The prisoner sat behind a security window made of extra-thick glass. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and her short black hair was slicked back behind her ears. The blue stripes of her prison pajamas matched her serious eyes. When she spoke, her voice slithered through a speaker.

“The map is hidden in a book called Rare Reptiles I Caught and Stuffed,” she said.

The visitor rustled nervously in the chair on the other side of the window. The room’s cold air had awakened goose pimples on the visitor’s arms. “The map?”

“Yes, the map,” the prisoner said. “The only map anyone cares about. Rumpold Smeller’s map, of course. Are you stupid or something?”

“You’re calling me stupid?” The visitor frowned. “I’m not the one in jail.”

A frustrated growl vibrated through the speaker as the prisoner’s face turned red. “I wouldn’t be in here if that overfed Pudding kid and his mangy dog hadn’t interfered with my plans.”

“You wouldn’t be in here, Madame, if you hadn’t stolen all the gemstones from the Museum of Natural History.”

“Well, you do have a point.” The prisoner, whose full name was Madame la Directeur, patted a rebellious lock of hair back into place.

“Some people think you should be convicted of murder,” the visitor said. “Some people think you turned your turtle into a man-eating monster on purpose.”

“Tortoise,” Madame corrected. “Edith is a tortoise, not a turtle.” Her tone turned sad, as if she missed the carnivorous beast.

“Whatever. The fact is, that monster ate Homer’s uncle, and some people think you planned it.”

“Mean-spirited people can say what they like. There’s no proof.”

The visitor’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s stop wasting time. Why did you call me here?”

Madame looked over her shoulder. A guard sat, reading a magazine, in a chair in the far corner of the room. Two other prisoners had finished their conversations and were heading back to their cells. Madame leaned closer to the microphone, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I thought the book was gone. But I’ve had a lot of time in solitary confinement to think about it. Edith did not digest the book.” The visitor leaned closer to the speaker, trying to catch every secret word. “Edith swallowed the book that contains Rumpold’s map. I saw her swallow it, and I thought the map was gone forever. But I’d forgotten that Edith can’t digest paper. She can digest radioactive nuclear waste and people, but paper always disagrees with her. It comes back up. So that means she ate the book, but she didn’t digest it.”

“Two minutes left,” the guard announced.

“So where is it?” the visitor asked. “Hurry. There’s not much time.”

Madame scowled. “The fat kid has it.”

“How do you know he has it?”

“Intuition. I can feel it in my bones.” She clenched her trembling fingers into fists. “He’s a Pudding. The map always finds its way back to a Pudding.”

“Why are you telling me this?” the visitor asked. “What good does it do you? You’re stuck in here. Even if you are correct and Homer has the map, you can’t get it. You can’t search for treasure from a jail cell.”

“I’m telling you this because I don’t want that meddling kid to find Rumpold’s treasure.”

“You’d rather I found it?”

Madame la Directeur pressed her palms against the window. She breathed rapidly, anger seeping from every inch of her being. “Of course I don’t want you to find it,” she snarled. “I’m the one who deserves that treasure. But those Puddings are the bane of my existence. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep another Pudding from outmaneuvering me, even if it means hiring you.”

The guard cleared his throat. “Visiting hours are over.”

Madame removed her hands from the glass and stood. She took a long breath, then smoothed out her crumpled prison pajamas. Before turning to leave, she said one last thing to the visitor. “Do not double-cross me again.”

The visitor shivered, for the look on Madame’s face was as cold as the air-conditioned room.