I glanced at my father. “P.T.?”

  He told me P.T. would explain, himself, called to Truman that dinner was almost ready, and ushered the kid inside to wash his hands.

  Meanwhile, P.T. dropped Twirly Twine Twister onto the lawn and bent over to catch his breath. “We got creamed,” he said, and I picked up the slinky before Rose ate it.

  “What are you doing here?” I realized how rude that sounded. “I mean, it’s nice to see you, and thanks for playing with Truman—”

  “But what am I doing here.” He stood upright and breathed normally. “Sarah sent me.”

  “Why?”

  “She wants everyone safe,” P.T. said. So she’d ordered him to hang out at our house during his off-duty hours, especially during Truman’s after school hours, and before I got home from work.

  I had to admit seeing the uniform was reassuring. “But I can’t pay you.”

  “I know that.” He pointed to the slinky I was holding and insisted it wasn’t really work. “Truman’s a great kid.”

  “He hasn’t asked why you’re here?”

  “I told him it’s a secret. Kids like secrets.”

  I thanked him for being a such a great kid person and invited him for dinner, but my father had already covered that, and P.T. had already declined. He told me he’d get Rose and Ruby pointed toward Oden’s farm and then head out himself.

  “I know you guys will be a little rushed to get to Bingo,” he said. “Nice timing for Captain Sterling’s press conference.”

  “You’ve talked to Jason?”

  He had. Evidently the Vermont State Troopers, the Hanahan sheriff’s office, and the Hilleville police department keep each other informed about these things. P.T. mentioned that he’d also warned my father and Joe about the press conference, and the two of them were on board to keep questions and curious onlookers away from Truman at Bingo.

  I stated the obvious—that every Elizabethan, other than blind as a bat Fanny Baumgarten, attends Lake Bess Bingo. “And let’s face it,” I said. “They’re a nosy bunch.”

  “But they’re also kind-hearted,” P.T. insisted. “They’ll be discrete in front of the little boy,” he added, and we both instinctively glanced at Maxine’s house.

  “I’ll talk to her,” I said.

  P.T. agreed that might be wise and turned to where the goats had been devouring some shrubs near Joe’s driveway. “Where’d they go?” he asked, and I told him Rose and Ruby gather no moss.

  “They may eat moss,” I said. “But they do not gather it.”

  ***

  “Where’d she go?” Truman asked as we sat down to dinner.

  “Rose and Ruby?” I asked. “Oden’s goats always travel as a team.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Evadeen Deyo.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” I turned to my father and mentioned that last we’d heard, Evadeen had stormed out of the Destiny in a great big huff. “Where’d she go?”

  Dad sighed. “I’m afraid she’s left Flickle altogether. Hitchhiking of all things. Chance Dooley is beside himself with worry.”

  I defined hitchhiking for the little man and asked the old man if Commissioner Dingle knew Evadeen had skipped town.

  Dad sighed again. “Not yet, and Chance is hesitant to tell him.”

  “Evadeen’s in big trouble!” Truman said.

  “Indeed,” Dad agreed. “She’s a fugitive from the law.”

  I defined fugitive, but also explained it’s usually the bad guy on the run. “And we know Evadeen’s a good guy. She made a mistake is all.”

  Dad shook his head. “That is not how Commissioner Dingle will see it, girl. He’ll assume Evadeen is in cahoots with Bridget Brittle and the notorious Stars Ajar Gang.”

  “Well then, Chance better hop in his Destiny and go find Evadeen before Dingle does.”

  “So she doesn’t get in trouble,” Truman added.

  Mr. Sci Fi Author insisted it wasn’t that easy. “First of all, Chance doesn’t know where she went. He can’t just go flying off every which way.”

  I turned to the kid. “Let’s look for her at Bingo tonight.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Evadeen’s pretend.”

  “And let us not forget Commissioner Dingle.” Dad pointed his fork toward the living room—specifically toward the Spaceship Destiny, still languishing beneath the coffee table. “He put Chance under strict orders not to leave Flickle. The Destiny is grounded until further notice.”

  I winked at Truman. “What. A surprise.”

  ***

  The little guy took off down Leftside Lane. “Let’s race!” he called back.

  “Truman, wait!” I started running. “He can’t be alone!” I called back to my father and Joe.

  I guess Joe ran, too, because he caught up and held out a hand to stop me. “I’ll get Truman, and you talk to Maxine.” He turned me around and then raced ahead.

  I walked back toward Bobby, and when we crossed paths, he also scolded me to stick with the plan—the guys were to walk Truman to Bingo at Town Hall and protect him from any nosy questions curious onlookers. Meanwhile, I was in charge of the most nosy and curious of all.

  I told my father he had the better end of the bargain and braced myself for a chat with Maxine Tibbitts.

  ***

  “Yoo-hoo? Anyone home?” I poked my head through the door, and a hand reached out and pulled me inside. Another hand shoved the Hanahan Herald at me.

  “I’m so glad you stopped by!” Maxine said. “I’ve been waiting for the tyke to leave so we could have a nice chat.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You could have stopped by, Maxine. Truman doesn’t bite.”

  She told me she’d take my word for it and tapped the Herald. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “It’s something, alright.” I offered to take her for the short drive to Bingo.

  She gasped and stepped backward.

  “Truman’s walking,” I added, and she allowed me to usher her out.

  ***

  I took the long route around Elizabeth Circle. That way we’d avoid passing Truman and the guys on their walk, and more importantly, that way I’d have a few more minutes to explain the problem—make that, the problems—to Maxine.

  “Murder!?” she said before we’d cleared Leftside Lane onto Elizabeth Circle.

  “Ransacking!?” she said as we neared Mallard Cove.

  “Arson!?” she asked as we passed Oden Poquette’s farm. Clearly, she was catching on to the extent of the problems. “And now, because of Lake Bess Lore everyone knows where the child is,” she whined. “He’s in danger because of me. How could I have been so careless?”

  As I rounded the curve toward the east side of the lake, I blamed myself, too. “I asked for your help,” I reminded her, but as gently as possible, also told her I hadn’t expected to see the details in her column, “I wish you had asked me first, Maxine.”

  “You and me both,” she said. She lamented that she hadn’t found “hide nor hair” of any long lost Tripps or Abernathys. “Nothing in the library records, nor in the Herald archives,” she said. “Lake Bess Lore seemed the next logical step.”

  “At least you didn’t mention the kidnapping thing.”

  “Of course not! I knew that was a secret.” She whined again. “But thanks to me, little else is.”

  “Maybe secrets aren’t all they’re cut out to be,” I said. “Maybe a little publicity is a good thing.”

  Maxine glanced sideways. “Cassie, honey, are you feeling well?”

  I shrugged and mentioned Jason’s press conference, scheduled to begin any minute. “The rest of Vermont will learn the truth while we Elizabethans play Bingo.” I pointed ahead to Town Hall. “But no one in there knows it was murder yet, so let’s keep it that way through this evening? For Truman’s sake?”

  Maxine assured me no one would hear anything else from her. “I’ve learned my lesson,” she said. “No more jumping the gun without first discussing it with you.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

  “Speaking of guns,” she said, and I suddenly started worrying again. “Now that there’s a clear and present danger, I’ll keep Daddy’s shotgun handy.”

  “No!”

  “But it came in handy last summer.”

  I parked the car and turned. “Let’s leave the heroics to the pros this time.”

  Maxine blinked. “Cassie, honey,” she said. “Are you feeling well?”

  ***

  If you’re ever in northern Vermont on a Wednesday night, come join us at Lake Bess Bingo. It won’t be the most exciting night of your life, but for two dollars—one for admission fee, and one to buy three Bingo cards—you’ll get at least five dollars worth of entertainment. And proceeds go to a good cause—school supplies for the Lake School.

  No big surprise, the Lake Bess Bingo staff is volunteer. Mimi Gallipeau collects the entrance fees, and her husband Maurice is our emcee. He’s a little older than my father, and although Bobby’s pretty spry for seventy, Maurice is downright remarkable. He’s an acrobat, a dancer, a juggler, a singer, and a magician, and he pulls out all the stops to make Bingo as exciting as Bingo can be. And then there’s me. As the official Miss Looney Tunes of Vermont, I guess it’s only fitting that I’m the official Lake Bess Bingo caller.

  I left Maxine to find herself a seat, slipped past Mimi, and aimed for the stage where Maurice was waiting with a million questions. I made sure the microphone was turned off, and we had a hushed and hurried conversation about Truman.

  “Everyone wants to meet him after reading the Herald,” Maurice told me, and I glanced down at the crowd surrounding Truman.

  My father and Joe aren’t trained bodyguards, but they were handling the situation pretty well. And good old Miss Rusty was doing a great job distracting Truman from anything any of the grown-ups were discussing. Evert Osgood’s incredibly cute basset hound is a regular at Lake Bess Bingo, and like the kids do every week, Truman, Prissy Ott, and a few others were taking turns petting her ears and giggling when she wagged her tail.

  “You want I should make an announcement?” Maurice asked.

  “No! We’re trying to protect Truman from publicity.”

  Maurice scowled. “Then how will you ever find his family?”

  I waved away the question and suggested we keep up a rapid pace. “Let’s keep the crowd focused not—not, not—on Truman,” I whispered.

  Maurice agreed to try, blew his whistle, and performed three cartwheels to get the ball rolling. And by the time I helped him to his feet, the crowd was ready and waiting.

  Things started out smoothly enough. Maurice told his requisite bad joke, always involving a Vermont farmer, a cow, and a hapless tourist unwise to Vermont ways, Beverly Crick won the first game and chose one of Mimi’s homemade apple pies. Then Evert Osgood won and for his prize chose a chew toy for Miss Rusty. Everyone seemed happy, and Maurice was leading us in a rousing rendition of A Dog Named Bingo when Ms. Mauve walked in.

  Oh. Goody.

  ***

  In typical Ms. Mauve-fashion, she had trouble finding the dollar entrance fee. She gave up on locating anything in her huge satchel, dug into the pocket of her baggy jeans, and eventually found some loose change. She handed that to Mimi, but then had trouble finding another dollar to pay for her cards.

  She’d finally accomplished that task when she spotted me on stage. Oh, but then she spotted Joe. Not Truman. Joe. And boy, did she hustle herself over to the empty seat to his left. Where she promptly dropped her Bingo cards.

  Like something out of an outdated movie, Ms. Mauve played the part of the damsel in distress who has dropped her hanky, and Joe had his role as the gentleman making a show of retrieving it. Mr. Mad Scientist as a romantic hero? In a word—nauseating.

  “Pick up the pace,” Maurice whispered to me.

  Oh, right.

  I announced our last game before intermission would be Big Four Corners, and Truman won. He was so excited! He ran up to the prize table and scanned his options. I assumed he’d choose a yo-yo, or Frisbee, or some other kid toy, but instead he picked up the miniature flashlight.

  He spun around. “Look, Grandpa Bobby! A special spy drum drive!”

  “What’s that?” Prissy asked.

  Dad told her Truman would explain during intermission, and everyone scrambled out of their seats and through the door. It’s tradition for the crowd to walk across the dirt parking lot to the Lake Store for a creamie—creamies being Vermont’s answer to soft-serve ice cream.

  As I stepped off the stage, the Leftside Lane gang told me that was where they were headed, too. Joe was the last to leave. He squeezed my shoulders and stepped away toward the door. Ms. Mauve watched him. I watched Ms. Mauve.

  He cleared the door, and she turned to me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said immediately. “I had no idea Maxine would put that stuff about Truman’s family in the paper. She’s a librarian, so I thought she would—” I stopped. “I don’t know what I thought she would do, but I am sorry.”

  “No, Dr. Baxter. I’m sorry. You must think me extremely negligent.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I haven’t been by to see you since Monday evening. But my case load is always so busy in the fall.”

  In case you haven’t quite caught on, I hadn’t missed Ms. Mauve all that much. But I did sincerely thank her for getting Truman registered at the Lake School.

  “How is he getting on?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Pretty well, I think.”

  “And I hear you’re handling things very well.”

  “I am?” I asked. “I mean, I am.” I scowled. “Who have you been talking to?”

  Chapter 26

  I sank into the purple rocking chair. “Where’s the wine?”

  “Coming up.” Joe got up to go to our kitchen, and I spoke to my father. “Why did I have to open that can of worms?”

  “What can is that, girl?”

  I pointed to the ceiling. “The where’s my computer can.” Instead of a bedtime story, Truman and I had done some spelling. “I’ve been wondering if he knows his alphabet.”

  “Bingo proved that,” Joe said. He handed me a glass and went back to the counter for his and Bobby’s.

  “But stupid me had to take it one step further,” I said. “I asked if he can spell his name. He can. Then I asked if he could write it. Yes again, and you’ll never guess what else he can do.”

  “He can type it on his computer.” Joe took the chair opposite me.

  “Bingo. He wanted to show me.”

  “But Captain Sterling has his kiddie computer,” Dad said.

  Hence, the can of worms. “Let’s distract him if he asks for it tomorrow,” I said.

  “You mean when he asks,” Joe said. “Now that he has this in his head, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

  I sipped my wine. “He’s a good speller. We tried Cosmic Cow. He knows cow, but we skipped cosmic.” I smiled. “He can now spell Bobby, and Joe was easy.”

  “What about Cassie?” Joe asked.

  “The i-e ending confused him.” I looked at my father. “We’re also working on grandpa. It’s great that he’s called you Grandpa Bobby in front of Ms. Mauve. Well done.”

  “He called Joe his Uncle Joe, too.”

  I scowled. “I wonder why he doesn’t call me Aunt Cassie?”

  “Have you asked him?”

  Well. No.

  I moved on. “I wonder what Ms. Mauve was doing there tonight?” I asked, and Bobby said he was relieved she hadn’t arrested me.

  Joe shook his head. “No one’s going to arrest your daughter, Bobby. The social worker was just being conscientious.”

  “That, or she likes Bingo.” Dad squinted. “That, or she likes you.”

  “Bin-go.” That was me.

  Joe cleared his throat and asked about our conversation during intermission.

  “She was pleased I took Truman to Dr. Settle,” I said. “She was pleased he was having fun tonight, and she was pleased he’s made some new friends.”

  “There, you see?” he said. “Audrey thinks you’re doing fine.”

  I blinked. “Audrey?”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Did you have lunch with Jason today?”

  “At Bouillabaisse. Are you jealous?”

  “No,” he said, and my father made a funny noise.

  “No?” I asked.

  Joe shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint you, but you two should have as many lunches together as you need.”

  “Until we get this murder solved.”

  “Very good.”

  “No! Very bad!” Dad glared at Joe. “You’re supposed to be the voice of reason, Wylie.” He turned to me. “And you! You need to let Captain Sterling solve the murder. You stay out of it.”

  “Earth to Bobby Baxter.” I pointed ceiling-ward. “That’s. Impossible.”

  “Judy Tripp made sure of that,” Joe said. “Cassie was part of her plan.”

  Dad and I both jumped. “Say what?” I asked. “Excuse me?” Dad asked.

  Joe insisted that I was a key part of Judy Tripp’s worst-case scenario plan. He tipped his wine glass in my direction. “I don’t want to spook you, but I think she knew she was in danger, and therefore, she left her son to you.”

  My father made some odd noises, but Joe’s logic made sense.

  “The dead redhead-pajama incident,” I said.

  He nodded. “Judy Tripp had idolized you, Cassie. If something terrible happened, and she couldn’t see it through to the end—”

  “She was counting on me to see it through.”

  “Bingo.”

  ***

  Dad continued to make odd noises, but I turned on the DVR, and the three of us watched the press conference.

  As expected, Jason laid out the basics of murder and appealed to the public for any leads. He emphasized the boyfriend angle, and asked this person, whoever he was, to come forward of his own volition.

  “It sounds like the boyfriend’s a suspect,” Joe said.

  “I’m guessing the boyfriend’s always a suspect,” I said, and Jason moved on to the Ryan Webb angle.

  He asked if anyone knew what Ryan was doing in Judy’s car, or where they were headed, and closed with another general plea for anyone with any information to come forward.