A DINNERTIME MYSTERY

         The call came in at 5:50 p.m. Pods hit the flashers and siren and we rolled. The evening rush parted like the Red Sea to let our Black and White through.

         "Cut the siren, Pods. If he's still there, we don't want to scare him away. And douse the lights when you get close."

         "Right, Pod. What I can't figure," she said without looking over at me for help, "is address and time. 228 Denn Street, and at dinnertime. Nobody breaks in when everyone's home and awake. Amateur you think?"

         "Dunno, you've been in this as long as me."

         And that is the truth. Pods has a brain on her shoulders, which are a good inch or two above mine. And like me, she carries a few too many of those Village Diner glazed donuts. Aside from her height and gender, donuts are about the only difference between us. I like jelly.

         "HQ said the owner was calling from his own house, so I doubt the perp's still there."

         "It's the next block, so we will know soon enough. Cut the lights now."

         We rolled to the curb. I sprinted to the door and knocked. The door was opened by a tall hairy figure with a long prominent nose. He dispensed with the usual 'In here, officer', simply guiding me into his living room with his forearm. Sitting on the couch watching a cartoon was what must have been his son. I felt sorry for the boy. Already hair seemed to be sprouting from every place on his body.

         "I'm Sergeant Frick, sir, and this here's my partner, Sergeant Frack." He nodded at both of us.

         "You called in the burglary, Mister uhhh?"

         "Ursa, John Ursa, and this is my son, Harold. He's a minor as you can see. Yes, I did make the call."

         "What, if anything, was stolen?"

         "Come with me, Sir, Ma'am."

         Pods and I followed him and his son to the dining room. A table was set for three and at each place was a large empty bowl.

         "It's gone, Officer Frick."

         Pods butted in. "What's gone Mr. Ursa, silver, candlesticks, art?"

         "THE PORRIDGE!" screamed little Harold. Calling Harold 'little' was a stretch. He had to weigh at least 150 pounds.

         "The porridge? How do you know the porridge is missing?" You can trust Pods to boil the case down to its basics.

         "We always eat porridge and there is none here tonight." Mr. Ursa was a little exasperated at us, giving that look the public always gives when in their minds they are saying 'dumb flatfoot.'

         I took the lead. "Who is we, Mr. Ursa? There are three settings but only two of you."

         "Harold, me and my wife, Mrs. Ursa."

         "Where is she?" Pods was being her usual brilliant self again.

         "She ran out to the Quicksack to get some honey. We like honey. She'll be back any minute."

         "Who could have eaten your porridge, Mr. Ursa? I mean I don't know many people who eat porridge for dinner."

         Before he could answer, Pods tugged my sleeve and pointed to muddy footprints on the teal carpet that had seen better days. Someone with small feet, which our hosts certainly did not have, had walked through the room and up the steps.

         I drew my Glock. Pods tiptoed up the stairs after me. There were three doors. Two were open and one closed. We each braced ourselves next to an open doorway, threw ourselves in and found ourselves facing empty rooms. Retreating to the hall, Pods motioned with her finger to the closed door. She stood on one side and I the other. I gave the nod. She raised a size ten and kicked in the door. I was through in a heartbeat.

         I scoped the room. In the double bed was a small lump. I moved to its side, prodded it with the Glock. The cover was thrown back. The face of a young blonde girl popped out, eyes wide as she saw the gat.

         "Don't shoot. I'm getting up."

         "What's your name? Waddya doing here?"

         "Goldie, Goldie Locke. I fell asleep. I had a hard day at the Piggly-Wiggly and didn't think I would make it home."

         Her fresh looks and blue eyes would have fried an egg on the hood of the cruiser. I was ready to offer her a lift home as she got out of the bed. Pods cracked her gum, watching, not mesmerized like me. It was the man's watch that fell from her shirt pocket that gave her away. Pod's was on her in a flash, emptying her pants pockets. Rings, bracelets and other jewelry, plus loose cash covered the bedspread.

         At that moment the Ursa family nudged their way into the room, mother included. She was as hairy as the other two and with the same long nose.

         "What's my jewelry doing on the bed?"

         "This is your jewelry, ma'am, Mrs. Ursa?"

         "Call me Candace. Yes it is all mine. How did it get out of my jewelry box?"

         Pods piped up; "This is Rip Van Locke. Her signature is to sleep in the bed of her victims." The cuffs were already on the innocent looking girl. "We're taking her down to the station and booking her. You will have to come along and identify the jewelry, Mrs. Ursa."

         "I bet she stole our porridge." Little Harold, who made the accusation, was trying to kick the thief but his father held him back.

         "Porridge?" asked Mrs. Ursa.

         "Yea, Ma, we didn't get our porridge, it's missing."

         "Gripe, gripe, gripe, that's all you two ever do. I haven't even made the porridge."

Valatie May 15, 2002