?
 
Maxine: Of course. I am free any time on Thursday and looking forward to seeing you.
 
Bruce: Perfect. Please don’t mention our plan to anyone, ok?
 
Maxine:Of course! I understand and will be discreet.
 
They must have met on Thursday, because the next thread read:
 
Bruce: ‘Thanks for the amazing time today. I’ll see you again Friday. As I stressed, it is very important that Irene does not find out.’
 
Maxine: Don’t worry ! I’ll keep our secret! Glad you are happy and satisfied. J
 
Irene was irate!  How could Bruce cheat on her with Maxine (who was Maxine anyway!?)? And especially on the eve of their anniversary. Bruce returned from his rubbish expedition, and Irene was fuming. ‘I have a headache, and I am going to sleep’ she huffed. Bruce was taken aback. ‘But don’t you want to celebrate our anniversary?’ he spluttered?
 
Irene was exasperated. ‘You have some nerve!’ she barked. ‘Wait here,’ Bruce replied, and he dashed back out the door to the car. He returned with a squirming bundle that he gently placed in Irene’s arms. A small, velvety, red head with liquid amber eyes gazed up at Irene, as she stammered some senseless syllables. 
 
‘An Irish Setter puppy—like we’ve always talked about,’ cooed Bruce. ‘Happy Anniversary!’
 
Irene was elated, and she had solved another mystery.