by Nic Saint
“But I—”
“You stole it—finally admit it, you thief!”
“I didn’t steal a thing, Tex. You have to believe me!”
“Oh, so now you’re saying it’s raining gnomes, is it? They’re simply falling from the sky like so much manna from heaven?”
“Over the fence,” said Ted, looking and sounding highly discombobulated. “They came flying… over the fence.”
“A likely story. I’m reporting you to the police, Ted. That’s right. I wanted to cut you some slack. Hoping you’d break the habit. But obviously that’s not happening. So this time you’re going down, my friend.” He put his phone to his ear. “Hello, Dolores, Yes, I’d like to report a gnome thief. Yes, a thief of gnomes.” He listened for a moment, his brow creased. “No, that’s not the new Kevin Costner movie. It’s my next-door-neighbor Ted.”
“But, Tex!”
But Tex held up his hand in a silencing gesture. “No, this is not a joke, Dolores. Ted Trapper is a gnome thief. He stole my gnomes and he stole Kinnard Daym’s gnomes, too. No, I’m not trying to be funny, Dolores.”
“Tex, please,” said Ted piteously.
“What’s going on here?” asked Marcie, now also joining the piquant scene.
I could have told them that Ted was innocent, but no one was going to give me the time of day, or understand what I was saying. Only Gran could, or Marge or Odelia, and of those three there was no trace.
“Tex is calling the police!” Ted cried, bringing his hands to his head and helplessly pulling at his hair.
“Where did those gnomes come from?” asked Marcie, suddenly spotting the abundance of gnomes.
“Someone chucked them over the fence. Just now. I would have caught them but I got distracted by Tex.”
“Yes, Dolores, I know today is not April Fools.”
“You didn’t put those gnomes there?” asked Marcie, planting her hands on her hips and giving her husband a look that could kill—or at least maim.
“No! I’m telling you, someone threw them there.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. They were on the other side of the fence.”
Marcie now stalked over to where her husband was pointing and looked. “No one there,” she announced.
“Of course not! They ran away.”
“Mh,” said Marcie.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Mh,” Marcie repeated, looking highly skeptical.
“Gnomes, Dolores. Not hobbits, gnomes.”
In the meantime Marge had come walking out of the house, drawn by all the noise. “What’s going on?” she asked.
Happy that finally a sane person had entered the fray, I said, “Someone was chucking gnomes over the fence into the Trappers’ backyard, and now Tex thinks Ted is a thief and he’s calling the police.”
Marge stared from me to the gnomes and then to her husband. Taking decisive action, she simply grabbed her husband’s phone away and tapped Disconnect.
“Hey! “said Tex. “I think I was finally getting through to Dolores!”
“Ted didn’t steal those gnomes,” she said. “So stop making a fool of yourself, Tex.”
“Thank you, Marge!” said Ted, over the moon by this unexpected vote of confidence.
“How do you know Ted didn’t steal them?” asked Marcie with a frown.
“Because… I saw the thieves,” said Marge. “From… the kitchen window.”
Marcie directed a curious look in the direction of said kitchen windows, then to the fence. “Impossible,” she determined. “Unless you’re superwoman and you have X-ray vision.”
“Oh, all right. I happened to be hanging up my laundry just now, and I heard a strange noise so I glanced over and saw them at it. I should have said something, but I don’t like to stick my nose in other people’s business.”
“See!” said Ted triumphantly “What did I tell you?”
“So you saw them and you said nothing?” asked Marcie, still continuing suspicious.
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”
“You saw the thieves and you didn’t tell me?” asked Tex, sounding disappointed. Whether he was disappointed because Ted wasn’t a thief, or because his wife hadn’t confided in him was hard to tell at this point.
“Look, you’re all wasting time,” said Marge, gesturing to the pile of gnomes. “You should be going after those thieves instead of standing around here arguing.”
“She’s right,” said Ted. And to show his neighbor that he wasn’t one for holding a grudge, he added, “Let’s go get them, Tex.”
And before our very eyes, the mild-mannered accountant jumped the fence!
Or at least he would have, if he was a lissome deer and not a pudgy accountant. As it was, he got stuck halfway and was dangling, the fence painfully poking his midsection.
“Marcie?” he said in a strangled voice. “Please help.”
30
It was clear to me that things were hotting up in Hampton Cove. Odelia had given us an update on where she stood with the investigation, and there had been a couple of startling developments, one of which was Jacqueline Goossens coming forward and revealing that Dan had told her he was soon coming into the possession of an object that would blow Jack Warner and his Society out of the water once and for all.
It pretty much sealed the deal, as far as I was concerned: as everyone knows, collectors are often unhinged, and will go to any means to lay their sweaty little paws on the object that will complete their collection. And Dan was just such a collector when it came to all things Maria Power.
And then of course there was the mysterious affair of the gnome thieves, who’d almost been caught by Ted Trapper, if only the latter had been a little lighter on his feet, and a little slimmer around the tummy.
But the most important development, as far as I was concerned, was of course the arrival of our very own secret weapon in the form of Elsa.
So it was with a sense of breathless anticipation that I explained to Harriet and Brutus that a solution to the mouse problem might finally be at paw, and as we all gazed with awe at the tiny mouse, who’d hitherto belonged to Maria Power, I don’t think there had ever been, in the whole history of felinity, four cats filled with more abject admiration for a single mouse than we were right now.
“Do you want some more cheese?” asked Harriet with a reverence I’d never thought her capable.
“Are you quite comfortable on that cushion?” asked Brutus. “Do you want me to fluff it up for you?”
“No, I’m fine,” said Elsa, nibbling her piece of cheese daintily, while stretched out on my favorite pillow, which I’d gratefully offered her.
“Do you want to watch some television?” asked Dooley. “An episode of Tom and Jerry, maybe?” He turned to me, and explained, “Just to get her in the right frame of mind.”
I nodded seriously. “Good thinking, Dooley. Mindset is everything.”
“I’m fine, you guys,” said Elsa with a laugh. “Stop fussing.”
I’d more or less hoped that she would simply sweep into the place, talk to the mice like a Dutch uncle—or, as in this case, a murine aunt—and we could wrap the whole thing up before sunset. But Elsa was obviously one of those mice who liked to do things properly. With forethought and careful planning.
And she was right, of course. No general goes into battle without a good meal and a good night’s rest, and Elsa was no different.
“If you want I can give you a foot massage,” Harriet offered now.
“Or a back rub?” Brutus suggested.
“I’m fine!” Elsa said, and munched down the final remaining piece of cheese with visible relish. She wiped her mouth and looked around. “Nice place you got here. I really like what you’ve done with it.”
“Yeah, Odelia has great taste,” I said. “She’s the decorator in our family. Chase hasn’t really made his mark yet since he moved in.” Except for the gym equipment he’d lugged upstairs, of course,
but that was more of an eyesore than an improvement, to be honest.
“So… do you have a strategy in mind?” asked Harriet.
“Nah, I think I’ll just wing it,” said Elsa, licking her paws.
“What do you want us to do?” asked Brutus. “Or do you prefer to go in alone?”
“Actually I do think I’ll go it alone. If you don’t mind, that is.”
“Oh, no, by all means,” I said, happy that I wasn’t going to have to face that hostile pack of mice again.
“One very important thing, though,” said Elsa, stifling a yawn.
“Anything,” I said eagerly.
“I’m going to need your written authorization to deal with the matter of the mice.” When we merely stared at her, she added, more slowly, “Power of attorney? I am going in there as your official representative after all, so this needs to be official all the way.”
“Oh-kay,” I said. I didn’t want to point out to Elsa that cats can’t write, and that it would be a little hard for us to draw up a letter of attorney just like that, but I was frankly prey to that strange awkwardness that comes upon a person—or cat—when they feel indebted to another person—or mouse. “Um…”
“Though in your case,” Elsa went on with a little frown, “it would probably be best if Odelia signed the papers, absolving me of all responsibility if something goes wrong. She is, after all, the homeowner, and you’re merely guests in this house, am I right?”
“Um, I guess so,” I said. I’d never looked at it that way before, but Elsa made a valid point. Cats, as a rule, can’t actually own a property, since they don’t exactly earn a living, and banks are therefore often reluctant to set them up with a mortgage.
“So you want us to ask Odelia to sign a paper absolving you of all responsibility?” asked Harriet, in an attempt to make things clear.
“Yeah, I think that would be for the best,” said Elsa, settling back with a contented sigh. “Now if you could give me some of that cream cheese I saw in the fridge, that would be just swell.”
While Dooley went in search of the cream cheese, I asked the question I was sure was on everyone’s lips: “Do you think something could possibly go wrong?”
“I’m pretty sure it won’t,” said Elsa. “But you never know. And my mama always said better to be safe than sorry. So it’s best if we do this by the book, don’t you agree, Max?”
“Oh, yeah, of course,” I said quickly. “Yeah, I’m all for doing things by the book.” It did strike me that if we needed Odelia to sign a power of attorney it would push back the event we’d all been looking forward to with so much anticipation: the great evacuation. Then again, Elsa was absolutely right. If you’re going to do something, better do it right.
So while Elsa enjoyed her cream cheese, I went in search of Odelia, whose signature had suddenly become very important indeed.
31
Vesta was scribbling something in her little notebook. “So what did they look like, these thieves?” she asked, directing a penetrating glance at Ted Trapper, who was rubbing his tummy for some reason.
“Like I already told you, I never saw them. I only heard them.”
“Mh,” said Vesta censoriously. She liked her witnesses more helpful than this, but then beggars can’t be choosers and Ted, even though he was a lousy witness, was also one of her only witnesses. “So what did they sound like?” she asked.
“They giggled,” he said, directing a pained look at his wife Marcie, who stood, arms crossed in front of her chest, and staring down at the pile of gnomes with a distinctly unhappy look on her face. No fastidious homeowner likes to see piles of gnomes suddenly turn up where they’re not invited, and Marcie clearly wondered if she’d have to put them in regular trash or put them out with the recyclables. Or even hazardous waste.
“Giggled?” asked Scarlett, who was also scribbling in a little notebook. She giggled. “Did you just say ‘giggled?’”
“Yeah, they giggled.”
Vesta pounced on this. “They? So there was more than one giggler?”
“I think so,” said Ted.
“So you’re not sure?” asked Vesta, who was getting fed up with this unreliable witness.
“No, I guess I’m not. But I had the impression there was more than one?”
“How many more?” asked Scarlett. “Two, three, a dozen?”
Ted grimaced and shook his head. He helplessly glanced over to Tex and Marge, who’d also joined them in the garden, but who were not much help either.
“I’m pretty sure there was more than one, too,” said Tex.
“Two?” asked Scarlett. “There were two?”
“No, I said I’m pretty sure there was more than one, too.”
Scarlett looked confused. “So is it one or is it two? Be clear, Tex.”
“Oh, what does it matter?” Marge said, throwing up her hands. “We should call the police.”
“No,” said Ted quickly. “No police.”
He’d already expressed his desire to deal with this between neighbors, seeing as he didn’t want it to be widely known that his backyard had become a landfill for gnomes.
“My brother is very discreet,” Marge said. “If you tell him you want this handled on the down-low, he’ll handle it on the down-low.”
“Down. Low,” Scarlett muttered as she wrote this down in her neat handwriting.
“Look, I know how these big organizations work, all right,” said Ted. “I used to work for PriceWaterhouseCoopers. It’s simply impossible to keep anything on the down-low.”
Marge’s face took on a dark look. She didn’t like it when people cast aspersions on her brother, of whom she was exceedingly fond.
“Look, how hard can it be to catch two gnome thieves?” asked Ted, exasperated. “They must have left a trace. How about footprints? Fingerprints?”
“Don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves here,” said Vesta. “First we take the witness statements, then we search for clues. There is a method to this madness, Ted.”
She’d downloaded a copy of Sleuthing for Dummies, and even though she’d only read the introduction, she had a feeling she was already getting a good grip on the material. Besides, she was a natural. And she’d helped her granddaughter on so many cases she had experience up the wazoo.
“Why don’t we ask Odelia?” Tex suggested.
“No!” Ted cried. “She’s a reporter,” he explained. “She’ll turn this into a big story.”
“She will not turn this into a big story if we ask her not to,” said Marge, gritting her teeth a little.
Vesta had the feeling that if Ted continued down this road he’d soon make a mortal enemy out of Marge.
“These gnomes,” she said, pointing to the biggest and fattest of the bunch. “You’re telling me they belong to Kinnard Daym?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Tex. “Kinnard’s been bragging about his gnomes for months. In our weekly meetings he can’t stop talking about how he snagged them at an online auction dedicated to gnomes for more money than any of us can afford.”
“We staked out Kinnard’s house last night,” Scarlett said. “And we almost caught the thieves.”
“Must be other collectors,” said Tex. “Gotta be.”
“Yeah, collectors can get very jealous,” Ted agreed. “They must have seen Kinnard’s gnomes on his Facebook or even his Instagram, and listened to his bragging, and decided to teach him a lesson.” His face sagged. “But why they would dump the pride of Kinnard’s collection in my backyard is frankly beyond me.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” said Marcie. “They wanted to blame you for the theft. They knew that some people would believe you were guilty.” She cut a vicious glance in Tex’s direction, and the latter, much to his credit, affected to look appropriately contrite.
“I’m sorry,” said Tex. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions like that, Ted.”
“And called him names,” Marcie added.
“And called you names,” Tex agreed
shamefacedly.
“Okay, I think that concludes this part of the investigation,” said Vesta, tucking her notebook in the pocket of her tracksuit. “Come on, Scarlett. Let’s go find ourselves some clues.”
“Ooh, clues!” Scarlett, said, tripping after Vesta. “I love clues.”
Vesta studied the fence. She was so short her head didn’t even reach the top. “So how are we going to do this?” she murmured.
“Oh, I know,” said Scarlett. “We simply go around the block and come in from the other side.”
“Barbed wire,” Vesta said curtly.
“I don’t like barbed wire,” said Scarlett.
“Me neither.”
“Here, will this help?” asked Marcie, and pointed to a ladder leaning against a tree.
“Perfect,” said Vesta.
“Excellent,” determined Scarlett.
Things thusly arranged, Vesta soon found herself peering over the fence at the plot of land belonging to Jackson Browne. It was a wild tangle of weeds and nettles and brambles, but a spot right next to the fence had clearly been trampled on. A couple of gnomes were in evidence, the ones the thieves hadn’t had time to chuck over the fence.
“Mh…” she said thoughtfully.
“Do you see anything?” asked Scarlett.
“More gnomes,” she said. “And a can.”
“A can of what?”
“Dunno. Gimme a boost, will you?”
Scarlett gave her a boost, and Vesta tumbled to the ground in a jumble of limbs.
“Ugh,” she said, picking a piece of straw from her neat white curls. She then approached the can and took a good, close look. It was a can of red spray paint.
Scarlett, whose head now cleared the fence, asked, “So what is it?”
“Spray paint,” Vesta announced.
“You can’t touch it. Because of fingerprints.”
“I know I can’t touch it,” she said acerbically. “This ain’t my first rodeo.”
“How do you know it belongs to the thieves?”
“I don’t, but since only sheep come here, it stands to reason that it does.”
