by Pete Prown
* * *
Dorro and Forgo were conferring in front of the gaol the next morning, both feeling sheepish over the boys’ escape. “It was so obvious,” groaned the Sheriff. “Why didn’t I think it was coming? Anyway, I have yet another window to replace.”
“And once again, I shall bear the burden of cost,” said Dorro. “It won’t be the first, nor the last time, I’m afraid.”
“There you two are!” Both Halflings turned around to see Aramina Wump—aka, Malachite Molly—and a few of her Battle Dwarves stomping down the lane. Crumble was there, too, already looking apologetic for her behavior.
“Sheriff! Where’s my husband’s killer? I want answers!” Aramina was in a snit.
“We’re doing everything in our power, Mrs. Wump,” tried Forgo, but the Dwarf cut him off.
“I don’t want excuses—I want his head or his feet or whatever part of him you catch. Even better if the weasel’s alive, then I can take care of him myself.”
“That’s not allowed in Thimble Down—I’m the law here and I will see that justice is made.”
“We’ll see about that, Sheriff. If I catch ’im, I’ll deal with him the Dwarf way!” For effect, she pulled a large dagger out of her belt and grinned.
Crumble jumped in, “She will, you know. Aramina doesn’t give a hoot for Halfling laws; she lives and fights on the frontiers with her own rules, so I would suggest you find the murderer soon or she will find him for you. And I might have to help her—he was my brother after all.”
Crumble gave Dorro an imploring look, as if trying to get him to urge Forgo along faster. They both knew the sooner they found the murderer, the less chance blood would again flow in Thimble Down.
Back to the Library
Dorro was sitting at his desk in the mostly empty library going over accounts, when the door opened and a small hooded figure entered.
The bookmaster checked his pocket watch as if he’d been counting the minutes. “I’ve been waiting for you, young lady.”
“Oh drat! How did you know, Mr. Dorro?” Cheeryup doffed her hood and frowned. “I was so hoping to outwit you for once.”
“I’m sorry, my dear, but I was watching your burrow last night and wondering where that bit of smoke from the back chimney was coming from,” said Dorro grinning. “Of course, I knew it was you—and delightedly so. Of course, you’re a wanted outlaw who should be in gaol, so you must still be careful. If anyone pops in here, dive behind the desk.”
“Mr. Dorro, I’ve made everything a hash, haven’t I? The boys are gone, and we haven’t made any progress solving the mystery of the Grippe.”
“You’re not the only one. I don’t remember as perplexing a case as this, and beyond the sick and ailing, the Dwarves are getting anxious. They want someone to atone for Wump’s murder.”
“I have a confession to make, too.”
Dorro cocked an eyebrow.
“I found Bindlestiff’s papers in the Pie Thief’s cave.”
“That’s wonderful!,” said Dorro.
“But wait—the thief came and stole them out of my burrow, so now they’re lost again.”
“Drat! Could you make anything out on them?”
“Only that they were in a Dwarf tongue and contained pictures of death and disease from smoke. Now that rotten thief has them in his possession again.”
“I must admit that I don’t have the foggiest who it is, this mystical Pie Thief,” wondered Dorro. “He’s tricked us all.”
“Not all of us. I know who it is, Mr. Dorro, and no, I’m not going to tell you. I’m going to catch him myself!”
“You might get hurt! Are you sure?”
“The rotter broke into my burrow and upset the place. I will have my little revenge. Then you can have him.” Dorro could hardly believe these words were coming from a slight twelve-year-old girl with flaxen hair, but there it was.
“Only because it’s you, Cheeryup, would I allow you to continue with this adventure. I shall pursue Wump’s killer and the mystery behind the Grippe. Perhaps our trails will eventually merge. Now here, I made you a basket of food this morning—take it—and I’ll drop more off tomorrow. And stay in contact with me. We need to solve our cases and get the boys home.”
Cheeryup gave the bookmaster a quick hug, grabbed the basket, and dashed out of the library with her hood up, while Dorro resumed his work. A few minutes later, Bedminster Shoe entered. “Ah Mr. Dorro, I hope all is well with you. Say—”
“I know what you’re going to ask, Mr. Shoe, and the answer is of course, yes. You may interview me once the investigation is over!” Dorro pretended to fuss over Bedminster Shoe’s insistence that he document each case, but deep down found it deeply flattering. The village scribe had long threatened to publish these works, and secretly, Dorro hoped he someday would. “Actually, Bedminster, you may have a role to play in this mystery—an important one, too.”
The scribe brightened immeasurably. “Oh, Mr. Dorro, I’d be only too honored.”
“Patience, Bedminster, patience. But when I do come seek you, make sure to have your quill and ink at the ready. Speed will be of the essence.”
The scribe nodded, starry eyed, at the prospect of actually participating in an adventure, as his rather mundane life was largely taken up with drawing up contracts, deeds, wills, and other legal documents for his fellow villagers. It didn’t pay much, but that was his gift, owing to his superior handwriting and lettering skills.
Mr. Shoe scuttled off to file some books, pleased as punch, while Dorro resumed pondering his many, many conundrums.