The raccoon checked the contents of the envelope, nodded at Vera, and the two went their separate ways. As Vera made her way to the police department, she wondered if Edward would have reported the break-in to the cops.
“Well,” she said to herself as she trotted along the street, “I’m headed to the right place to find out!”
Vera strolled down Main Street, noting that several windows had sprouted signs overnight, saying Braun for Chief and Braun’s Our Bear! The bright yellow signs were certainly distinctive, and she was pleased that so many residents recognized that Orville would be a good choice.
When Vera reached the police station, Orville was the only one there, with the exception of an elderly rabbit snoring loudly in the first cell.
“Drunk and disorderly,” Orville whispered to Vera. “It’s Josiah Leveritt, and he does this from time to time, whenever he gets a little too enthusiastic about tasting the new cider batches each fall. I thought I’d just let him sleep it off.”
“Where’s Chief Meade?”
Orville made a face. “Down at the printing office. He hasn’t had to actually campaign in years, so now he needs signs like mine. I told him not to use yellow. And I told the printer not to let him use yellow.”
Sensible, Vera thought. “I wish I could take a sign and put it up in front of my place, but you know I can’t.”
“It’s ok, Vera. But if you’re not here to talk about the campaign, what are you here for?”
“Oh, the usual weekly column. How’s the blotter look? Any interesting crimes reported? I doubt a drunk rabbit will grab readers.”
Orville shook his big, shaggy head. “Absolutely nothing else. I actually got a quiet night just when I needed it. Campaigning is like working two extra jobs!”
“Nothing was reported?” Vera was surprised, to say the least. “Not even a theft or a break-in?”
“Nope. Why?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.
She covered quickly. “Well, I need to write up something in the column! Say, what happened when you went to speak to Ambrosius Heidegger about the mysterious book rearranger?”
Orville rolled his eyes. “Oh, that. It was nothing. Just the old professor going a bit dotty…er, you know what I mean…” He paused, looking abashed at the poor choice of words.
“Absent-minded?” Vera suggested, to save him more embarrassment.
“Yes, exactly. Apparently, he’d gone to visit his cousins for a couple of weeks, and he only returned the night before the festival. He got home at five in the morning—just before bedtime for an owl—and he insists that someone had been in his house, reading the books and moving things around. And that his larder had been raided.”
“Was there evidence for that? I mean, other than Heidegger’s memory of where the books were?”
“Of course not!” Orville replied. “Things were a bit messy, true, but he’s not the tidiest creature in the first place. I didn’t see anything to suggest an intruder, and if Heidegger reported that his pantry was suddenly bare, well, perhaps he just forgot to do the shopping before he left. It was all a waste of time.”
“Hmm. I’m sure he just made a mistake. But it’s not like Heidegger to make that much of a fuss, is it?”
“It’s not like Dorothy Springfield to say her husband is dead,” Orville pointed out. “It’s not like me to run for office. And yet, here we all are. There must be something in the water.”
“Well, I’ll keep an eye out for more odd behavior. But I still need a topic to write about for tomorrow’s issue.”
“You could point out that Shady Hollow is actually quite peaceful, thanks to the work of law enforcement.”
“Or maybe I’ll steal a pumpkin pie from Joe and write about how it was totally worth it.”
“I’ll have to lock you up if you do, Miss Vixen. Confessing in the paper would be a big mistake, even if Joe didn’t report it.”
Vera chuckled, but his words made her wonder why Edward Springfield hadn’t reported the thief in the night, or the broken lamp. It was as odd as Heidegger’s insistence on a thief that wasn’t there.
She said goodbye to Orville and wandered outside, hoping to get some inspiration for her column. The truth was that Shady Hollow was a fairly quiet place most of the time, and the newspaper sometimes lacked articles more exciting than “Acorn Flour Mishap Covers Maple Street in ‘Snow’” or “Annual Quilting Gala Announced.” It was a source of frequent pain to BW Stone, who dreamed of heart-stopping headlines every single day.
The total lack of crime-based news left Vera without any obvious story to write for tomorrow’s edition. However, she found out that the rabbit who usually handled the obituaries was home with a bad cold, so she jumped to volunteer.
“I’ll be happy to write up the obituary,” Vera said, grabbing the fat news file on the late Adora Springfield. In fact, she was eager to delve into the Springfield family’s history.
Vera wanted to get a quote from Dot about Mrs. Springfield, something nice and loving to lead the article with. But on arriving at the hospital, she was informed that Dot had checked out.
“She hasn’t gone back home, has she?” Vera asked in surprise. Would Dot have changed her mind so soon? Or was Edward able to persuade her that the danger was all in her head?
“Oh, no, Miss Vixen,” the squirrel at the desk said. “She moved to a secret location. For her safety and well-being, we’re absolutely forbidden to say where.” The squirrel leaned over and whispered, “She got a room at Bramblebriar.”
“Ah, thank you,” Vera said. “But maybe don’t tell that to everyone who asks.”
“You got it, Miss Vixen,” the squirrel said cheerfully.
Bramblebriar was Shady Hollow’s most charming inn. If anyone was doubtful about that, the fact was clearly stated on the sign nailed to the fence outside:
Bramblebriar Bed & Breakfast
Shady Hollow’s Most Charming Inn
Not that there’s
