“Oy, Dimple! Over here!”
It was late afternoon, and a bedraggled Sheriff Forgo sat across the table from the equally worn Dorro Fox Winderiver. A moment later, Dimple Hognoddle lumbered over from the bar.
In the months since he’d been fired by the Thrip family and taken on at the Hanging Stoat, the boy had matured greatly. First, he was just washing crockery and sweeping floors, but now had moved on to taking orders and pulling pints on occasion, as well as some basic bookkeeping after hours.
“Gimme a big black-and-tan; Winderiver will have a small honeygrass whiskey. And bring us some bread and cheese, too.” Dimple toddled off to the bar. “He’s doing well here, I’ve heard. You should be pleased.”
“I know Wyll and Cheeryup did everything they could to get him a job here—they may have washed a few dishes themselves to grease Mungo up!” Dorro laughed, but missed his young friends and frowned. He and Forgo each pulled out their pipes, tamped down the Old Nob tobacco, and lit them. In moments, they were each floating in a sea of fragrant smoke—not the acidic effluence of the smeltery, but the sweet, tangy aroma of nicely aged leaf.
“So where are we, Sheriff? Is this case making any sense to you? Ah, thank you, Dimple.” The serving boy suddenly arrived with the drinks and food, and Dorro slipped a coin into his hand as he departed.
“I was unconscious for half of it, so I’m making up for lost time now. All I know if that we have no idea who killed Wump; a squad of Battle Dwarves are hanging around the village; and there are two lads in the gaol who some claim are, jointly, the Pie Thief. And if those boys are the thieves, I’m Osgood Thrip!”
Dorro smirked, but knew it was all true. “So what did you find out from the lads this afternoon? Anything of use?”
“Not much. Just that they are innocent and stumbled onto the stolen goods, which is pretty much what I thought anyway. To the cave I also sent Gadget, Farmer Duck, and about half a dozen other Thimble Downers I can trust. They will retrieve everything and bring it back to the gaol. But that doesn’t tell us who the thief was nor anything else of value. Wyll even said if I let them go, they’d go get the answer, but that’s all they told me. I think they’re planning something anyway, but that’s just my instinct. What’s the matter?”
“Sheriff, do you have anyone guarding Wyll and Orli at the moment?”
“I sent Gadget to the cave and locked them boys in myself,” said Forgo with confidence.
Dorro buried his face in his hands and shook his head. Red faced, he spoke quietly. “I could kick myself. Why was I such a fool? I should have spoken to Wyll today—he’s still mad at me, and knowing him, won’t deign to spend any more time in your gaol cell, Forgo. No offense, but you could clean every once in a while for your guests!”
“They’re prisoners! I don’t clean for them lowlifes!” Forgo bellowed.
“Those lowlifes are Wyll and his friend!” countered Dorro. “And that boy is the nephew of some Battle Dwarves who aren’t too fond of you anyway.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that your gaol isn’t the most pleasant place to reside, especially for my hard-headed nephew. So what do you think he’s going to do, my dear Sheriff?”
The candle in Forgo’s head flickered to life. “Oh. They’re going to break out again, aren’t they.”
“My guess is that they’ve already done so and are now making their way into the Great Wood. Moreover, when Aramina—that is, Malachite Molly—discovers her favorite nephew Orli has flown the coop, she may have a few choice words to share with you. Do you understand now?”
Sheriff Forgo stared into his beer for a second and chugged it down in a few gulps. He stood, grabbed some bread and cheese, and threw a few coins on the table. “I may have bungled this one, Winderiver.”
Forgo rarely apologized, and this was one of those rare occasions. “Sheriff, I’d say we bungled it, just as we have every step of this case. It’s time for us to get serious and start putting the pieces together.”
“And how do we do that?”
Dorro knocked back his honeygrass whiskey and tapped his chin with his free hand.
“We find Cheeryup!”
* * *
“Hello? Hello, Mr. Timmo?”
Cheeryup Tunbridge removed her hood as she entered the Timmo & Sons metalsmith shop. Of course, that was the sign created by Mr. Timmo’s father, Old Timmo. He died years ago, and his other son left the village to find his fortune elsewhere. So, despite the swinging sign outside, the shop had been inhabited solely by the current Timmo, a gifted artisan. Dorro also bought all his fishing lures from the fellow.
“Who’s there?” A thin, slightly stooped figure emerged from the back room and scanned the dusty shop. By the way he was wiping his mouth, Cheeryup assumed that she had interrupted his luncheon.
“Sorry to intrude, Mr. Timmo. It’s me, Cheeryup.”
“Why so it is. Welcome my dear—I don’t see you here very often.” Timmo was pleased at the interruption. “And how’s your mother doing? I’m very concerned.”
“Aye, she has the Grippe quite badly. I visit her in Pym’s new infirmary every day, but she just sleeps and sleeps; I sometimes wonder if she’ll ever come out of it.”
“So who’s taking care of you while she’s unwell?”
“Ummm, Mr. Dorro has taken me under his wing,” lied the child. “I’m doing well.”
Timmo moved a little closer and pushed his wire glasses further up his nose so he could get a good look at her. “Come sit here, child. Let us talk.”
The girl did as he bade, but with a hint of trepidation. In some ways, the quiet Halfling intimidated her, perhaps for what he didn’t say as much as for what he did. But Cheeryup could sense his active mind, probing the words that came from her mouth. She’d have to be careful.
“So you say Dorro is taking care of you. That’s well and good. Of course he would. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I found something, and I don’t know what to do with it.”
“I see. I gather it’s an object of some importance. But why come to me and not Mr. Dorro? Did you have a … falling out?” Timmo, as usual, was dead on point.
“Not exactly, but my friend Wyll Underfoot did, and that’s where my doubt arose. I don’t know who to talk to.”
“I have heard something about Wyll and his Dwarf friend running into some mischief. And knowing Dorro, he lashed the boy with his oft all-too-sharp tongue. Let me guess—your Wyll has run off or is sitting in Forgo’s gaol at the moment. I say, it’s right of Dorro to take a firm hand with the lad, but sometimes he takes it too far. Or more likely, perhaps he and Wyll are too much alike and share a common stubbornness.”
“I might agree with you, sir.”
“Why, thank you,” said Timmo with a wink. He knew how bright this young lady was and knew himself he had to tread carefully or he’d spook her off. “So what is this object you speak of? Come now, child—I won’t run and tell Mr. Dorro.”
“I have found some important papers.”
“Ah, I have heard that the lair of the Pie Thief had been found by Fibbhook, up in a cave by the river. But they didn’t find you. How clever! However did you do it?” Timmo was enthralled by this young adventuress, but kept his face as bland and neutral as possible.
“I hid under some old moldy clothing in the cave and waited until Fibbhook’s thugs had cleared out. Then I went—”
“Home. Let us clear the air, young Miss Tunbridge. You are not staying with Mr. Dorro; you are, in fact, hiding in your own family burrow.”
“How did you know?” Cheeryup stood and prepared to flee. “I must go!”
“Sit, child—I told you before that I wouldn’t run and squeal to Dorro. Please trust me in this small matter.” The yellow-haired girl stared at him for a second and took her seat. “Now, these documents. They’re Bindlestiff’s, aren’t they?”
She nodded and a tear ran down her cheek. It was followed by several more until Cheeryup could no longer hold back the torrent and let them fall like rain. Timmo supplied her with a handkerchief and waited patiently. Finally, he spoke:
“Do they incriminate Bindlestiff as much as I’d expect they would?”
“I believe they do, Mr. Timmo,” Cheeryup said boldly, finally wiping away the last of her tears. “It’s in another language—Dwarfish perhaps—but the drawings and pictograms are evidence enough that the black stones they burn at the smeltery cause an illness. I assume this is the Grippe.”
“It’s very dangerous that you have these pages in your possession. Although you are loathe to do it, you should tell Mr. Dorro. Even though he acts rashly sometimes, he would have the presence of mind to know how important these parchment pages are. Do you have them with you?”
“No, I hid them in my mother’s burrow before I came here.”
“Oh dear. Oh dear!” Timmo’s face grew pale. “I suggest we make haste back to your burrow right now. Quick child, wrap that shawl around your face, and let’s fly!”
* * *
Not five minutes later, the two stood inside the Tunbridge home, surveying the wreckage left by the thief. Chairs were knocked over and drawers spilled open. Again, tears of sorrow ran down Cheeryup’s cheeks, while Mr. Timmo merely shook his head. “He got them, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” sobbed the girl. “The papers were hidden under my mother’s mattress, and he found them. And now the evidence is gone!”
“Is there anything else missing?”
Cheeryup looked thoughtful for a minute and lit up. “Why … yes! He took a jumble of hair I found in the cave and had left on this table. And look—he left us something in return.”
“Why, are those pie crumbs?” Timmo was bewildered. “I could see Fibbhook or another of his henchmen stealing those papers—they could bankrupt poor old Bindlestiff. But why did the Pie Thief break in and take them back? Does he plan to blackmail Bindlestiff?”
Timmo was just as shocked when Cheeryup laughed and threw her head back triumphantly. “I don’t know why he took them, but I know exactly who he is. You fool, Mr. Pie Thief! It was a mistake to take your lock of hair back!”
Cheeryup laughed again and was beaming with excitement. “Don’t worry, Mr. Timmo—I can take care of it from here!”
And Timmo smiled, nodding in agreement, for he knew she absolutely would.