Grand Larsony
One: The Katz Cat
The call came in at three fifteen. All calls come in at three fifteen. That’s when school lets out.
My name is Stanley Larson. I detect things.
The client was Penny Katz, two streets over, the house with the flamingo. The crime was a missing cat. The cat was a girl. The cat’s name was Sergeant Pancake. I don’t judge. I detect.
I brought my partner. Grand is a bear. People ask what kind, and I tell them the kind that doesn’t answer questions. Together we are Grand Larsony, Private Investigations. I did the paperwork myself. Grand watched.
We reached the scene at three forty. The client met us at the door. She had a lot to say about the door, and about the hallway, and about whether I wanted a tour. I declined the tour. Trails go cold. Grand went ahead to secure the kitchen. Initiative. You can’t teach it.
Mrs. Katz was carrying packages in from her car. She kept leaving the kitchen and coming back with more packages. I let her think I hadn’t noticed.
By the time the client finished saying hello, we had lost four minutes. In the kitchen, Grand had stationed himself next to the groceries. Nothing gets past Grand.
The kitchen smelled like frosting and crayons. I wrote that down. Everything means something.
The client stayed close to me. Very close. Clients get nervous. It’s normal. She asked if I noticed anything different, and I did. The butter dish was empty and the wrapper was on the floor. The wrapper was still cold. Whatever had happened in this kitchen had happened in the last few minutes. I underlined that twice. I bagged the wrapper in a sandwich bag I carry for exactly this reason. The client made a sound like she was letting air out of something, which I have seen nerves do.
There were prints on the refrigerator. Greasy ones. Too big for fingers. Whoever opened that refrigerator had hands like dinner plates. The Sergeant, I wrote, may not be working alone.
Somewhere in the kitchen I could hear the ocean. Low. Patient. Hungry. We are nowhere near an ocean. I wrote it down: unexplained maritime presence. A lesser detective would have ignored it.
There was a trail of crumbs leading from the counter. Fresh ones. Whoever dropped them was fast, sloppy, and possibly still among us. I followed the trail on my hands and knees, under the table, all the way across the kitchen. It ended near my partner. Grand had already secured that area. Good man.
I asked Grand if he had seen anything. He said nothing. He always says nothing. It’s why I trust him.
A cat kept entering the kitchen. Same size as the missing cat. Same color. Same collar. Clearly a different cat. Missing cats don’t just walk in. Any detective knows that.
Mrs. Katz asked if we wanted a snack. I don’t eat on the job. Grand accepted. He always accepts. It builds trust with the locals.
By four o’clock I had a working theory. Whoever was behind this had been in the kitchen all afternoon. So had Grand. But the bear was with me the entire time, and a detective vouches for his partner. That’s the code.
Mrs. Katz came in from her last trip and stopped. She looked at the counter. She looked at the counter for a while.
“Now who put away all these groceries?” she said.
A second mystery. Same kitchen. Same day. Some towns are like that.
I looked at Grand. Grand looked at the empty grocery bags.
“We’ll take the case,” I said.
Two: Step Two
Stanley Larson thinks all calls come in at three fifteen because that’s when school lets out. Calls come in at three fifteen because that’s when I get home to the phone.
I want to be clear about something, in case this is ever read in court: there was never anything wrong with my cat. Sergeant Pancake was asleep on my bed when I reported her missing. And yes, she is a girl, and yes, Sergeant. It’s a rank. Girls can outrank you.
I practiced the call twice and made it once.
The plan had nine steps. The door was step one. I had prepared some facts about the door and the hallway, which is called conversation. Step two was the tour. Stanley declined the tour. He said trails go cold. I have moved the tour to step eight, and I am not worried.
The bear went past me while I was doing the door facts. I let him. He seemed like a bear who knew where he was going.
In the kitchen I stood close to Stanley, which was step three, and asked if he noticed anything different, which was step four, and the answer was supposed to be my hair. Stanley noticed the butter dish. I made a sound. He wrote it down. He writes everything down. Someday I am going to be in that notebook properly.
Behind him, the bear was opening his fourth yogurt. Fine. I had bigger problems. My hair has been different since Thursday, and the greatest detective in town had not noticed.
The bear noticed. The bear looked right at my hair and nodded, or chewed. With bears it is hard to say. Either way, the bear is my favorite.
Stanley found crumbs and followed them under the table on his hands and knees. I got under the table too. He told me I was compromising the scene. We were under a table together. Some scenes are worth compromising.
Sergeant Pancake walked through the kitchen four times. Four. Each time, Stanley looked at her and said, “Clearly a different cat.” This is why you hire a professional.
My mother kept carrying in groceries and smiling at me from behind the bags. Not regular smiling. Mother smiling. Mothers know things. It’s a problem. She offered everyone snacks, and the bear accepted for the whole agency.
Then my mother looked at the counter and said, “Now who put away all these groceries?”
I did the math. A second mystery meant more investigating, and more investigating meant Stanley was staying, and nobody solves anything around here quickly.
“We’ll take the case,” Stanley said.
We. I wrote that down.
Three: The Long Way to the Car
The car takes six trips to empty. Seven if the children are interesting.
On the first trip, Penny’s detective had arrived. He came with a bear. I thought about asking whether the bear had any allergies, and decided it would embarrass the boy, so I said nothing and made a note to keep the almonds up high.
The boy watched me carry the bags in the way policemen watch on television, sideways, over a little notebook. I tried to look suspicious. It seemed polite.
Penny gave him her speech about the front door. She has been practicing the door speech since Tuesday. She practiced it on me twice. I was the door.
On the second trip, the bread was not where I had set it. I decided I had left it in the car. The car disagreed. Some days you cannot remember your own bread, and that is fine.
On the third trip, the butter and the yogurts had been put away, or somewhere, and I stopped in the doorway, because a thought had arrived: someone in this house was putting away groceries without being asked. Children grow up all at once, whatever people tell you. I had been told to expect socks on the floor for another decade, and here was the counter, clearing itself.
The bear was standing very still by the refrigerator, the way you stand when you don’t want to be any trouble. A considerate animal. Stiller than most guests.
The children were under the table together by then, the both of them, whispering about evidence. I remember tables. I took the long way to the car.
On the fourth trip, the rotisserie chicken was gone. I could not remember buying the chicken, although I remembered the chicken. The receipt said I had bought it. Receipts can be wrong. I decided I had left it at the store, and that the store was welcome to it, and that we would have spaghetti.
The bear had the look of someone quietly remembering a song. There was a yogurt cup on the floor near his feet. Sergeant Pancake knocks things down. Cats.
I offered everyone a snack. The boy declined, on duty. The bear accepted for everyone, which saved the children from having to decide. You can tell a well-run organization by who handles the refreshments.
Penny changed her hair on Thursday. She said it was for school. It was not for school. I said nothing about the hair, the same way I said nothing about the door speech. You get a few years of being allowed to notice everything, and you spend them quietly, or you stop getting to notice.
The last trip was the empty one, just my keys and me. The counter was clear. The bags stood there with nothing in them, and the kitchen looked the way it looks after company helps, and my daughter was under the table with a boy who writes everything down, and the bear was very still again, and somewhere in the walls I could hear the ocean, which is the kind of thing you hear when you are happy.
“Now who put away all these groceries?” I asked it out loud, to give the wonderful person a chance to take credit.
Four: Scene Security
My name is Grand. I secure things.
The boy does the talking for the agency. I handle scene security and refreshments. People ask what kind of bear I am. I don’t answer questions. It’s in the name of the agency, if you read it slowly.
At the house, the girl met the boy at the door. She had a speech ready. Speeches take time. Some jobs you do alone.
The car in the driveway was open. Something inside it was warm. Chicken. A smell like that is a call for help. I went ahead to the kitchen and waited for it there. That is called securing the scene.
The woman made seven trips to the car. Six had food. One was keys. Keys are not food. I made no trips at all. Everything came to me.
The bread was warm. Someone should eat warm bread while it is warm. I am someone.
The butter was wearing paper. I helped it stop.
The yogurts came in a pack of four. I had four. I did not use a spoon. This saved time.
When the woman came in, I practiced being furniture. I am good furniture. She never won a round. I don’t think she knew we were playing.
Then there was a chicken, and the chicken was still warm, which means this family hunts. I have not said anything to them about it. Respect is quiet.
My stomach makes a sound. The boy heard the ocean. That was me. The ocean is closer than people think.
The prints on the cold-box are mine. Nobody asked.
I left crumbs. The boy followed them on his knees, which is correct procedure. The trail ended at me, and he asked me what I had seen. I was eating. A bear cannot do everything.
Later, the boy vouched for me. He said I was with him the entire time. This is true. I was with him the entire time. So were the groceries.
The cat came through four times. We have an understanding. She saw everything. Sergeants don’t gossip.
The girl changed her hair. It is good hair. The boy will notice in several years. I nodded to her, or chewed. I let her decide which.
At the end, the woman looked at the counter and asked who had put away all these groceries.
I had. I put away plenty.
Nobody took credit. Credit is not food.
The boy took the case. We are now looking for whoever ate the groceries. The trail is fresh. I know it is fresh. I left it.
The boy has a case. The girl loves the boy. The woman loves the girl. The chicken is gone. Everyone got what they came for.
I will help.