QUEENIE HAS A SMALL RUBBERY chew toy that looks like a mouse. Why would anyone give her such a thing? I once happened upon her while she was … toying? Was that how to put it? Why not? She’d been toying with a real mouse. I came around a corner in the old cellar—why I was there at all is a complete mystery, since it’s a scary place and as a rule I avoid scary places—and there was Queenie toying with a real mouse. Not a pleasant sight and then Queenie noticed me, paused in her little game, and gave me a thoughtful look. Thoughtful for her, maybe, but rather disturbing for me, although I didn’t know why at the time and still don’t. I do remember making a very quick exit.

But why am I bringing this up? Oh, yes, the rubbery mouse, which Sheriff McKnight was now waving in my face.

“Can you smell Queenie, Arthur?” he said.

What a question! I smelled Queenie every single day of my life and had no need for this rubber mouse, which—which I suddenly seized! Oh, what a brilliant idea! I seized the rubber mouse right out of the sheriff’s hand and took off across the field.

“Wow,” said the sheriff, somewhere behind me, probably eating my dust, “what’s he up to? Don’t tell me he knows where she is.”

“I won’t,” Mom said.

I glanced back. They were running to catch up, maybe even closing the distance somewhat. And possibly not actually running, but certainly walking very very fast. That was not going to cut it, my friends! After no time at all—like I was so fast I could be in two places at once!—I came to the tomato patch and, without having to think the slightest bit, came up with another idea, just as good as the idea of seizing the rubber mouse or even better. What I was going to do now was bury the thing, bury it deep among the tomato plants!

I got to work immediately. Some might say, Oh, Arthur, it’s so hot today, why not kick back, take it easy? But that wouldn’t be me! Am I the type who lies around when there’s work to be done? Never! I dug and dug, front paws, back paws, all of them busy at once, faster and faster, clumps of this and that, some bearing those hairy ends, possibly called roots, flying everywhere. I was a digging machine, digging down and down, until I found myself in quite a deep hole. Wow! Probably deep enough. I dropped the rubber mouse into the bottom of the hole and started pawing all the earth back in. Paw paw, paw paw, a bit of smoothing things over—a job worth doing is worth doing well, as I’m sure you know already—and presto! All done. I gave myself a real good shake, a whole big cloud of dust rising above me, the strangest dust you’ve ever smelled, all tomatoey.

I looked around. Mom and Sheriff McKnight stood at the edge of the tomato patch, watching me. I knew I’d made a big impression from the way their eyes were open wide.

“What was that all about?” said the sheriff.

Mom shook her head. “Arthur seems to be … going through some changes.”

“Like what?”

“Hard to say. When he won the Frisbee contest, I was shocked. I’d been thinking Bro—that’s my son—”

“Harmony mentioned that.”

“They’re twins, actually,” Mom said. “Do … do you have any kids?”

He looked away. “Afraid not.”

“None of my business,” Mom said. “My point was that I thought Bro was setting himself up for disappointment. You should have seen some of those practice sessions, and Arthur’s never shown much in the way of athletic ability. But Bro never seemed to have any doubts. And then Arthur came through. I can’t help thinking he somehow did it for Bro.”

Arthur’s never shown much in the way of athletic ability? What did that even mean? I couldn’t figure it out, so I forgot the whole thing immediately.

The sheriff stepped into the tomato patch, stopped beside my work site, did some smoothing over of his own with the sole of his shoe. “What’s their relationship like, Arthur and Queenie’s?”

Mom shot the sheriff a glance. He wasn’t looking her way. Her glance turned into something a bit longer. “I’ve thought about that,” she said. “I suppose there’s an underlying tension, but they’ve solved it—and I think deliberately—by living in different silos, at least in their heads.”

The sheriff turned to her, paused a moment, and then nodded, like what she’d just said made sense. I loved Mom, but this one time I just couldn’t go along with her. The only silo I knew was over at the Poulins’ farm on the other side of town, which I’d seen exactly once, when we’d driven Bobby Poulin home from hockey practice after his dad got delayed. I hadn’t even gotten out of the car, let alone gone into the silo. Even Mom could make a mistake. I admit that as we were driving away from the Poulins’ farm I’d thought how perfect that silo would be for lifting my leg against, but the chance never came along.

And what do you know? While I was having those thoughts about the silo, I seemed to have my leg raised against a tomato plant, and the air was full of splashing sounds, soft and pleasant. There are some days that just get better and better as you go along.

The sheriff laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Mom said.

“Nothing,” said the sheriff. Then his gaze shifted to Mom. “Well, it’s just that we—I—had a dog who liked to mark things. He marked everything in sight—hydrants, trash cans, parked cars.”

“What was his name?” Mom said.

“Babe,” said the sheriff.

“Interesting name for a male dog.”

“I didn’t choose it. My … my wife thought he looked just like Babe Ruth.”

“Oh,” said Mom.

Sheriff McKnight took a deep breath. “She died,” he said. “Cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Quite a long time ago now. Almost five years.”

“But still,” Mom said.

The sheriff walked away, headed toward the far end of the tomato patch, and then looked back.

“Does this tomato patch have any significance for Queenie?” he said. “Did she ever come here?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Mom told him.

“I’m just wondering why Arthur would want to bury her toy here.”

That was an easy one! I liked the soft dirt in the tomato patch and had buried many things here, for example … for example Mr. Ware’s red clown nose! How sharp my mind was today. And when I bury something, I always remember where, and if not always at least sometimes. I trotted down the row of plants and started digging, actually not far from the spot where I’d buried the rubber mouse.

This dig took more time than the first one. Even great digging athletes, such as myself, can end up tuckered out, especially on a hot day. I dug for a bit and then just stood there, possibly with my tongue hanging out.

“Is he looking for the rubber mouse?” the sheriff said.

“He couldn’t have already forgotten where he buried it,” said Mom.

Of course not! And just to show the sheriff that he should always listen to Mom, I went back to work—digging, resting, digging, resting—and quite soon a foamy smell rose in the air. I stuck my muzzle into the dirt, rooted around, bumped against something round and foamy, got the round and foamy something between my teeth, and raised it up into the light.

Mom and the sheriff came closer.

“What you got there?” the sheriff said.

“Looks like a ball,” said Mom.

The sheriff crouched down, held out his hand. “Can I see it?”

Well, sure, no problem. He was welcome to look at my ball as long as he wanted. Mom, too, of course. I’m a big believer in sharing.

Sheriff McKnight reached out, as though to … to maybe take the ball. Taking my ball is a lot different from looking at my ball. I turned my head quite sharply, putting a bit of distance between my ball and the sheriff’s hand. I’m sure you would have done the same.

The sheriff grinned, like he was having fun. Hey! Was he the playful type? Did he like the game of keep-away? What if I got going on a nice long game of keep-away, charging all around the meadow, letting the sheriff get closer and closer and then at the last moment zigzagging away from him? Wow! Did it get any better than that? Not to my way of thinking.

There was only one problem. I was all tuckered out. Yes, my friends, even world-class athletes can tire themselves out. Don’t forget the midsummer heat, and the fact that I’d already dug two big holes. Charging all around the meadow? Maybe some other time. I let go of the ball.

“What a good boy!” the sheriff said.

“He’s behaving very strangely,” said Mom.

Did strangely mean good or bad? Had to be good. Mom was trying to say that Arthur’s behavior was top notch, really couldn’t be any better. My tail, not quite as tuckered out as I was, did some wagging.

Sheriff McKnight reached for the ball again but paused just before his fingers came in contact with it. From his back pocket he took out some very thin gloves, the kind Bertha wears when she’s cleaning the big black pot, and snapped them on. He picked up the ball.

First he blew off the dust. A red ball, as I already knew. He and Mom took a close look. The sheriff gave the ball a squeeze. It was very squeezable, being so foamy and spongy. The sheriff touched a tiny little patch of what looked like duct tape, stuck to the ball.

“Have you ever seen this ball before?” the sheriff said.

“I think I saw Arthur playing with it,” said Mom. “But I’m not sure—there are lots of balls in his life.”

“Understood,” said the sheriff. “But this isn’t exactly a ball. It’s a clown nose.”

Sometimes on hot summer days the air can suddenly get very still, and you can hear things far far away. That stillness was suddenly happening now. I heard the roar of Catastrophe Falls, which was certainly far far away, meaning the roar was very faint. But it was the first time I’d ever heard the Falls from here at our place.

Mom and the sheriff both gazed at my red ball. Then they looked at each other.

“I’d like to bring in a crew to do some digging,” the sheriff said. “I could get a warrant but it would save time if you gave your permission.”

“No warrant necessary,” Mom said.

Not long after that we had a bunch of guys in hard hats standing around the tomato patch, plus a few gals in hard hats, too. Another gal, sitting behind the wheel of a backhoe, her long white ponytail hanging down from under her hard hat, seemed to be the crew chief.

“You’re Lydia?” the sheriff said.

“Yessir.”

“Let’s keep the backhoe in reserve. Spades and shovels only. Take it slow and easy. And dig up the plants carefully. I want them replanted when we’re done.”

“Heads up,” Lydia said to the crew. She turned out to have one of those commanding voices, not especially loud, but it sort of pushed at you through the air. “Spades and shovels only. Slow and easy. Careful with the plants. Any questions?”

There were no questions, maybe because the crew had now heard the whole thing twice. But who am I to question how humans work? Look at all they’ve done, building skyscrapers, for example. And there are other examples, although none were coming to me at the moment.

I sat and watched the digging. The crew were pretty good diggers, for humans. They dug up all sorts of stuff, most of which I remembered, such as a stuffed animal of Harmony’s, a stuffed animal of Bro’s, a corkscrew that I believe was Bertha’s favorite, a cell phone, possibly belonging to a guest, several other gadgets I didn’t know the names of, many different kinds of shoes, plus socks to go with them, various small tools of Elrod’s that had been lying around, just waiting for someone to tidy things up, and a musical instrument, called a trumpet, I believe, of which I had no knowledge whatsoever, except for the tiniest smidgen. All in all, a nice little pile.

“My god,” said Mom, about what, I wasn’t sure.

“Want me to move in with the backhoe?” said Lydia.

The sheriff shook his head.

The crew got back to work, and after not very long at all, our tomato patch was back to the way it had been, all the plants standing in neat rows. The only problem was the pile of stuff over at one side. Were they expecting me to rebury all that? Why was it my job?

Lydia and her crew went away. The stillness of the midsummer day was gone, but I could still hear Catastrophe Falls, if anything, louder than before. Why would that be?

“What now?” Mom said.

“We’ve got a missing clown and a missing cat, together just before their disappearances,” said Sheriff McKnight. “The two cases have to be connected. I plan on starting with the cat.”

“Why?” Mom said.

“Because it’s the unexpected choice.”

“Unexpected to whom?”

“To whoever we’re trying to scare into the open.”

Mom gave the sheriff a look. He looked back at her. For a second or two, you might have thought they’d known each other for a long time.

“Sounds like a plan,” Mom said.

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” said the sheriff. “One other thing, Ms. Reddy.”

“Yvette,” said Mom.

“Okay,” he said. “And I’m Vern.”

“You mentioned that.”

The sheriff’s face turned the tiniest bit pink. He cleared his throat, one of my favorite human sounds. “Well, Yvette, I was surprised to discover that the department has no K-9 capability, something I hope to correct. So I’d like to borrow Arthur for an hour or two, if it’s all right with you.”

“Do you want another one of Queenie’s toys?”

“This time, let’s try without.”