“And so do the clowns?” said Bro.
“Yeah,” Harmony said. “So who is the green-nosed clown?”
“Any ideas?” the sheriff said.
The kids shook their heads again.
“If one comes to you, let me in on it,” said Sheriff McKnight.
The kids nodded. “Come on, Arthur,” Bro said.
Arthur thumped his tail again and stayed where he was.
“What’s with Arthur?” said Harmony.
The kids left without him.
Not long after that, Lydia came in. She wasn’t wearing her white hair in a ponytail. Instead it hung straight down, limp and damp. She set a small shiny object in front of the sheriff.
“What’s this?” he said.
“The only thing in the well that came anything close to your description.”
The sheriff picked it up. “A locket?”
“Open it,” said Lydia.
Sheriff McKnight opened the locket and gazed at the small, circular photo inside. “Is that Randa Bea Pruitt, the lady from the fair?”
Lydia nodded.
“Who are the others?”
Lydia pointed. “That’s her ex, Marlon. He’s fighting her for ownership rights.”
The sheriff looked closer. “I’ve seen him.”
“You have?” said Lydia. “Word is he’s run off with some other woman.” She pointed. “That’s their daughter, Miranda.”
“Magical Miranda?” said the sheriff.
“Correct,” said Lydia. “And one more thing. I also found this, down on the bottom.” From her back pocket she took out a big, heavy wrench and handed it to the sheriff.
A wrench? Interesting. From the way he was studying it, I could tell that the sheriff thought so, too.
“Doesn’t look like it was in water very long,” he said.
“Agreed,” said Lydia.
The sheriff rose. “Many thanks, Lydia.”
“Just doing my job.”
Lydia left the room. The sheriff put the locket and the wrench in a plastic bag he took from his pocket and followed her out. Then, from under the table, Arthur—who I’d assumed had settled in for one of his very long naps—sprang up and ran, or at least waddled rapidly, after them. He seemed to be going through a strange phase. An improvement or not? I wasn’t sure.
I spent a few more moments thinking about Arthur, then glided down off the bookshelf and curled up on the chair where Harmony had been sitting. She really does have the nicest smell, for a human. I closed my eyes and drifted away.
Oh, what a deep deep sleep! I knew I was sleeping and was in no hurry to stop. I needed it! Hadn’t I been through a lot? Way too much. But sleep was making things right. I felt them getting righter and righter and was very close to being back to normal, when I heard someone coming. Human. Male. These are things you can tell just from the sound. A somewhat familiar sound that … that I associated with unpleasantness.
I opened my eyes, the lids so very heavy. And there before me stood Marlon, my enemy, in his Mr. Ware disguise. A drooping, empty duffel bag hung over one of his shoulders, and in his hands he held a thick towel. I started to raise a paw, but sleepily, not with my usual speed. He flung the towel over me, wrapped me up, and popped me in the duffel bag.
I tried to claw free, tried to cry out, but I couldn’t move at all. And I could barely breathe.
Then came a voice, human, female, somewhat familiar.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for Maxie.”
“Maxie?” said my enemy.
“My son. He must be around somewhere.”
“Can’t help you,” my enemy said. “I’m just a guest.”
Her footsteps faded away. The inn got very quiet. It was me and him.
WE ROLLED AWAY IN OUR COP CAR, me and the sheriff. He spoke on the phone, possibly with Randa Bea, although I was too busy watching out for bad guys to pay much attention. What did bad guys look like, exactly? Like that old dude headed slowly out to his mailbox? I stuck my head out the window and gave him a bark he wouldn’t soon forget. He jumped, almost right off the ground. A bad guy for sure.
The sheriff glanced at me. “Arthur? Some problem?”
Just bad guys roaming around our town willy-nilly, but other than that we were good.
We stopped at a red light and the sheriff gave me a longer look. “I wish I knew what you know about red nose number one,” he said. “I get the feeling you’ve solved the case already.”
How nice of him! Sheriff McKnight was my favorite sheriff by far. Were we going to pull a uey and cuff the old guy at the mailbox? That seemed like the next move but it didn’t happen. No problem. It was still early in the day. We would probably fill the car up with cuffed bad guys by lunchtime.
The sheriff’s phone buzzed. “Hi, Doc,” he said. He listened, his hand tightening on the phone. “A blow to the head?” he said, and listened some more. “He didn’t hit it at the bottom of the well?”
I heard “No” from the other end. My ears are good at picking up the other side of phone calls if they want to. “He went in feetfirst—both ankles are broken. He was already unconscious. A blow to the occipital lobe was what did it, guaranteed.”
“Like a blow from a wrench?”
“A big one, possibly. Why?”
“What’s it going to be, Arthur?” the sheriff said. “Back to that cabin in the woods?”
Sure! Why not?
But after a silence, the sheriff went on. “I have a feeling our bird will have flown that coop by now.”
We had a bird? News to me, but I was still a newbie in the law enforcement game. I looked forward to meeting our bird sometime soon.
Not long after that, we turned into the fairground parking lot and went all the way through to the end. An attendant in a bright yellow vest swung the gate open and we drove on where no other cars were allowed, all the way to the ticket booth. This was the career for me.
Randa Bea and Magical Miranda were waiting for us. They both looked not too good, their faces pale and tear tracks on their cheeks.
Sheriff McKnight pointed to a picnic table. We went over and sat down, except for me. I stood right behind Randa Bea and Miranda, ready for … well, for anything. No flies on me, as Elrod often said about himself. At that very moment, I felt one land on my tail, but I flicked it right off.
“Thanks for meeting us,” the sheriff said.
Randa Bea and Miranda glanced around, as though looking for someone else. I had no idea why. People get confused from time to time. You’ve got to cut them some slack.
“Cuthbert’s still alive but unconscious and the docs don’t know if he’ll make it,” the sheriff went on. He turned to Miranda. “Your mom must have told you what went on last night. We’re now pretty sure that someone knocked Cuthbert out and threw him into the well.”
Randa Bea put a hand over her mouth. Miranda did the same.
“We’re going to find whoever did it,” the sheriff told them. “But I need your help.”
“Anything,” said Randa Bea.
The sheriff laid the silver locket on the picnic table. “This was at the bottom of the well.”
Randa Bea leaned forward and opened the locket. “Oh my god!” She turned to Miranda. “What … what’s going on?”
Miranda’s huge dark eyes filled up and overflowed, although she made no crying sound. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“But … for what?” her mom said.
“It was a lie.”
“I don’t understand.”
Miranda jabbed her finger at the photo in the locket.
Randa Bea laid her hand on Miranda’s. “It wasn’t a lie when it was taken.”
“But now it just teases me.” She glanced at the sheriff. “That’s why I threw it in the well.” She reached into her pocket and took out a small silver coin. “I’m keeping this instead.”
“A nickel?” said Randa Bea.
“Bro gave it to me—for making a wish.” She put it back in her pocket.
Miranda nodded. “I’d gone to visit Harmony, but she wasn’t there. Bro was picking tomatoes. He showed me the well.”
“Did you see anything unusual?” the sheriff said. “Signs of a struggle?”
“No.”
“Anything in the well?”
“It’s so dark,” Miranda said. “You really can’t see anything.”
The sheriff pointed to the man in the photo and turned to Randa Bea.
“Is it true he’s fighting you for ownership of the company?”
“Did Yvette Reddy tell you that?”
“It was someone else,” the sheriff said.
Randa Bea sighed. “Yes, it’s true. There are no secrets in a place like this.”
“Not sure about that,” said the sheriff. “We’re dealing with a big secret right now.”
“The secret of who attacked Cuthbert?” Miranda said.
“Exactly,” the sheriff said. “Whoever it was switched places with Cuthbert sometime before the beauty contest. Was the attack then or later? That’s still a mystery. But I am pretty sure it was all about the cats.”
“How do you know all this?” Miranda said.
“Harmony and Bro figured most of this out,” the sheriff said. “I just listened.” He stood up. “But Bro never said anything about you throwing the locket in the well, Miranda, so I’m going to run it by him.”
Miranda teared up again. “I didn’t let him see that.”
“Fair enough,” said Sheriff McKnight. “But I double-check everything. In this business, you’ve got to put yourself in position to stumble into a good clue now and then. You’re welcome to come along.”
Stumbling was important in law enforcement? My career was going to be off the charts. I was so happy about that that I hardly minded when Randa Bea took the front seat. I sat in back with Miranda and did some first-class law enforcing, barking out the window at a bad guy carrying groceries and another one on a skateboard.
“You said it was all about the cats,” said Randa Bea as we passed the village green, meaning we were close to home. “Can you explain that?”
“Well, specifically about Queenie,” the sheriff said. “Someone wanted her very badly.”
“Why?” said Randa Bea.
“Oh, Mom,” Miranda said. “She’s beautiful.”
“So beautiful someone just had to have her?” Randa Bea said.
“There’s a long history of people stealing beautiful things just to have them,” the sheriff said. “Although in this case I think there’s more to it than that.”
“Like what?” said Miranda.
“That’s a missing piece,” the sheriff said. “But you don’t need every piece to solve a crime. Sometimes even just one does the trick.”
We all thought about that, me for hardly any time at all because I had no clue what he was talking about. I peered out the window, waiting for bad guys to appear. None did, but as we got close to the inn I did spot a red car parked off the side of the road under a big shady tree, a tree I knew well from having peed on it many, many times. A woman sat behind the wheel, gazing straight ahead. She had short, very light blond hair and wore deep red lipstick and cat’s-eye glasses. Hey! Pamela Vance! Not a bad guy, so I didn’t bark. The sheriff turned into our driveway and we parked in front of the inn.
As we got out of the car, the front door of the inn opened and out came old Mr. Ware. He had a suitcase in one hand and a white duffel bag over his shoulder. That was a lot for an old man to carry, and he was moving extra slow. Then I remembered how he wasn’t actually that old and got a bit confused.
Bro and Harmony stepped out behind him, carrying a whole lot of what looked like bike parts. They saw us and moved our way. Mr. Ware shot us a quick glance and came to a sudden but very brief stop. Then he continued on, walking stiffly down the driveway.
“Who’s that?” the sheriff said.
“A guest,” said Harmony. “He just checked out.” She turned to Miranda and said, “Hi. You all right?”
But Miranda didn’t seem to hear her. She was watching Mr. Ware make his way along the driveway, her face changing in a way that’s hard to describe, maybe on account of so many feelings suddenly happening inside her.
“Dad?” she said, very quietly.
Everyone turned to her, worried looks on their faces. She didn’t notice.
“Dad?” she said again, a little louder this time.
“Miranda?” said Randa Bea. “Oh, dear. Miranda?”
Miranda didn’t hear that, either. She started moving down the driveway.
“Dad? Dad? DAD!”
Mr. Ware, now almost at the end of the driveway, looked back. A breeze ruffled his wild white hair. His face, too, went through some hard-to-describe changes, and ended up looking scared.
“Dad! Dad! What are you doing?” Miranda called.
“Oh my god,” said Randa Bea.
Mr. Ware spun around and started running, not at all like an old man. His wild white hair flew off.
“Halt!” the sheriff shouted. “Police.”
But Mr. Ware did not halt. He kept running to the end of the driveway and then darted down the road. We all started running after him. Mr. Ware turned out to be surprisingly fast. By the time I got to the end of the driveway—in the lead!—he was almost halfway to the big, shady tree. The red car pulled onto the road and sat there, the engine running. I started to huff and puff a bit, despite how speedy I’d turned out to be at this stage in life. First the sheriff passed me, then the twins, but I kept ahead of Miranda and Randa Bea.
“Halt! Police!”
“Dad! Dad!”
Sheriff McKnight was sprinting now. He reached down as though to draw his gun, but ended up leaving it in the holster. He began gaining ground, a real fast runner himself, which was what we expect in law enforcement. Mr. Ware glanced back and ran harder. The sheriff closed in, got within tackling distance. But just as he was about to launch himself, Mr. Ware pivoted and swung his suitcase with all his might. It hit the sheriff right in the head and he slumped down on the road.
Whoa! Mr. Ware had done that to my boss? I got so angry, angrier than I’d ever been, and in my anger forgot all about huffing and puffing. I ran my very fastest, even faster than I had at the Frisbee contest. Mr. Ware ran, too, closing in on the red car. I charged after him, catching up in great bounds. He reached the car, grabbed the handle of the passenger door, and flung it open.
“Go! Go! Go!” he shouted to Pamela Vance.
The car began to roll. Mr. Ware swung one leg inside, started to raise the other, and—
And nothing! Because with one last bound, I caught him, sinking my teeth deep into his leg. Well, more like just his pants, but I had a really good grip on them.
“Go! Go! Go!”
The car sped up, with Mr. Ware half in and half out and me holding on to his leg and never letting go. He twisted around, tried to punch me in the face, missed, and tried again, launching a tremendous blow. At the same time the car started to spin out. Mr. Ware lost his balance and went flying out of the car, as though that punch was taking him with it. Since I still had him by his pant leg I went flying, too. We landed on the side of the road. Mr. Ware hit the ground hard and went right to sleep. I landed in soft grass and didn’t feel a thing! The white duffel bag thumped down right beside me, the side splitting open.
The red car kept going, the passenger door hanging open wide. The sheriff came running up, blood all over his face.
“Halt!” he yelled at Pamela Vance. “Halt!”
She did not. The sheriff drew his gun and fired a single shot. There were two bangs, close together, the bang of the gun and the bang of one of Pamela’s rear tires blowing out. The red car came to a stop.
Mr. Ware sat up, rubbing his head. The sheriff snapped cuffs on him in one smooth motion, click click. Harmony, Bro, Miranda, and Randa Bea came running. There was lots of crying and shouting and commotion and
in the middle of all that something started moving in the white duffel bag.
Out from the hole in the bag stepped Queenie. Daintily? I think that’s the word. She didn’t really look at any of us, just yawned and then climbed up into Harmony’s arms and gazed into the distance, those golden eyes glittering.
We law enforcement types don’t expect a lot of thanks. Just doing our job is enough.
Although a treat would be nice.
THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT SUNSETS that makes humans quiet down a little, a good thing in my opinion. We have good sunset views from the patio, which was where we all gathered at the end of that busy day. By we, I mean me, Mom, Harmony, Bro, Miranda, Randa Bea, and Sheriff McKnight, a bandage on his forehead. And Arthur. There’s no leaving out Arthur. That was clear to me now.
The talk was all about the case, and the case was all about me, specifically my beauty. I knew all there was to know about my beauty, so only tuned in from time to time.
“Pamela made a full confession,” the sheriff said. He faced Randa Bea. “She claims that when she met your—when she met Marlon, he told her you were already divorced. By the time she learned the truth she was, quote, too far gone.”
“Uh-huh,” said Randa Bea.
“It was Pamela who found out about this scientist named Dr. Park,” the sheriff continued. “He’s overseas somewhere, possibly in an uncooperative country. At this point it’s not clear what we could even charge him with, supposing we could find him and bring him here. He’s a biological researcher of some sort, supposedly brilliant, and he’s developed some new techniques for cloning on a huge scale. Kind of like genetic mass production.”
“He wanted to make millions of Queenies?” Harmony said.
“Maybe not millions, but many,” the sheriff said. “But first he had to find the perfect candidate.”
“Queenie,” said Bro.
Millions of Queenies? What a terrible idea! There is only one.
“Apparently the initial animal doesn’t survive the process,” the sheriff went on. “Pamela heard about Queenie from someone at the magazine and Marlon came in the spring to check her out.”
Bark vs. Snark Page 19