Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Coda

  The office of Percival Smidgely, PI, was situated on the third floor of the historic Blinkhopp Building in downtown Gizzford.

  In Percival’s office, there was a desk and a window. There were also several chairs and an elderly rubber plant.

  The rubber plant had lost most of its leaves to time and neglect, and the six leaves that remained were coated in a thick layer of dust.

  The window in Percival’s office looked out on a brick wall.

  Sometimes, in the late afternoon, the window grudgingly admitted a small square of sunlight that appeared and then quickly disappeared. It was almost as if the sun were embarrassed to show up in such a dingy office.

  A single pigeon had taken up residence on the window’s narrow ledge.

  This pigeon was prone to staring in the window at Percival Smidgely in a judgmental way.

  Percival Smidgely did not mind being judged by a pigeon because Percival was a man who believed that he was destined for great things.

  He was a man with a moustache and a detective license.

  He was a man with a sign on the door that read: PERCIVAL SMIDGELY, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.

  Percival’s girlfriend had stenciled the sign for him.

  Sometimes, Percival would get up from his desk and go out into the hallway and admire the sign on his door and then he would come back into the office and close the door and sit at his desk and twirl his moustache and consider the great things he was surely destined to do.

  Also, he stared at the phone. He waited for it to ring.

  When the phone did ring, it was usually Percival’s girlfriend, Louella Smith.

  “Don’t call me at work,” said Percival Smidgely.

  “But that’s what I’m calling about,” said Louella, “to see if you have any work.”

  “The world is full of mysteries, Louella. The world is full of missing people and lost items. Eventually, those mysteries will find their way to the door of Percival Smidgely, PI.”

  “When?” said Louella.

  Percival hung up the phone.

  He twirled his moustache.

  The pigeon stared at him. The square of sunlight appeared and then quickly disappeared. The dust on the six leaves of the rubber plant grew the tiniest bit thicker.

  Percival Smidgely got up and looked at his sign: PERCIVAL SMIDGELY, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.

  Yep.

  The mysteries would present themselves.

  On a bright morning in early autumn, Percival sat at his desk reading the Gizzford Gazette. He was keeping an eye open for potential mysteries.

  The headlines, however, were not very mysterious.

  NEW TRAFFIC LIGHT AT TWINKLE AND MAIN

  BUTTER BARREL CANDY FACTORY BEGINS PRODUCTION IN GIZZFORD

  IMOGENE FAULKNER CELEBRATES 100TH BIRTHDAY IN STYLE

  The pigeon shifted her position on the window ledge and stared in at Percival with beady, judgmental eyes.

  More dust settled onto the leaves of the rubber plant.

  The office was very quiet.

  Percival rattled the pages of the newspaper.

  He read another headline.

  I-16 TO BE REPAVED

  That was a good thing. No one should have to drive on bumpy roads.

  Surely, if Percival Smidgely waited patiently, fate would intervene, and the mysteries would present themselves.

  Surely, the mysteries would appear.

  On a bright morning in early autumn, Mercy Watson went missing.

  Mrs. Watson looked in the pig’s room.

  “Mercy?” she said.

  No one answered.

  “Hmmm,” said Mrs. Watson.

  She went downstairs and looked in the kitchen.

  There was no pig in the kitchen.

  “Hmmm,” said Mrs. Watson.

  She walked into the living room. Mr. Watson was, as usual, sitting on the couch. His face was obscured by the Gizzford Gazette. The headlines shouted information about traffic lights and birthday parties and Butter Barrels.

  “Have you seen Mercy?” said Mrs. Watson.

  “I have not,” said Mr. Watson.

  Mrs. Watson felt a pebble of worry in her stomach.

  “I’ll just check at the neighbors’,” she said.

  “Excellent,” said Mr. Watson.

  But Mercy was not at the Lincoln sisters’ house.

  “What would that pig be doing here?” said Eugenia Lincoln.

  “Mercy is missing?” said Baby Lincoln. Her worried face hovered behind Eugenia’s for just a moment before Eugenia closed the door (slammed it, actually) in Mrs. Watson’s face.

  Eugenia Lincoln could be quite abrupt at times. Mrs. Watson tried not to let it hurt her feelings.

  She went down the street to the Endicotts’ house.

  Frank answered the door.

  “Have you seen Mercy?” asked Mrs. Watson.

  “No,” said Frank. “Is she missing?”

  “I don’t know if she’s missing exactly,” said Mrs. Watson. “It’s just that she’s not where I would expect her to be.”

  “Maybe she’s playing hide-and-seek,” said Frank’s sister, Stella.

  “I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Watson. “At least, I’ve never known her to do such a thing.”

  Still, in the spirit of a potential game of hide-and-seek, Mrs. Watson went up and down Deckawoo Drive. She looked under cars and searched behind trees. She peeped into garages and lifted the lid on garbage cans.

  Not that Mercy would hide in a garbage can. She was not that kind of pig.

  What kind of pig was she?

  Well, she was the kind of pig who liked to eat toast with a great deal of butter on it.

  Oh, toast with a great deal of butter!

  The comfort of it! The warmth of it!

  Mrs. Watson felt a sudden over-whelming urge to make toast even though there was no Mercy to make it for.

  “Mercy?” she called. “My darling? My dear?”

  Mrs. Watson returned to 54 Deckawoo Drive with dread in her heart. What had started as a pebble of worry was turning into a boulder of despair.

  Mercy lent weight and shape and wonder to all of Mrs. Watson’s days.

  Life without her was unimaginable.

  “Mr. Watson,” said Mrs. Watson, “I have some alarming news.”

  “Alarming news?” said Mr. Watson. He stood up. The paper fell from his hands.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Watson. “I think that Mercy might be missing.”

  “Oh, no!” said Mr. Watson.

  “I’ve walked the length of Deckawoo Drive,” said Mrs. Watson. “I’ve searched and searched and she is nowhere to be found.”

  “We must call the fire department immediately!” said Mr. Watson.

  The fire department was Mr. Watson’s default solution for every crisis. He had an unshakeable faith in a firefighter’s ability to bring order to a too-often disordered world.

  Ned answered the phone at the fire station.

  “Ned,” said Mr. Watson. “It’s Mr. Watson here. Mercy is missing!”

  “The pig?” said Ned.

  “The porcine wonder,” said Mr. Watson. “We can’t find her. Mrs. Watson has done a very thorough search and our darling is nowhere to be found. Please come immediately.”

  Ned said, “Mr. Watson, it’s not really a fire department situation. I mean, as a rule, we don’t deal in missing pigs.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake,” said Mr. Watson. “Why not?”

  There was a long silence.

  Ned cleared his throat. He said, “Mr. Watson? You might have to call Animal Control.”

  “Animal Control?” said Mr. Watson. He felt his face getting warm. He hung up the phone without even saying good-bye.

  Mr. Watson felt humiliated, dispirited, at sea. What was the world coming to when the fire department couldn’t assist a person in a time of crisis?

  “What did they say?” said Mrs. Watson. “Are they on their way?”

  “I’ve been advised to call Animal Control,” said Mr. Watson.

  “Oh, Mr. Watson,” said Mrs. Watson.

  “Don’t worry,” he said.

  “I think I’ll just go and make some toast, in case she comes home,” said Mrs. Watson.

  “Excellent idea,” said Mr. Watson

  He sighed a heavy sigh. He stared at the phone. And then he picked it up and dialed.

  “Animal Control,” said a voice on the other end. “This is Francine Poulet.”

  The smell of toast wafted from the kitchen.

  Mr. Watson heard Mrs. Watson crying. He hated it when Mrs. Watson cried.

  “Miss Poulet,” said Mr. Watson. “This is Mr. Watson over on Deckawoo Drive. We’re looking for Mercy Watson.”

  He heard the creak of a chair. Francine Poulet sighed. “

The pig?” she said.

  “The porcine wonder,” said Mr. Watson.

  “Nope,” said Francine Poulet.

  “Nope?” said Mr. Watson.

  “Nope,” said Francine Poulet. “That pig’s a pet. I don’t deal in missing pig pets.”

  “She’s not a pig pet. She’s Mercy.”

  Mr. Watson hung up on Francine Poulet and then reached out his hand. He was searching for Mercy’s head. Mr. Watson liked to rest his hand between her ears. It helped him think. It comforted him.

  But Mercy’s head, of course, was not there.

  Mercy Watson was missing! How terrible! How unbelievable!

  Something must be done!

  Mr. Watson dialed the police.

  “Officer Tomilello here,” said Officer Tomilello.

  “Officer Tomilello, this is Mr. Watson over on Deckawoo Drive. Mercy has gone missing.”

  “Are you speaking of your pig?” said Officer Tomilello. And then the police officer answered his own question. “You are speaking of your pig.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Watson, who was now frustrated beyond all measure. “I’m speaking of my pig.”

  “Are missing pigs a police department matter?” said Officer Tomilello.

  There was a long pause in which Mr. Watson waited for Officer Tomilello to answer his own question.

  In the silence, Mr. Watson could hear the birds singing.

  How could the birds sing when Mercy was missing?

  “Missing pigs are not a police department matter,” said Officer Tomilello at last.

  “Thank you so much for absolutely nothing,” said Mr. Watson. Again, he slammed down the phone.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Mr. Watson had the ridiculously hopeful thought that it was Mercy Watson, returning home and surprising him by knocking at the door.

  It was not Mercy.

  It was Frank and Stella Endicott. And also, Baby Lincoln.

  Frank said, “Did you find her, Mr. Watson?”

  “No,” said Mr. Watson. “I’ve called the fire department and Animal Control and also the police. They all insist that they don’t deal in missing pigs. Clearly, porcine wonders do not matter to them.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Stella. “We’ll find her.”

  “Of course we will,” said Baby Lincoln.

  “I’ve brought a notebook,” said Frank, “and also a pencil. I thought we might brainstorm some ideas for how best to proceed.”

  Mr. Watson felt a wave of gratitude so profound that it made his knees weak. He leaned up against the door.

  It was good to have friends and neighbors in such a troublesome world.

  “Please,” said Mr. Watson. “Come in.”

  “What should we do, Frank?” said Mr. Watson.

  Frank inhaled deeply.

  The Watsons’ house smelled like toast. It was a good smell, a comforting smell.

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Stella. “My friend Horace Broom has a telescope and we can use that to look for her.”

  Frank said, “I don’t think we need a telescope quite yet. Let’s all go into the kitchen and have some toast and we’ll figure out how to proceed.”

  Mr. Watson leaned on Frank just a little as they all made their way to the kitchen. There, they found Mrs. Watson standing in front of the toaster, weeping quietly.

  “Oh, Frank,” said Mrs. Watson. “She has never, ever disappeared. She doesn’t like to go very far from the toaster.”

  “Or the couch,” said Mr. Watson.

  “Let’s make a list,” said Frank.

  Frank found list-making to be a very helpful undertaking. Even the biggest questions, the most impenetrable myst-eries (Who are we? What are we doing here?) could be approached more confidently with a notebook and a pencil.

  “Let’s think of all the people Mercy knows and all the places she might go,” said Frank. He opened his notebook.

  “There’s Leroy Ninker,” said Stella. “And his horse, Maybelline. Mercy might have gone looking for them. Also, Leroy has a lasso. That would be helpful, right? He could lasso Mercy if he found her!”

  “Hmm,” said Frank. “I suppose.” He wrote down Leroy Ninker, Maybelline, lasso. “Also,” he said, “Mercy sometimes goes truffle hunting with Gaston LaTreaux. We’ll contact him.”

  He wrote down LaTreaux, truffles.

  “Do you think it’s possible she got on a train?” said Baby Lincoln.

  “By herself?” said Frank.

  “Well,” said Baby Lincoln, “anything can happen. People, and pigs, do go on unexpected and sometimes necessary journeys.”

  Frank nodded. He wrote down trains and unexpected (necessary?) journeys.

  Mr. Watson said, “What if someone took her?”

  Mrs. Watson let out a sob.

  “You mean pig-napped her?” said Stella.

  “Don’t write it down, Frank,” said Mrs. Watson. “It’s too terrible a thought.”

  Frank looked at what he had written so far: Leroy Ninker, Maybelline, lasso, LaTreaux, truffles, trains, unexpected (necessary?) journeys.

  His notes resembled the beginning of some strange fairy tale, or a very bad poem. The list’s eclecticism, its supreme oddness, made Frank think about his friend Buddy Lamp, who owned a store called Buddy Lamp’s Used Goods.

  In his store, Buddy Lamp had two pink chairs sitting side by side.

  Those chairs were a very good place to sit and contemplate the mysteries of the world. Sometimes, sitting in a pink chair next to Buddy Lamp gave rise to a revelatory thought or two.

  Frank wrote down: Buddy Lamp, pink chairs, revelatory thoughts.

  Mrs. Watson was crying again.

  From next door came the sound of music. Eugenia Lincoln was playing her accordion.

  She was indulging in some sort of upbeat jig. It was the type of song that seemed a little inappropriate for the morose, missing-pig situation in which they had found themselves.

  Frank closed the notebook.

  He said, “Stella, go and get Horace Broom. He can help us with our search, I’m sure. Miss Lincoln, if you could contact Gaston LaTreaux and ask him if he has seen Mercy, that would be helpful. I’ve got a couple angles of my own that I’ll work.”

  “What should Mr. Watson and I do?” said Mrs. Watson.

  “Sit tight and hold down the fort. Someone needs to be here if she comes home. And don’t worry. We’ll find her.”

  Alas, Frank spoke with far more confidence than he felt.

  Mercy Watson represented joy, chaos, possibility.

  Without her, Baby Lincoln felt as if a layer of glumness had settled over the world.

  Apparently, Eugenia did not feel the same way.

  When Baby returned home, she found Eugenia dancing around the living room, playing a jig on the accordion.

  Baby said, “Sister, Mercy Watson is missing.”

  “Yes,” said Eugenia. “I know. That pig has been the bane of my existence, and this is a happy, happy day.”

  “Oh, sister,” said Baby. “You shouldn’t take joy in other people’s suffering.”

  “Schadenfreude,” said Eugenia.

  “How’s that?” said Baby.

  “Schadenfreude is the word for taking joy in another’s suffering. But that is not what’s happening here. Rather, I am taking joy in my liberation from that pig’s reign of terror.”

  Eugenia went back to playing the accordion.

  Baby sighed. She should, she supposed, do as Frank instructed and contact Mr. LaTreaux.

  “Yes, hello?” said Gaston LaTreaux when he answered the phone. “All things are available.”

  “Hello, Mr. LaTreaux. This is Baby Lincoln over on Deckawoo Drive.”

  “Yes, I will be there immediately.”

  “Actually,” said Baby. “Your presence itself is not necessary. It’s just that Mercy is gone and I had a . . . hello? Hello?”

  But Gaston LaTreaux had hung up.

  “My goodness,” said Baby.

  A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

  “Gaston LaTreaux at your service,” said Gaston LaTreaux. He removed his velvet hat from his head and bowed deeply. Replacing his hat, he held out a business card that said Contact your dearly departed via spiritual guides. Absolutely legitimate and fact-based.

  “Mr. LaTreaux,” said Baby. She looked over her shoulder.

  Eugenia was not fond of Gaston LaTreaux. She said that he was a schemer—a criminal at worst, an opportunist in velvet pants at best.

 

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