Someone did a dance across my forehead.

  “Good morning, Cosmic Cow,” I said.

  “How’d you know it was her?”

  I opened my eyes and smiled at the little guy. “Lucky guess.”

  “Confound it,” Dad sputtered. “Truman, come help me.”

  “Grandpa Bobby’s using Uncle Joe’s computer,” he told me. “His went poof!” He and Cow made poofing motions and joined Bobby on the rocking chair, and by the time Charlie and Notz were settled on the bed with me, the little man had fixed the old man’s computer issue.

  My father was happy, but that was a definite scowl on Truman’s face.

  “What’s up?” I asked him.

  “I want my computer.”

  I promised we’d find his computer that very day and turned to my father. “Speaking of finding things—has Chance Dooley found Evadeen Deyo?”

  No, but he knew where to look. “According to the Flickle grapevine,” Dad said, “she’s hitched a ride to the Nubu Nebula of all places.”

  “Where’s Nubu?” Truman asked.

  “On the outermost outskirts of the Hollow Galaxy. Just a meteor’s throw away from the Crystal Void.” Bobby shook his head. “Chance cannot for the life of him understand why she went there.”

  “She’s hitchhiking,” I said. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Truman asked if Commissioner Dingle even knew Evadeen had run away.

  The answer was yes. “But Dingle doesn’t have access to the Flickle grapevine like Chance Dooley does,” Dad told us. “The commissioner has the entire Celestial Intelligence Agency on the lookout, but so far he doesn’t know where she landed, or where she’s headed.”

  “Do you know where she’s going?” I asked.

  The answer was no. “Any ideas, girl?”

  I looked at Truman. “Any ideas?”

  “She’s going home! There’s no place like home.”

  “Home to Whoozit?” Dad jiggled the little guy. “That’s good! Can I use it?”

  Truman held up Cosmic Cow. “She told me,” he said, and Cow mooed enthusiastically.

  “Cosmic Cow sure is smart,” I said. “I wonder if she knows where someone else was going.” I tapped my chin. “I wonder if she knows where your mother was heading on Sunday?”

  Dad stared aghast, but Truman didn’t seem upset.

  I pushed it. “Was she going to see Paul?” I glanced at my father. “Paul was the boyfriend.”

  “Paul who?” Bobby asked.

  “It’s a secret,” Truman said, but at the same time he told us his momma was not driving to see Paul.

  I looked at Cosmic Cow. “Where was she going?”

  “Moo. To help Great Grandma’s house.”

  I smiled. “Thank you, Cosmic Cow.”

  “Moo-ooo.”

  ***

  I stopped short on my way to the coffee pot and had to wonder if that incendiary device from the night before had exploded after all. Truman and my father were down on the living room rug surrounded by toys, toys, and more toys. Coloring books were scattered everywhere, and everything was toppled over.

  “What happened?”

  “It’s pretend,” Truman said.

  I mumbled something about coffee and started walking, but my father told me to stay put.

  “Play with us,” he said. “Sit!”

  Charlie sat. And something in the tone of Dad’s voice made me plop down also. Notz roamed circles around me, and I repeated my need for caffeine.

  Bobby shoved Cosmic Cow into my hands. “This will wake you right up,” he said, and I took a closer look at the toys—a few cars on the coffee table, and Twirly Twine Twister, an elephant, giraffe, and teddy bear on the rug.

  “Are we at the zoo?” I asked. I thought that was a pretty good guess, but the child shook his head vigorously.

  “It’s a farm.”

  I pointed to Twirly Twine Twister. “A farm on Flickle?”

  “Nooo.” That was my father. He pointed to only clear space—under the coffee table, where the Destiny had been docked—and told me everyone had left Flickle. Chance Dooley had defied Commissioner Dingle’s orders to stay put and was headed for the Nubu Nebula.

  “But Evadeen’s already left Nubu,” Dad added. “And hitched a ride to the Planet Plucket.” Dad sighed. “Another poor choice.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “What with only one landing pad, virtually no one ever puts down in Plucket, girl. Evadeen’s apt to get stuck.”

  “Stucket on Plucket,” Truman said a few thousand times, and I reminded everyone I hadn’t had coffee.

  My father suddenly became very serious and pointed to all the toys before us. “Tell Cassie where we are, Truman.”

  “On earth.”

  “A farm on Earth,” Dad specified. “In Vermont,” he added and stared at me until I finally got it.

  I held onto Cosmic Cow and scanned the other animals. “Are those pretend cows?”

  Yes. They were.

  I pointed to the two cars on the coffee table. “Are they at the farm, too?”

  Yes. They were.

  Truman jumped up, grabbed the cars, made some vroom-vroom sounds, and raced around the room.

  Notz meowed, and Charlie let out one of his rare barks, and my father was right—even with no coffee, I was wide awake when the kid let go of one car and it sailed to a crash landing between the elephant and giraffe. And I didn’t exactly get dozy when Truman ran into the kitchen with the other car and carefully set it on the counter. Then he came back, and flipped the car beside the elephant three times.

  I stared aghast.

  “Psst!” Dad whispered.

  I glanced up. “Huh?”

  “You have the real cow.” He pointed, and I realized I was clinging to Cosmic Cow.

  I swallowed hard and hopped her over to the toppled car.

  “Moo,” she said quietly.

  Chapter 30

  “So then I asked him about the car on the kitchen counter.” I tapped the stapler at the edge of my desk that we’d been pretending was the bad guy’s car, and Bambi looked up from the staple remover-slash-car that had just landed at her feet.

  “I take it the kid couldn’t tell you the make and model?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Although he did think about it. He glanced around and told us the car didn’t look like our living room.”

  Bambi frowned. “So we know the murderer wasn’t driving a rocking chair.”

  “Bingo,” I said. Which reminded me. I’d been so focused on telling Bambi about the bomb scare, and about Truman acting out what had happened on Sunday, that I hadn’t even mentioned Ms. Mauve. “She showed up at Bingo last night.”

  “Checking up on you? Again?”

  I pointed to my phone and reported that she’d also called me twice that morning. “I refused to answer,” I said. “I’m too busy calling credit card carriers, and banks, and cancelling accounts to deal with Ms. Social Worker. She tries my patience.”

  “You have no patience,” Bambi told me. “Even so, you probably shouldn’t ignore the social worker.”

  I snarled. “Everyone keeps telling me not to underestimate her, but she acts like a complete nincompoop. One minute she’s all authoritarian, the next she’s flustered and clumsy, and when that gets old, she moves on to my favorite—flirtatious. She flirted with Joe at Bingo last night.”

  “How romantic.”

  “How nauseating is more like it.”

  Bambi sat forward. “But in his defense, Joe can’t be thrilled with all the time you’re spending with Jason Sterling.”

  I shrugged. “He’s decided not to be jealous anymore. He says this murder investigation is too important for petty jealousy.”

  “A hunky-boo, through and through.”

  “A smart hunky-boo,” I said and explained his theory as to why Judy Tripp named me to take Truman. “She wanted me to catch her killer if push came to shove.” I pointed to my stapler-slash-bad guy car. “And Truman really is starting to tell me stuff. Did you catch Jason’s press conference last night?”

  “Of course.”

  “I asked Truman about Mr. Mystery Man Boyfriend. His name is Paul Something or Other.”

  “Good job, Cassie.”

  I shrugged. “He also told me his mother was driving to Great Grandma’s house on Sunday.”

  Bambi scowled. “Isn’t the grandmother in a nursing home?”

  “Therefore.” I let that hang until it dawned on her.

  “No!” she said. “I’m busy.”

  “No you’re not. This afternoon is student study period. You’re as free as I am.”

  “The study period is scheduled to give students time to study between exams, and us time to grade between exams.”

  I waved a hand. “So you’d really rather grade lab reports than run errands with me?”

  “Yes, I really would.” Bambi pointed to the staple remover-slash-car at her feet. “This guy killed one person, put another in a coma, and likes to blow up houses, and you want to pursue him? You’re nuts.”

  I rolled my eyes. “The bad guy isn’t hanging out in a nursing home. You know we’ll be safe.”

  “I know you’re nuts.”

  I sat back and pouted Truman-style. “Some sidekick you are. It’s just one teeny-tiny errand.”

  “FYI, when normal girlfriends run errands together, it’s usually to go shoe shopping.”

  I reminded her neither of us care about shoes. “How about tomorrow?”

  “I don’t need any shoes.”

  I smirked. “Very funny.”

  Bambi sighed melodramatically. “Enlighten me,” she said. “Who do you plan on harassing?”

  “Judy Tripp’s co-workers, and it’s not harassment. They called and asked me to stop by.” I tapped my temple. “I decided Friday would be best since workloads are usually lighter then.”

  Bambi whined a little, but finally agreed to join me the following day—especially after I blocked my office door and wouldn’t let her leave until she said yes.

  ***

  I waited until Rhonda had taken our lunch order before springing the news. “The boyfriend’s name is Paul Something or Other,” I said.

  “That’s funny. I thought his name was Joe Wylie.”

  I smirked. “Judy Tripp’s boyfriend,” I said and watched a pencil emerge from Jason Sterling’s shirt pocket.

  “You know this how?” he asked.

  “Truman told me, so you can put that down.” I pointed, and he did drop the pencil.

  Then he actually thanked me for the info.

  I shrugged and admitted it seemed a minor accomplishment, especially since I hadn’t gotten a last name. “But Truman was sure of that first name. Not Ryan. Paul.”

  “Which means we can be sure, too,” Jason said. “That kid probably knows more than the rest of us combined.”

  “He knows more than Sarah,” I said. “She was wrong about the boyfriend angle.”

  Jason raised an eyebrow. “As you would say, what a shocker.”

  Maybe, but I still didn’t understand. I made sure Rhonda was out of earshot and leaned forward. “Why would this Paul person kill Judy?” I asked. “Or bomb her house, or try to bomb mine? And what about stealing our computers?”

  Jason had no answers. “But if he’s innocent, our mystery man Paul should be happy to come forward of his own accord.”

  Maybe not. I argued that cops can be a little intimidating, even for the completely innocent. I waved an index finger. “Especially cops that look like you.”

  “What do you mean, cops that look like me?”

  Rhonda seemed interested in my answer, but she served my ratatouille, and Jason’s coq au vin, and finally left us.

  Jason reminded me of the question. “Cops like me?”

  “The ones who are about seventeen inches over six feet tall. Trust me, it’s intimidating.”

  He shrugged and decided to eat. I did so also, and as we finished our entrees, I reported Truman’s other news. “They were going to his great grandma’s house on Sunday.”

  “No.” Jason shook his head. “They were headed away from Hilleville, Cassie. Away from Maple Street, away from the Hilleville House.”

  “All I know is what the child told me.”

  “Can you give me a direct quote?”

  Hardly. But I did think back on what exactly Truman had said. “He definitely mentioned his great grandmother and her house,” I said. “I’d bet dessert on it.”

  Jason thanked me for the info, whatever it was, and mentioned the ton or two of paperwork he’d confiscated from Maple Street. “I got bored tallying up ten-year old grocery receipts,” he said. “But maybe it’s time to take a closer look.” He stopped and stared.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Promise me you won’t get bored. You remember our deal—no errands?”

  I put my spoon down. “I have done exactly what you asked, thank you very much. I’ve discussed things with Truman.”

  “And it’s working.” Jason smiled. “Thank you very much. You’ve given me a lot of good info.”

  I shrugged.

  “So?” he said. “Leave the rest of the investigation to me, and you keep concentrating on Truman, and dessert’s on me. Deal?”

  I crossed my fingers and said I’d like the crème caramel.

  Chapter 31

  In case you’re wondering, I ate that crème caramel under false pretenses. But as I parked in the drab parking lot separating the drab nursing home from the drab hospital I considered making good on my deal with Jason. But then again, no errands?

  Nah.

  I got out of my car and marched into the Hilleville House, and luckily, the place was way more cheerful on the inside than the outside. The walls were painted girlie pink and lined with colorful pictures and paintings. And as I followed the signs to the Alzheimer’s unit, every person I passed—resident or staff—offered a pleasant greeting.

  I was feeling almost confident until I reached the Alzheimer’s unit and faced a locked metal door. I reminded myself I’m not a coward and pushed the buzzer, and a nurse came out to greet me. I introduced myself, but Nurse Epstein told me she already knew who I was.

  “From your adventures last summer,” she said. “And everyone on staff read Lake Bess Lore yesterday. We’ve been wondering when you’d stop by.”

  She ushered me in with a smile almost as cheerful as the artwork, but I flinched at the sound of that ominous door clicking shut.

  “Can Mrs. Abernathy have visitors?” I asked doubtfully.

  “The more the merrier.” The nurse explained that the locked door was for the residents’ safety. “We can’t have them wandering off, but we’re not a prison.”

  She waved me to the reception desk with to a huge digital clock hanging above it. Beneath that was a whiteboard telling the date and day of the week, and beside that was a map of Vermont, with a YOU ARE HERE and a red arrow pointing to Hilleville.

  Nurse Epstein must have noticed me noticing all the notices. “Our residents like to be reminded of those things,” she said. “You haven’t visited Mrs. Abernathy before?”

  I suddenly felt a little remiss. After all, I was supposed to be the woman’s third cousin twice removed or something like that. I apologized for my neglect, but the woman seemed to understand.

  “This isn’t the easiest place to visit,” she said. She took a seat behind the desk and opened the guest register. “Here she is—Iris Eskew-Abernathy.” She clicked her pen. “Now then, how exactly are you related?”

  “It’s kind of complicated,” I mumbled. I suggested she put down ‘cousin’ to simplify things, and thankfully she didn’t argue.

  She turned the book around, and as I signed in I took a quick glance at Mrs. Abernathy’s other recent guests—Jason Sterling, Sarah, P.T.—I scanned for a Paul Something or Other, but no such luck.

  “Mrs. Aberna—I mean, Cousin Iris has been quite popular this week,” I said.

  “The state trooper has come by twice. The staff suspected something was amiss even before his press conference.”

  I pointed to another name listed several times.

  “Mrs. Webb stops by every day, of course.”

  I looked up and asked why, but evidently this made perfect sense, since Eleanor Webb was spending so much time at the hospital with Ryan.

  “It’s an easy walk across the parking lot,” Nurse Epstein added. “She visited often even before all this.”

  “They were neighbors,” I said.

  “And Mrs. Webb is on the board of directors here.” She reached out for the guest book, but I held on and flipped back a page or two.

  Judy Tripp and Truman. Brave kid. Oh, and Fanny Baumgarten, and Ryan Webb—

  Ryan?

  I heard a cough and looked up.

  “Ryan visited with his mother?” I asked.

  “Kindness runs in that family.” Nurse Epstein tugged a little, and I finally let go of the book, and we began the trek down the hallway. “The residents love seeing Ryan,” she said. “Truman, too. Children of any age are always a hit. But you’ll be a hit, too. Mrs. Abernathy loves visitors.”

  Almost everyone in the Alzheimer’s unit did. We passed several people in wheelchairs or using walkers, and everyone smiled and smiled, except for one old man in a wheelchair who was clearly agitated.

  “Highway robbery!” he sputtered at me. “Thirty dollars more than last time. Explain that, missy!”

  “Umm,” I answered.

  “Yes, Mr. Albright,” the nurse spoke for me. “Everyone’s taxes do tend to rise.”

  She gestured for us to keep moving, and once we rounded the next corner, explained how Alzheimer’s patients often become fixated on one topic.

  “With Mr. Albright it’s taxes—income tax, property tax, sales tax,” she said. “At least twice a day we hear about an overcharge on the taxes he paid on his last car. Abel Albright hasn’t driven in over a decade.”

  “And with Judy’s grandmo—I mean, with my cousin Iris—it’s the Wizard of Oz.”

  She nodded and gave the door to our right a brisk rap. “Visitor!” she called out, and I stepped into the Land of Oz.

  ***

  “Glinda!” Iris Abernathy clapped her hands. “You’re such a good witch to visit me!”