But right now I missed it. Despite how much I had going on upstairs—which was plenty, as you must know by now—I couldn’t figure out why. And now my way of life was disturbed again. What if I shifted slightly to the side to see myself from a new angle, sort of looking over my shoulder? That sounded really cute, and I was just about to give it a whirl when the front door opened and in came Mr. Mahovlich. With him was a kid who looked to be about Bro’s age, although a lot bigger.
“Hello?” said Mr. Mahovlich. “Anybody here?”
What a question! There was me, for instance, so close I could have easily leaped down and landed right on his head. I actually considered it. Then Bertha came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She stopped short when she saw who the visitors were.
“Mr. Mahovlich?” she said. “Foster?”
So this was Foster. I’d heard about him, of course, but this was my first sighting. I examined his nose, and found to my disappointment that even though Bro had popped that nose a good one, it looked quite straight—although in no way pleasing to the eye.
Mr. Mahovlich flashed Bertha a great big smile. “Bertha, isn’t it?”
“Correct,” said Bertha. “What can I do for you?”
Mr. Mahovlich gave Foster a little push forward. “Foster here has something to say to Harmony.”
“Happy to pass it on,” Bertha said.
“Well, it’s like—” Foster began, but Mr. Mahovlich cut him off.
“He wants to say it in person.”
Bertha gave Mr. Mahovlich a long look and said, “I’ll see if she’s in.” Bertha went through the doorway that led to the private part of the house, the clumping of her clogs fading on the stairs.
Then came the unexpected. Mr. Mahovlich said, “Stay put,” and hurried to the desk, not stopping in front as visitors were supposed to, but striding around to the back.
“Dad?”
And once he was behind the desk, in what’s really the office here at the inn, Mr. Mahovlich began opening drawers and rooting around inside.
“Dad? What are you doing?”
Without looking up, Mr. Mahovlich said, “Shut your mouth.” He rooted around some more, then paused and cocked his head to one side. Did he hear those approaching footsteps? I did—goes without mentioning—but Mr. Mahovlich’s reaction was pretty quick for human ears. He closed the last drawer, slipped around the desk, and stood by Foster. “Just taking care of business,” he said.
“What kind of business?” said Foster.
Mr. Mahovlich put that big smile back on his face as Bertha appeared in the Big Room, now with Harmony beside her. At the same time, he draped his arm over Foster’s shoulders, and gave one of those shoulders a hard squeeze. I knew it was hard from how it made Foster wince. “Nothing to worry about,” he said in a voice that sounded gentle on the outside.
“Excuse me?” said Bertha as she and Harmony came into the hall.
“Just telling Foster here that there was nothing to worry about. I’m sure Harmony will handle this the right way.”
“Handle what?” said Bertha.
Mr. Mahovlich gave Foster another one of those little pushes.
“Uh,” Foster said. “Harmony?”
“Yeah?”
“That, like, hip check thing?”
“It wasn’t a hip check,” Harmony said. “It was boarding.”
“Whatever,” Foster said. “What I mean is—it won’t happen again.”
“Louder,” said Mr. Mahovlich.
Foster said it again, louder.
“No probs,” said Harmony. “We’re square.”
“Great sportsmanship!” said Mr. Mahovlich. “Or should I say sportspersonship?” He found that last part very funny. It made him laugh and laugh. “Now that’s out of the way, I’ll be hitting the road. But Foster here was wondering if he could stay and hang out with Bro for a bit.”
“Are they back yet?” Bertha said.
“Still at the lawyer’s,” Harmony said.
“Lawyer’s?” said Mr. Mahovlich. “I hope everything’s all right.”
“It most certainly is not,” Bertha said. “That fool sheriff of yours has gone and—”
“Whoa!” Mr. Mahovlich raised his hand. “Whoa there, Ms. Bertha! Whatever in the world makes you think Mr. Hunzinger is my sheriff? He’s all of our sheriff, duly elected by the citizens of the county.”
“Right,” said Bertha.
“But let’s not argue politics. Instead how about you fill me in on this problem, whatever it is?”
“Why would I do that?” Bertha said.
“Know how to keep your mouth shut, huh? I admire that. If you ever happen to be in the job market, look me up. And since you’re not going to spill the beans, how about I take a guess? This visit to the lawyer is all about a dog bite.”
Bertha blew air through her closed lips, one of the better human tricks; it makes a flappy sound that’s always nice to hear. “Bite? Barely a scratch, if that.”
“Are you saying the sheriff overreacted?”
“That’s putting it mildly. We’ve got a fraidycat for a sheriff.”
Oh, dear. Some human expressions make no sense. Fraidycat was one of them, maybe least sensible of all. And to hear it from Bertha, practically a member of the family? I was shocked.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Mr. Mahovlich was saying. “But tell you what. I’ll look into this, see if I can lower the temperature a little bit.”
“What do you mean by that?” Bertha said.
Mr. Mahovlich started in on an explanation. I paid no attention. Some human conversations go on and on, plus the whole fraidycat thing had put me in a bad mood. There’s a scratching post in the screened-in porch on the second floor that I sometimes take out my bad moods on, but it was winter, meaning the door to the screened-in porch was locked. Therefore I went the other way, down to the furnace room in search of mice. Even one single mouse would probably do.
It was quiet and dark in the old part of the basement, and I was part of that quietness and darkness in a way I doubt humans can ever be. I made my way around the old furnace and up the coal chute, where that fattish mouse and I had enjoyed a little sport not long ago. No sign of my old buddy now. I went up to the windowsill and gazed through the broken windowpane. The last time I’d taken in this view, snow had been falling and Harmony and Bro were coming across the meadow, trailed by a certain party, waddling his way home. How ridiculous he’d looked! Now there was no one to be seen and the sky was clear and the meadow white.
Arthur. What use was he to anyone? And where was he now? I wasn’t at all clear on that. What would happen to someone like him if he got into a ticklish situation? I don’t mean actually being tickled. He loves that, wriggles around the floor on his back in a way that’s just about unbearable to watch. Wherever he was, I doubted he was being tickled, or enjoying any of his various amusements, each one dumber than the last. The next thing I knew, I was easing myself through the broken windowpane, the jagged glass brushing through the fur on my back like a very sharp comb. Why? For Arthur? What a strange thought! But no other reason came to mind.
Presto! I was out in the world. I knew one thing right away: It had been way too long. I smelled the air, full of lovely outdoor smells, although none of them originated with Arthur. Was he with that dreadful man, Mr. Immler? I realized that finding Arthur was going to mean leaving the property. Fine with me. I hadn’t actually been off the property since summer. What an eventful time I’d had! If way too short. I recalled the ride back with Mom, and how she’d turned to me—I like to lie on the back shelf when I’m in her car—and said, “I know you’re just following your instincts, Queenie, but I wish you’d put a lid on it.” My takeaway from that had been that Mom still loved me, maybe more than ever. But I hadn’t been off the property since.
Ah, to be free! My bad mood started to lift and an idea came immediately. I decided to visit Willard’s General Store, partly because I knew the way, and partly bec
ause humans loved the sticky buns they sold at Willard’s and Mr. Immler was a human, although on the low end of the scale. I took a few silent steps in the cool snow, opening up the view beyond the breakfast nook. Meaning I couldn’t help but spot the bird feeder.
For some reason or other, the sight of the bird feeder made me go still, one of my front paws poised in elegant fashion. What a lovely picture that must have been, seen from one of the windows of the inn, for example. I hoped nothing like that was actually going on at the moment. Best to move on, Queenie, I thought to myself, but just as I did, a tiny red flutter in the big blue sky caught my attention, a tiny red flutter that grew bigger and took winged shape. In short, a cardinal. My bad mood flew away just like that—and at the very moment the bird flew in. How interesting! Was I about to make some amazing mental discovery about moods and flight?
No time for that now. The bird—the only redness in the whole great outdoors, at least my part of it—landed on a little dowel Elrod had so thoughtfully placed before the opening to the birdseed, giving any hungry birdie a place to stand. By the time my cardinal friend touched down, I was already close by, concealed by one of Mom’s flowerpots on the patio. From this particular flowerpot to the dowel on the bird feeder is a matter of two little springs to gather momentum and then one mighty leap, front paws at full extension.
None of that happens willy-nilly, by the way, in case you’re planning something along the same lines yourself. You have to be patient. Being patient means waiting until your bird stops checking out what’s around and gets its tiny mind going on the birdseed. When it finally sticks its head in is actually not the signal to go, not that first time. That first time is almost always a fake, as it was with my cardinal—and what a beauty, by the way! And a he, the bright-red ones being hes and the dull-red ones being shes, as I’d heard Harmony explain to Bro, although he’d shown no signs of listening.
So here came the fake—the head darting into the feeder but then quickly out again, those piercing birdie eyes on the lookout for losers who move too soon. I’m not one of those losers—or any sort of loser. I waited. After not too long—you never have to wait too long with birds, their lives winging by at a brisk pace, which you know for sure the first time you’ve got one between your teeth and feel that minuscule heart going a mile a—well, maybe too much information. Back to me waiting and the cardinal sticking his head into the feeder once more. The head stayed in longer this time, but it was still a fake, the bird suddenly turning and getting all watchful again. The third time was what I was looking for. I waited.
The cardinal finally made up his mind. I could see it happening. He stepped forward on the dowel, turned toward the opening in the bird feeder, and—
Bang! A window in the breakfast nook got opened in a forceful way. Harmony yelled, “Queenie! What do you think you’re doing?”
And my cardinal soared off into the sky, the breeze from his beating wings ruffling my whiskers. Meanwhile Harmony was giving me a look. This was a difficult situation. But here’s something about me—one more good something, if I can put it that way. In difficult situations I can keep my poise. I slowly sat down on the patio, taking what I assumed was a graceful position.
“You just wait right there,” Harmony called. “Don’t move an inch.”
Fine with me. The window closed with a thump. A patch of snow slid off the roof and landed with a plop. I waited. I didn’t move an inch. I didn’t have to wait, of course, and I could have moved much farther than an inch, but I did not. I was being nice.
The side door of the house opened and Harmony appeared, dressed for the outdoors. “Back soon,” she said over her shoulder, and came my way. And what a nice surprise! She was carrying my backpack.
“We’re going for a walk, you little devil,” she said, little devil being one of her cute nicknames for me. She set the backpack down, unzipped the see-through mesh part, and said, “In. Be good. This is about Matty, not you.”
Not about me? What an odd remark! But I hopped in anyway. So cozy inside the backpack. Harmony zipped up the mesh and hoisted me onto her front, which was how I liked to ride in the backpack. And then we were on the move, around the house and onto the road. One way led to Willard’s, the other toward the center of town. That was the direction we took. Lovely day for a walk, the air crisp but still, a car or two passing by, a squirrel in someone’s yard. I paid that squirrel no attention.
“What gets into you?” Harmony said.
Ah. So it was about me after all. I considered Harmony’s question—the answer had to be something good—as we crossed the village green and came to a small stone building.
“The library,” Harmony said. “Bertha says that Mrs. Hale likes cats. Get the picture?”
Certainly. Mrs. Hale, whoever she happened to be, was going to love me.
We entered the library, a place filled with all sorts of musty smells, woody and papery. Plus mouse smell and plenty of it. I filed that away for some future visit to the library, an on-my-own type of visit.
As for people, there was only one, an old woman behind a desk. She wore glasses, had snow-white hair piled high on her head and somehow frozen in place, and wore cardinal-colored lipstick. But getting past all those distractions, there was something very nice-looking about her. Not in a soft way, though. That would have been a mistaken notion. Better to make no mistakes when sizing up humans.
The old woman raised her head. “All backpacks must be checked at the desk,” she said. “Rule number one.”
“Okay,” Harmony said, “but—”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a cat in there?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Harmony.
“A cat in a backpack?”
“A special backpack just for cats,” Harmony said. “Her name’s Queenie and she loves the backpack.”
“No pets,” said the old woman. “Rule number two.”
“Oh, well, maybe I’ll leave the backpack just outside the—”
“Queenie, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Fine name for a cat. Who gave it to her?”
“Actually, it was me,” Harmony said. “My name’s—”
“I know who you are.”
“You do? But I’ve never set foot here.”
“Exactly,” said the old woman. “What sort of cat is Queenie?”
“Well, she’s very smart,” Harmony said.
“What would happen if we let her out of the bag?”
Harmony was silent for a moment. Then she laughed. Did a tiny smile flash on the old woman’s face? I thought I caught it. As for what was funny, I was a bit puzzled.
“She’ll be good,” Harmony said.
“Then ring freedom’s bell!”
No bell rang, which was welcome news: The sound couldn’t be more irritating. Harmony placed the backpack on the desk and unzipped the mesh cover. I stepped out.
“Ah,” the old woman said, “a twenty-four-carat beauty.”
What a nice thing to say, even if carrots did nothing for me. I glided across the desk and straight onto the old woman’s lap.
“Well, well,” she said, and stroked my back. And she was good at it, very close to being in Matty’s league. I wondered about organizing a competition between them.
“Are you Mrs. Hale?” Harmony said.
“Correct,” said Mrs. Hale, still stroking me. “What can I do for you, Harmony?”
“Well,” Harmony said. “It’s about Mr. LeMaire. I was wondering about his visit here to the library.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the stupid—because the sheriff thinks Matty Comeau is the murderer.”
“So I heard.”
“But Matty would never do something like that! And I was thinking that maybe Mr. LeMaire left some clues.”
“What kind of clues?”
“Clues that would lead to the real killer.”
Mrs. Hale’s hand came to rest. She gave Harmony a long look. “Any thoughts on wh
at you’d like to be when you grow up?” she asked.
Harmony looked surprised. “No.”
“Is there anything you’re passionate about?”
“Hockey.”
Hockey? I hoped there wasn’t going to be much discussion about hockey. What I wanted was more stroking. I considered digging my claws into Mrs. Hale’s arm, just very lightly, to send the message, and decided against it.
“But right now,” Harmony went on, “I—”
“Right now you’d like to pick my brain,” said Mrs. Hale, and she resumed stroking me, so we were back on course. “All I can tell you is what I told the sheriff. This LeMaire character wanted to know all about the old Sokoki Trail.”
“Like what?”
“If I knew of any digging that had gone on up there, for one thing, which I did not.”
“He was looking for artifacts?”
“That’s what I assumed, and what I told the sheriff.” Mrs. Hale’s hand went still again. “Although, come to think of it, he never actually mentioned artifacts himself. Just the digging part. He showed me a map he had of the Mount Misty region—just the trail map from the Park Service—and asked if we had any older maps. I found one in the Historical Society Room and showed it to him and he made a copy.”
“An old map?”
“Dated 1930.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure.” Mrs. Hale rose, with me in her arms. There was a lot to like about Mrs. Hale. The three of us went into a small, wood-paneled room with some framed maps on the wall and old leather-bound books on the shelves. “It’s in the bottom drawer on the left-hand side,” said Mrs. Hale.
Harmony knelt and opened the drawer. Her face got puzzled. “I don’t see an old map, Mrs. Hale. There’s only this.” She held up something folded and brightly colored.
“Why, that’s just the regular Park Service map,” Mrs. Hale said. She carried me over to the drawer and we peered inside. The drawer was empty. “I don’t understand.”
“Was Mr. LeMaire alone in here?” Harmony said.
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