Mrs. Sylvester held the door open for them as they left.

“Thank you for visiting,” she said.

“And thank you for the candy corn,” said Louisiana. “It was delicious.”

On the walk back to Ida Nee’s, Louisiana sang “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” twice in a row. When she started in on it a third time, Beverly told her to knock it off.

“Okay,” said Louisiana. “It’s just that singing helps me think. I have now made up my mind.”

“Made up your mind about what?” said Raymie.

“I’ve decided that they’re hiding Archie from me. He’s behind the closed door in that place. What we need to do is break into the Very Friendly Animal Center and unlock that door. And then we’ll find him. I know we will.”

“What?” said Beverly. “Are you nuts? Don’t you remember anything that just happened? The cat is gone. There’s nobody to break in and free.”

“We’ll wait until it’s dark,” said Louisiana. “And then we’ll break in and rescue him!”

“No,” said Beverly.

“Yes,” said Louisiana.

“The cat is dead,” said Beverly.

Louisiana dropped her baton. She put her fingers in her ears. She began to hum.

Raymie bent and picked up Louisiana’s baton.

“I’m not going back into that place,” said Beverly.

Louisiana took her fingers out of her ears. “Why do the Rancheros even exist if they can’t perform acts of bravery?”

“The Rancheros don’t exist,” said Beverly. “They’re only in your head.”

“They do exist,” said Louisiana, “because we exist. We’re here.”

“I’m here,” said Raymie.

“That’s right,” said Louisiana.

“And you’re here,” said Raymie, pointing at Louisiana. “And you’re here.” She pointed at Beverly. “And we’re here together.”

“Right,” said Louisiana again.

“Duh,” said Beverly. “Duh that we are all here. But none of that changes the fact that the cat is dead.”

The argument went on this way for a while — Beverly insisting that the cat was dead, Louisiana insisting that they would rescue the cat — but it stopped entirely when they got to the end of Ida Nee’s driveway and saw that Beverly’s mother was there and Raymie’s mother was there and Louisiana’s grandmother was not there.

And that there was also a police car in the circular driveway.

“The cops,” said Beverly.

“Oh, no,” said Louisiana.

Ida Nee was standing in front of her house talking to one of the policemen. She had outfitted herself with a fresh baton, and she was using it to point at things. She pointed at the garage door. She pointed at the kitchen door.

“No!” shouted Ida Nee. “I have not lost it. I have never lost a baton in my life. It has been stolen from me. The door to my office has been jimmied. My front door has been jimmied. I am the victim of a theft.”

Just when you thought that the day couldn’t get any worse than Building 10 and the single lightbulb and the terrible howling and the cat killing, Ida Nee went and called the police because Beverly Tapinski had taken her baton.

They were all going to get sent to jail!

Raymie and Beverly and Louisiana were standing together at the edge of the property, right beside Ida Nee’s azalea bush.

Farther up the driveway, deep inside the half circle of it, Beverly’s mother was leaning against her bright-blue car smoking a cigarette. Raymie’s mother was sitting in the Clarke car, staring straight ahead.

“Oh, no,” said Louisiana again.

“Let’s not panic,” said Beverly.

“I’m not panicking,” said Louisiana.

“I think I left that stupid baton of hers at your dad’s office,” said Beverly.

“Oh, noooo,” said Louisiana.

“Shut up,” said Beverly. “They can’t prove anything. We came for baton-twirling lessons and she wasn’t here, so we left. That’s our story. All we need to do is stick to it.”

Raymie felt fuzzy, trembly. Her heart was beating very fast. Her soul, of course, had disappeared.

It was at this point that Louisiana’s grandmother stuck her hand out of the azalea bush and grabbed Raymie’s ankle.

Raymie screamed.

Louisiana screamed.

Beverly yelped.

Fortunately, no one heard them because Ida Nee was still pointing at things and yelling about how she had been wronged.

“Granny,” said Louisiana, “what are you doing down there?”

“There’s nothing to fear,” whispered Louisiana’s grandmother from where she was crouched in the azalea bush. She kept her hand wrapped around Raymie’s ankle. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the grandmother.

“Okay,” said Raymie.

“I’ve come up with a plan.” She gave Raymie’s ankle a friendly little shake. “All will be well.”

Raymie stared down at Louisiana’s grandmother’s barrette-filled, glowing head. It looked like her hair was on fire.

“Okay,” said Raymie.

She was just glad that someone had a plan.