Tulia, CA

It was the last weekend in August, and the annual Dry Floxpod Festival was being held on the outskirts of Tulia, CA. A large field, usually only inhabited on its edges by seasonal roadside fruitstands, had sprouted dozens of tents and booths overnight and was aswarm with the comings and goings of arts-and-crafts/carnival-atmosphere-hungry Tulians. They were coming and going through a huge wooden archway which stood at the town side of the field, bedecked and bedangled with the title vine. Its large pods, once a finely hairy, sticky green, had dryed to a sensible paper-bag brown and were nodding and reflectively plocking against each other in the breeze.

There were many different things being sold and (rarely and not for long) given away at all the tents and booths (there were also a number of stands but they fall outside the scope of this story), though the tents mainly featured exhibits of local agricultural products and livestock. At the booths there was, of course, food, from a PB&J you could have made better yourself, to esoteric meat-and-something-and-spices-filled bread-enveloped thingies, their mysterious but always mouth-watering fragrances wafting all over the festival field. There was a lot of clothing, from hand embroidered dresses that took a Southeast Asian family two months to make, to a man's undershirt half-dipped in pink dye and provocatively ripped.

And there was lots and lots of stuff made of ceramics, including....musical instruments!

Genevieve Bishop was sitting behind the counter of her booth. It had a big, colorfully painted sign on the front that read "Teleatones of Tulia". Teleatones were ceramic musical instruments like ocarinas, only Genevieve's were bigger, smaller, and had odder shapes. Dozens of them were hanging from the inside walls of the booth and dangling on coat hangers from the 2 x 2 rafters. Genevieve had spent most of the morning demonstrating the instruments, but having to tell people they couldn't put their mouths on them and to use a little hand-pumped bellows gadget on the counter, which they not-very-satisfyingly did for a few whoofs and then walked away.

The chair Genevieve was sitting in was a director's chair and was so low she couldn't see over the counter. She was just thinking that the festival was literally passing her by and that a nice, big, cup of coffee would be just the thing, when Bernie Glein, one of her jamming friends, poked his curly-haired head through the flap at the back at the booth.

"How's biz?" he asked, and surveyed the instruments, noticing that each and every instrument was where Genevieve and he had hung it that morning.

"Miz. Erable, that is" she replied, and sighed as she hefted herself out of the sway-seated chair. "Could you watch the place for fifteen or twenty minutes while I run and get some coffee?"

"As promised!" he replied brightly - he had obviously had his coffee, Genevieve thought - and added "Paula said she'd come by later - she's taking Fiona to the library - and we thought if we played together awhile it might create some interest!" Paula was Bernie's wife, Fiona their seven-year old daughter.

"Great idea!" Genevieve said, and ducked out the back as Bernie settled into the director's chair with a fat paperback.

Genevieve strode along the straw-strewn dirt fairway, eyeing the dresses and t-shirts and black-velvet-backed paintings and multi-colored whirlygigs she was passing. She knew right where she was going. Up ahead, slightly out of line with the other booths, was a large octagonal one topped by a large, artfully home-made-looking wooden cutout of a crazy-looking cartoon cow wearing a beefeaters top hat, brandishing absurdly prominent teats as it floated on its back in something white and lumpy or frothy, it was hard to tell which. It was holding a large mug whose dark brown contents were sploshing into the air, and it's huge grin and waving tongue left no doubt it was having a delicious time. They were doing good business and it was a few minutes before Genevieve got through to the counter.

Ned, Ruby, and Jim were scurrying from one side of the booth to another, pouring coffees, proffering sweet rolls, and making thick deli sandwiches, all at the same time. A young woman helper Genevieve didn't know asked her what she'd like and she ordered a large Rajaroka to go. While she was getting it, Genevieve noticed that Ruby was talking to a non-descript looking guy with mousy brown hair. He was gesturing with his head toward a man standing under a tree near the booth, and Ruby looked where he indicated and then continued talking to him. Genevieve paid and took her coffee, and glanced over at Woofie as she strolled back up the fairway.

He was standing with one hand in his pants pocket, the other holding a small, two-lobed teleatone. He was staring just a little to one side of the Clotted Cow booth, chanting his odd little mantra, and then toodling on the teleatone tunelessly, but in the same rhythm as the phrase. Genevieve remembered when he'd come by her shop. Most people looky-looed for an hour, handling every instrument in the place. But Woofie had walked in one day, went right to where the little instrument lay on a display shelf, brought it over to her and paid for it with the exact change. He had said "Thanks" and walked right back out again.

Glancing down another walkway, Genevieve noticed a puppet stage with a small group of people seated on haybales in front of it. She walked over to watch it for a moment.

The stage was nothing more than a large cardboard box set on the ground with a rectangular window cut out of it near the top, but it had been colorfully crayon-covered with vaguely Peter Maxish frothy shapes with unidentifiable animals and plants looking and sprouting (respectively) out from behind them. As Genevieve walked up, a Punch puppet was awkwardly caressing a Raggedy Ann doll that was lying inert on a cardboard shelf mounted on the lower edge of the window to make a stage platform. Another puppet, made from what looked to Genevieve like a sock and an eggshell, slowly rose up behind Punch and watched him silently for a moment.

(Suddenly, as if to scare him) "It is I, Death, Punch!"

(Looking up, not scared) "Gee, Death, why don't you get a new line?"

"How's this: your days of awkwardly caressing Raggedy Ann are...OVER!"

(Looking at the prone Raggedy Ann, then at Death) "I think she was tired of me anyway."

"Do you have any last words?"

(Poking his head in thought) "Yes: wait there a minute!"

The Punch puppet dropped below the opening and the Death puppet swayed to and fro, whistling the Funeral March. Punch reappeared, awkwardly holding a toy cannon. He unceremoniously shoved Raggedy Ann off the stage and placed the cannon facing center stage. Then he went through all the motions of charging and loading the cannon. He then awkwardly put his arm around Death.

"Hey, Death old chum - there's something I'd like you to see!"

(Looking around as if there was nothing in sight) "Oh? What?"

"Come right...over...here!"

As he spoke Punch guided Death toward the cannon and at the word "here" shoved the egg against the mouth of the cannon. The egg audibly crunched and the puppet wiggled about, apparently stuck. Punch, cackling, made the motions of lighting the fuse of the cannon. A voiced hissing sound came from inside the box. While this was going on, Genevieve saw a little blond boy about four years old toddle behind the box. In the middle of the hissing a distinctly four-year-old voice called out from inside the box, "Mommy! There's a man!"

The hissing stopped. Punch stiffened and slowly turned and looked down into the box. At the same time the Death puppet dramatically extricated itself from the cannon and emitted a deep-voiced "Mwaah-ha-ha-ha-ha!" It impaled itself on Punch's bulbous nose and began pushing him downward. Punch screamed "Pay no attention to that man...pay no attention...pay..no..!" as Death bore him inexorably down inside the box. The little boy came out from behind the stage giggling and ran to a woman sitting near the front and threw his arms around her, still giggling. The woman stroked his hair as Punch's stifled scream faded away inside the stage.

Looking past the puppet stage, Genevieve saw a small fenced-off area under one of the oaks that stood in the field. Walking past the stage, she saw several goats inside the fence, peacefully munching at the sparse, dry weeds that grew around the tree. Next to the tree, a woman with strawberry blonde hair done in two long braids sat in a roll-up camping chair. Genevieve walked up to the part of the fence near the tree and introduced herself. The woman got up and came over and offered her hand, saying her name was Marcie Bean.

Genevieve asked if she was exhibiting the goats and she said yes, in a way. It seemed she was actually a Goat Weed Abatement Specialist and a larger herd was available for clearing weeds from roads and rural properties. Genevieve immediately realized she could use this service - the weed clearing on her property was an annual chore she never looked forward to, and the late summer crop she had growing along her fences and the back part of the property were begging for a notice from the fire department. When she described her property, Marcie said it would probably take a couple of days for the goats to do a good job. They arranged for her to start the following weekend.

Genevieve thought she had probably overstayed her break, but she wanted to at least walk through the main tent on the way back. Situated prominently in the middle of the field, a large circus-style tent with green and white stripes and a bright green top had a large sign over its large doorway proclaiming in big, bright green letters: FLOXPOD - PLANT OF 1000 USES! Someone had crossed out the last "0" and painted a bright green "2" next to it.

Inside the tent were a dozen or so booths, each extolling an application of floxpod usage better than anything else that was being used for that purpose presently. One exhibit featured a large net made of floxpod fiber rope that people could climb on. Another had a demonstration of how the floxpod sap, properly processed, could be used as wax, varnish, or a powerful glue. Several booths were given over to the preparation of the 'pod as a delicacy: there was boiled floxpod enhanced with various sauces or dipped in butter (Genevieve tried a free sample of this and thought that, really, it was mostly about the butter), fried floxpod, baked floxpod, popped floxpod, and floxpod-on-a-stick. Yet another booth was serving steaming cups of floxpod tea.

Genevieve stopped and talked with a young couple manning a booth devoted to floxpod clothing. They were naturally wearing their wares and they swore by the durability, washability, and comfort of shirts, pants, and dresses made from refined floxpod fiber thread. Genevieve noticed they were both standing a little stiffly and not moving around much and wondered about the comfort part. A booth with no identifying sign contained shelves with rows and rows of bottles containing bright green pills, and Genevieve sort of thought she could guess why there were only men standing around that one. Near the exit was a large display with diagrams and videos showing the history and biology of floxpods (did you know there are over 350 varieties in the continental U.S. alone?), and modern floxpod processing technology. As she passed, Genevieve overheard a serious, spectacled man saying that the floxpod bean contained an extract that had shown great promise in the treatment of cancer and drug addiction.

As Genevieve approached her own booth, she heard a beautiful, medieval-sounding melody being played in two-part harmony. Bernie and Paula were playing, and several people were standing and listening. Just as she was about to enter through the back, something caught her eye. The side of the booth was made of plywood, and at the base near the back, someone had printed in blue crayon, upside down, the word "GENEVA".

Genevieve felt slightly creeped out. "Geneva" had been a childhood family nickname of hers that only her brother used anymore. But she knew he was in Oregon visiting his in-laws that weekend, and he wouldn't have done such an odd thing anyway. Of course, it was an actual word too, and might not have anything to do with her, but it still seemed a little weird. When she asked Paula and Bernie about it later, they said they didn't know anything about it and hadn't heard anyone doing anything, but they had been playing most of the time. Genevieve decided to just be glad they were finally selling some instruments and put it out of her mind.

In the early September morning haze, the flock of thirty goats raised a small cloud of dust as they moved down one of the unpaved roads that ran along the edge of Tulia. Little Ben and Betsy moved behind them, now and then running along side of them to keep the wanderers from wandering. Marcie Bean, from her raised vantage point on Bill the pony's back, could see up ahead a colorful sign. This was what Genevieve Bishop had told her to look for. As they got to the gate, she read "Teleatones - hand crafted ceramic musical instruments". Marcie had been wondering about those, then felt her back pocket to be sure her old plastic recorder was still there. Below the sign and along the fence, ran a tangle of brilliant cosmos and honeysuckle which vied for space in the sun. Marcie moved Bill between the fence and the goats, lest they begin munching the flowers before doing their job on the dusty weeds.

"Stay!" she commanded. The corgies renewed their containment efforts and the goats bunched together. Marcie dismounted and tied Bill to the fence. At precisely 7 a.m., Marcie pushed the button on Genevieve's front door. She could hear, inside, a beautiful little tune chime cheerfully out. Genevieve opened the door, still in her robe.

"Hi! We're here!" said Marcie and she gestured to the goats behind her. Genevieve blinked and looked from left to right over the multi-horned, multi-hued crew.

"Great, just follow the path around to your right and go through the gate. I'll meet you in back.

Marcie hurried back to her charges and untied Bill, then gestured with her staff.

"Let's go!" she said to the dogs, then leading Bill, she walked along the fence, through the open gate and past the side of the house. Ginger and Fred, two of the ten pygmy goats made a last dash for the cosmos. Betsy soon had them scampering back with pink and white petals hanging from their lips.

In the backyard, Genevieve was waiting, now wearing jeans and a "Floxpod Fest 2003" sweatshirt. The acre yard beyond was definitely overgrown. A small low, possibly adobe, building stood back under a tall cottonwood. The yard was fenced with a red board fence about 6 feet high. Marcie could see a flox pod field behind it.

"Well, here it is!" Genevieve gestured with her arm. "I shouldn't let it go so long, but I get busy. I hate using chemicals, so I'm glad I ran into you. That's my pottery shed over there which I should re-mud soon. It's an original adobe, built by the ranch hands back when. The goats can start here and just work their way around."

So Marcie led them over to some mullein and greenish tumbleweed and let them settle in to munching. Then she walked Bill over to the cottonwood, tied him up loosely and removed his saddle. Genevieve walked over.

"How about some coffee and some breakfast? We can keep an eye on them from the kitchen."

"Sounds great!" Marcie replied. Much as she liked getting to work early, she hated crawling out of bed early and hadn't had so much as a cup of coffee before leaving her house.

Before she sat at Genevieve's wooden kitchen table, she removed the recorder from her pocket and placed it by a coffee mug. Genevieve gave it an interested glance before cracking eggs into a heavy black skillet. Then she poured Marcie a steaming cup of coffee. Marcie spooned in a dollop of rich cream and stirred.

A pleasant hour passed while first Genevieve, then Marcie told each other their stories of how they came to Tulia. Genevieve remembered Marcie's parents who used to come in to the library every Wednesday. She was surprised to learn that Marcie had been an archival librarian.

"Quite a life switch!" Genevieve exclaimed.

Marcie nodded. "I just needed to do something totally different. Coming back to Tulia is a gift for me. I'm enjoying working with the goats and Mom and I are getting to know each other again." Marcie sipped her coffee, then leaned her chair back and looked to see how the crew was doing. They were nearly to the back fence.

"I'd love to see your mother again." Genevieve said.

"How about lunch at our house next week?"

"That would be nice."

They had more coffee and seconds on English muffins, then Genevieve led Marcie into the living room. It was a large and old fashioned great room with a rough hewn stone fireplace at one end and broad dark wood beams overhead. The shelves along one wall were packed with books, with more books laying on top of the standing books. Small plastic framed photos of people and animals stood on every shelf. And Teleatones were everywhere, on shelves and windowsills, in the corners and even hanging in a mobile from one of the wood beams above. "Your Teleatones are beautiful." Said Marcie as she looked at a golden one with a bright zigzag pattern on it. "You may have it if you like - as a thank you for coming over so soon with your little horned friends." Genevieve smiled. "I noticed there were different kinds - are they different breeds?"

"Well," said Marcie, placing her fingers over the holes of her new instrument, "There are ten African pygmies - obviously the short ones, four Saanens, five La Manchas - they have no ears, seven Nubians - with the big ears and four Boers - which I rescued from a slaughter house. Actually that's as close as I can tell. A couple of them look mixed. Almost all I got from ads of people who'd gotten tired of them. They are so energetic and can get into trouble easily..." Suddenly Marcie realized that she'd better check them again. She had gotten sidetracked. Genevieve picked up on Marcie's expression and said, "Hmmm, maybe we'd better check them."

As they walked toward the kitchen, they heard a bark.

Marcie placed the Teleatone next to her recorder.

Little Ben sat at the screen door alone. Gently he raised a paw and scraped at the screen. He woofed again softly, then looked over his shoulder. Marcie followed his gaze. Fred and Ginger were the only two goats in sight. They were grazing near Bill who now was asleep. For a moment, she thought the others were hidden by the tall weeds, but then she saw a board missing where none had been missing before. The board next to the missing board was pushed aside at an angle.

"Uh oh." Marcie stood for a moment while the thought sunk in that the worst had occured. Genevieve's eyes widened as she saw the fence too.

"I didn't know those were loose! Oh, how can I help?!" Genevieve exclaimed.

"Who's flox pod field is that?" Marcie asked as she grabbed the recorder from the table.

"It's Mike Nolan's." Genevieve said as she ran after Marcie out the door.

They eased themselves through the gap in the fence, Little Ben at their heels looking expectantly up at them. The flox pod plants around them were seven feet tall and ready for harvest. Marcie was wishing she hadn't unsaddled Bill. She tweedled her "Come here!" tune on her recorder, then played it again a fifth higher. She gestured to Ben.

"Ben - gather, bring!" He disappeared between the stalks, barking. Marcie looked at Genevieve with an apologetic look.

"This has never happened before. I guess, let's just try to get them back through the fence. Why don't you go check by the road. I'll go this way.

Genevieve had only been in the field once before - two years ago when Mike Nolan was planting his first crop on his newly acquired farm. It was eighty acres - part of the Bishop's former land. How far could the goats have gone? It couldn't have been fifteen minutes... Poor Marcie...

When she got to the road, she saw five goats grazing on the opposite side. A strange (to her) man was bending over one and reading the tag on it's collar. He was tall and thin with longish brown hair that was beginning to go grey.

"Hi!" said Genevieve. All six jumped. "I'm Genevieve Bishop, and I was looking for these guys." She pointed to the five - two pygmies, two without ears, and a huge white goat with yellow eyes.

"I'm Ernst Stratford. I'm new in town and was just out walking, getting to know the area."

Genevieve could have guessed he was new - since he was wearing a new t-shirt that read "Wouldn't you rather be in Tulia?" and a new ball cap that said "Tulia - flox pod capital of the world". She absorbed those messages.

Then she asked, "Would you mind helping me get them back in my yard? They are supposed to be eating my weeds."

"Sure thing!" Ernst replied. And they both grabbed a collar of a goat with each hand.

Ernst got the two earless ones, Genevieve got the huge one and one of the pygmies. Their collars read "Gigantor" and "Pippin" . The other pygmy trotted after them.

"Who do you have there?" She asked Ernst, noticing that he was reading the collar of the goat on his left.

"Um, this here is Socrates and this one's Plato." He chuckled. Are they yours?

"No, a friend's, I'm just borrowing them for a day."

She pushed the backyard gate open with her foot and pushed Gigantor in first. Pippin and, she presumed, Merry scampered in after. Ernst followed and let his two charges go inside. She saw his jaw drop as he looked up at the yard.

About ten more goats were there, back at work near the pottery shed. Just then a board moved aside at the far end of the yard and a line of motley goats marched in, some still chewing flox pods and stems. They were egged on by two funny looking low-to-the-ground dogs with big ears. A short stocky woman with long braids stepped through last, a flox pod dangling off one braid and leaves sticking to her shirt. She slipped the board back in place, turned and sighed.

"Did you get them all?" Genevieve asked. Marcie walked toward them, plucking off the flox pod distractedly as she did so.

"Moses is missing." Marcie said. "I searched the whole place, or most of it anyway. He usually hangs out with Methuselah, but not this time. Methuselah is over there." She pointed over to the shed.

Genevieve didn't know what to say, so she introduced Ernst and Marcie. They shook hands. Then Genevieve and Marcie worked their way around the yard checking every board while Ernst nailed the loose boards back in place. He fixed two more loose ones they found. The goats continued eating, watched closely now by the two corgies.

Then Genevieve, Marcie and Ernst sat on the back porch and sipped iced tea while they watched the weed eaters.

"They do a great job!" said Ernst, "My new friend at the Clotted Cow could use their services out back behind their store. I'll recommend you to them."

"Thanks", said Marcie, but she was worried about Moses. He was old and not too bright. But there was no more she could do right now, so she turned and smiled and poured them all some more iced tea.

And so they sat and talked and let the morning slip into afternoon.

It's football season again. Things are pretty much the same for the Tulia Titans. All except one thing. Woofie is missing from his usual spot next to the gatorade jug down on the Titan side line. He's been a fixture there for almost ten years now and the whole home crowd knows that he's missing. We don't know where he is.

My name is Helton Rutherford. I'm a deputy sheriff here at the Tulia substation. My dad wanted me to seek admission to Boalt and study to be a lawyer. After partying around in college I was lucky to get a B.A. in polysci. My grades didn't cut it for Boalt. So I applied to get into the Sheriff's academy and with a little pull from my Dad, I got in. Now I'm working in my home town. It feels kind of funny meeting people you know when you pull them over for speeding or some other minor infraction. But I like the work.

We don't usually have many mysteries in Tulia but unfortunately we have one now, involving my friend. Of course there is the case of the missing goat. Marcie Bean's goat Moses has not been seen since her goat herd worked a weed abatement job at Genevieve Bishop's place.

I haven't talked much to Woofie since the hey day years of "toka-ROKitude" but I see him now and then in the back room of Howlie's Burger Hut. He's been part-time dishwasher there since he lost his post office job. I filed a missing person's report myself.

The detectives that handle such cases are headquartered in Wassamassaw. Since I know him as well as anyone, I decided to do my own unofficial investigation into Woofie's whereabouts. The Wassamassaw guys will probably take a week or two to get around to starting their inquiries so in my off hours I will ask around to see what I can uncover.

At half time I noticed Nancy Coulter talking to another woman down at the foot of the bleachers. Nancy was a cheer leader when I was playing football for Tulia High. I asked her if she had seen Woofie.

"Not for a while Helton" she had a genuine look of concern on her face. "I saw Ruby last night at the Clotted Cow and she was asking for him also. I hope he's all right. Let me know if you hear from him."

I had always thought of Nancy as kind of shallow and selfish. I guess people can change.

The Titans managed to turn a two touchdown lead at half-time into a one point loss to the Wolverines. After the game I wandered over to the Clotted Cow with a couple of buddies. Ruby and Jim were behind the bar. Jim took our orders and we sat in a corner booth yacking about the game and waiting for our beers. I saw that Ruby was momentarily unbusy, so I went over to the bar and asked her if she could speak with me..

"I'm glad you came. I've been wanting to talk to you about Woofie." She was drying some glasses with a clean terry cloth bar towel. Her voice broke a little. She was obviously upset.

The after-game crowd was a little noisy so I pointed to the back room with a question on my face. Ruby looked down the bar and decided that Jim could handle the remaining customers.

"Sure" she said "Lets get out of this racket."

We walked past the kitchen and through a little dark storage galley full of aluminum beer kegs piled awkwardly on one another. The walls of the little office beyond the galley were paneled in dark knotty pine with many black and white photos of various gatherings, birthdays, retirements, and post election parties, hung in a random fashion. A mahogany desk, too large for the room, occupied the wall backing up to the alley. I sat in a comfortable leather arm chair and Ruby sat on a small couch piled with newspapers at one end. She still had the bar towel in her hands and was wadding and wringing it in a distracted manner. An ashtray full of butts balanced on the couch's overstuffed arm.

"Helton, you know Roger and I split up don't you?"

That took me by surprise. Roger was a good sort and I thought Ruby and he were well suited to one another. Though I don't think they were ever married.

"No Ruby, I'm sorry to hear that."

Immediately I felt that the tone of my response wasn't indicating my true feelings.

Ruby and I had been a thing briefly back in high school. I guess when two people have been intimate once, it's common for some awkwardness to linger in the air when they see each other at some later time. I think it was that awkwardness that came through in my voice.

Ruby was looking down as she smoothed the towel across her lap. I thought I saw a single tear land on the back of her right hand.

"It's only been about a week." She was trying hard not to cry.

"I'm sorry" she cried softly still looking at the towel on her lap. "This isn't what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm worried about Woofie. I haven't seen him in over a week and no one that I've talked to has seen him either."

I had reservations about asking Ruby about Roger, but it seemed to be called for.

"Ruby, is Woofie's disappearance somehow connected to yours and Roger's break-up?" There was no way to soften the bluntness of the question.

Ruby heaved a big sigh. "I'm not sure. Roger had become impatient with me over my tolerating Woofie's, you know, stalking. One day Roger just said he was moving out. When I asked him why, he just said it was time."

I didn't know what to say to her. "Do you know who may have seen Woofie last?"

Ruby thought a moment. "I think it was me or ... Roger. Woofie was hanging around our booth at the Floxpod Festival. Woofie hadn't talked to me since we broke it off those many years ago, but for some reason he came up to me then and tried to start a conversation. Just then Roger came along. I was about to take a break from the booth. Roger and I were going to have a look around at the rest of the festival attractions. When Roger saw Woofie talking to me he got angry. Woofie quickly moved off to the shade of a nearby tree. Roger didn't say much except that he was tired of having that man around me all the time. He left in a huff saying that he had something to do. When I looked back toward Woofie, he was gone."

Days went by before I got back to working the Woofie investigation. On Monday morning I went to Woofie's apartment house. No one there had seen him in two weeks. The building supervisor let me into Woofie's room. There was literally nothing there except a folded blanket in the closet along with some neatly stacked underclothing. It looked like he had moved out. The super said that the apartment always looked like that and that Woofie's rent was paid up.

In the afternoon I stopped by Howlie's. George, the proprietor, told me that he last saw Woofie on closing night of the Floxpod Festival which jibed with what everone else had said.

George was little miffed. "I'm still looking for someone to wash dishes. If you come across someone who needs a part-time job, send them my way."

Tuesday I got a radio call from the substation saying that a security guard at the now vacant Floxpod Fesival grounds had spotted a goat loose among the empty livestock corrals. The festival grounds were also the site of the county fair and had many buildings and outside pens used for animal exhibitions.

It wasn't quite dark yet. I went to the little guard office near the entrance to the fesitival grounds. The guard was reading a newspaper under a lit bare light bulb. He let me in and told me that he had been making his rounds about a half hour ago and as he approached the horse barns he heard a noise. It sounded to him like a crate being tipped over. Then a startled goat ran out from behind the barn and disappeared into the maze of empty animal corrals and pens.

"I remember readiing about a missing goat." the guard said "I thought you guys should know about it. But come to think about it, maybe I should have called animal control."

"That's all right." I replied. "It's a slow night. We'll call animal control if we spot where the goat's hiding. Can you take me to that horse barn?"

We walked past several big pavilions before getting to the horse barn, a big sheet metal structure divided into stalls and feed storage areas. I looked past the barn down the lane between the sheep pens and sure enough, there was a goat. It had gone down a dead end lane and couldn't escape any further. As we approached, I got on my hand-held radio and told the substation to call animal control to come and get the goat. I told the guard we should stay where we were and not cause the goat to get excited. It might bolt passed us and get away again.

We waited about an hour before Marcie Bean showed up with a little pickup that had animal siding on the bed.

"The animal control called me when they heard you'd found my goat." She was holding a coil of half inch cotton rope.

"Yep, its Moses all right. I wonder how he got way over here? I lost him on the other side of town. Say, what is that he's chewing on?"

The goat had been preoccupied while we were talking about it. It was chewing on some cloth item.

Marcie walked slowly toward Moses and talked low and soothingly to him. She got right up to the animal without disturbing him. She quickly snapped a catch on the end of the rope through a ring in Mose's collar. She had to struggle to get the goat to release the cloth item. She handed it to me. It was the remains of Woofie's signature short billed ball cap.

Futz found himself in a crowd of strangers, shuffling forward toward a wide rectangle of bright light that he took to be the exit. It was a disembarkation, he knew, although he couldn’t remember from what. Now they were approaching a row of lighted counters fronting a long array of overhanging video panels. On each screen a series of still images slowly cycled. There were a couple shouting, hair blown backward by the wind; a woman, wide-eyed, apparently about to speak; a sleeping man; a dog, its leash flying, sailing off a curb. Beneath the slide shows, people who had reached the counters accepted parcels and departed through the glaring archway.

Futz awoke needing to pee. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat a moment leaning on his knees, letting the dream recede from memory.

The next morning Futz dropped his Punch puppet into a market bag and carried it back to the antique shop. Arriving early, he settled down on the curb in front of the shop and waited for the owner to arrive and open up. He stared down into the gutter, where a little shoal of pine needles lay, probably deposited against the tire of a parked car by the runoff of the last rain. Among the needles he saw a green cellophane candy wrapper, and the flattened remains of a mouse. Just above these, on the face of the curb, crayoned in heavy royal blue, was the word “AVENGE”. It was upside down to the street, but it was right side up for Bob, who now checked quickly about him to see if the crayon-owning erstwhile occupant of his seat might still be somewhere in the vicinity.

A few minutes later, the thrift store’s proprietor, one “Mr. Memory”, according to the gold-edged block lettering that arced across his window, hauled open the shop’s front door with a loud jangling of its customer-alert bell. When Bob, still studying the scene between his shoes, failed to react, Mr. Memory tentatively addressed his back.

“We’re open.”

Bob looked back surprised, and jabbed his finger downward. “Sorry! My mind was in the gutter!” He grabbed Punch and trotted past Mr. Memory’s ushering palm. “I’ve got a return.” He laid Punch out on the countertop.

Memory stared down at the puppet. “Is there a problem?”

“He makes me dream about death.”

“That’s not good,” said Memory. “Do you want your money back?”

“Nope. I just figured someone else could use him.”

“How does he make you dream about death?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a theory.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“No. But I played him at the Floxpod Festival and he talked about death a lot.”

“He talks to you?”

“No. I made another puppet for him to talk to.”

“Oh, I see. Judy?”

“No. A little eggheaded sock guy named Death.”

“You named him Death?”

“He said that was his name.”

Mr. Memory looked sideways. “I should think he would be the one to get rid of.”

“Oh, I did. But then the dreams started. I think it’s Punch.”

“Curious. What are the dreams like?” Mr. Memory had once read Freud.

“I’m someplace strange but familiar, and I’m just about to find out what I’m doing there when I wake up.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s a metaphor. The place. It’s always a metaphor for the ‘other side’.” Bob scratched the air with paired fingers. “You know, having passed over? Sometimes it’s a big delicatessen, or a bus station. Once it was the Sutro baths. I’ve never seen the Sutro baths. Last night it was the log ride at Disneyland. Sort of. It’s always kind of, like, Ellis Island for the dead.”

“Anyone might have dreams like that,” said Memory, unimpressed. “But I’ll be happy to recycle Mr. Punch here, if you think it’ll help. Can I interest you in anything else?”

“No. Except, I do have a question. I was sitting on the curb when you arrived, and I see you have an odd graffito there, the word “avenge” in blue crayon. What’s with that?”

Mr. Memory raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure it doesn’t say ‘Avenue’? This is Orange Avenue out here,” he flipped a thumb toward the window.

Futz raised his own eyebrows. “Good thought. I’ll take another look on the way out. Thanks for the help with …the little death man there.” He left the shop without checking the curb. He’d learned that belongings have voices of their own. The vengeful crayon was someone else’s problem.

Marcie Bean was getting ready to leave the festival grounds with her reclaimed goat, Moses. "I don't like what I'm thinking, Helton."

I was with her on that. The thought of Woofie's chewed up baseball cap was troubling. "I'm going to do some checking around. I'll let you know if anything turns up."

After she was gone, I asked Bill, the security guard, to give me the two-bit tour.

"Happy to oblige, Sheriff. Now these here are the sheep pens, over there's for goats and pigs, and the big stalls yonder are for the horses."

I peered into one of the sheep pens. "Are these stacks of hay kept here all winter?" I aimed my flashlight behind a big pile of bales that had been tipped over.

Bill came up behind me. "Yessir. They get used again when . . . "

He shut up as the flashlight beam fell on something sticking out from under the hay bales. It was somebody's foot. A dead somebody, as it turned out.

Two hours later I was cooling my heels outside the sheep pens, sipping a Dulwich Decaf from the Cow and trying to stay calm about being sidelined by a young blowhard of a detective from Wassamassaw.

Portable arc lights and yellow police tape surrounded the pen where the body lay covered by a sheet. Detective B. J. Natwich, 27, finished the note he was writing, straightened his already straight cap, and beckoned me over. "We'll take it from here, Sheriff. My men have cordoned and secured the area, and we will proceed to gather the necessary evidentiary indicators."

Meaning clues? I felt my hackles rise, and then fall again. No use getting on his bad side. "Listen, Natwick, have you got anything on that Missing Person I reported last week? He's got a cousin here in town, George Bell, who's pretty worried about him." George hadn't said exactly that, but I knew he hadn't found anyone else to do dishes at Howlie's.

The detective tucked his pen and steno pad into his coat pocket before answering. "Priorities, Sheriff, priorities. The good news is, this corpse isn't him."

A plump man with Einstein hair and a fly-away coat surged toward us out of the circle of lights. "Jai Ranganathan, county coroner. I'm new," he said, pumping my hand. He turned to Natwick. "Can't tell you much yet, B.J. Female, dead a week to ten days. If it hadn't been for this cold snap, the neighborhood would've noticed her a lot sooner. Looks like murder -- skull's fractured -- but I'll know more after we get her to the morgue. ID won't be easy."

I headed back to the Clotted Cow an hour later, to find an impromptu post-mortem in progress. "Pint of Mackeson Triple, Jim." He gave me the high sign, and I sat down at a round table with Marcie, Genevieve Bishop, and Paula Glein. Ruby Appel was there too, sniffling and holding hands with Roger Whitstraw. Guess they'd patched things up for the nonce.

"Helton, is it true?" asked Genevieve. "Was some poor woman murdered at the festival grounds? And nobody even knows who she is?"

I nodded, and downed a half a stein of stout.

Ruby got slightly hysterical at that point. "I knew it! There's a murderer on the loose, and Woofie's disappeared. It's Lombard Street to a China orange he'll be next!"

Roger put his arm around her and proffered his handkerchief. "Now, now, hon. It's okay. Ol' Woofie'll turn up like a bad penny. You'll see."

"But he's been gone so long! I just know he had something important to tell me that day at the Floxpod Festival. But you scared him away, and we . . . we were the last ones to see him!" She resorted to the hanky.

"I saw him after that." In a body we all swiveled toward a nearby booth, where Bob Futz sat with Ernst Stratford and Coach Rawlings, getting steadily soused.

"What?" "When?" "Where?" Everybody was talking at once.

"Day of the first football scrimmage," said Bob. "I could've played, you know, back in high school," he added. "But Coach said the lacrosse team needed me. You said they needed me bad."

"That they did, boy," said Coach, signaling to Jim for another pitcher of Fuller's. "That they did." He and Bob lapsed into silence, staring down into their porter.

"I saw that scrimmage," said Ernst. "The Ochichag Ocelots trounced Tulia, 27-nothing. It was Saturday before last. Ten days ago."

Bob nodded. "Same day I started my Jolly Rancher wrapper collection. Death, like an overflowing stream sweeps us away, our life's a dream."

"Uh, right." I tried to steer him back to the subject of Woofie. "Anything else you can recollect, Bob?"

"Yup. Had a goat with him. Cute little thing."

Marcie's head went up. "That's the day Moses disappeared. Was it Moses you saw with Woofie that day do you think, Bob?"

"Couldn't say. Saw them on Orange Avenue, over near Little Tulia Creek. Appeared to be in some kind of hurry."

"Time, folks" called Jim from behind the bar, and people began drifting home, still talking about Woofie, and the murder.

The next morning I got a call from Detective Natwick in Wassamassaw. "I have secured your Missing Person, Sheriff."

"Woofie? That's great. Is he okay? Does he need a ride? Tell him I'll drive over and pick him up."

"I'm afraid that will not be possible. Mr. Ingram is under arrest. For murder."

I was flumoxed. "Murder? Come off it, B. J." I knew Woofie was a little, well, off, but I was sure he was incapable of murder.

"He confessed. Mr. Ingram walked all the way over here from Tulia last night. He came in first thing this morning and confessed to poisoning our Jane Doe."

"But Ranganathan said she was conked on the head."

"I am proceeding under the assumption that he attacked her, and then poisoned her."

"B.J., that doesn't make any sense. Did Ranganathan find any evidence of poisoning?"

"Not yet. But I am confident that he will, given time."

"I'm coming over there to talk to Woofie. Now." I hung up without giving him a chance for a comeback.

At the Wassamassaw Police Station, Natwick gave me a hard time, but he finally agreed to let me see his prisoner. Woofie sat hunched up in one corner of the cell, murmuring to himself. His head looked naked without the little red cap.

We shook hands. "Hey, Woof, what's this all about? You didn't kill anybody."

He nodded several times. "Yes, I did. I killed the lady. I gave her tea."

"Tea? What kind of tea? Where was this? When? Who is she?"

". . . The-future-toka-ROKitude, The-future-toka-ROKitude, The-future . . ."

My questions were evidently rattling him. "It's okay, Woofie. It's okay. Don't worry about it. Look, just tell me one thing: where've you been all this time?"

". . .toka-ROK . . ." He was quiet a minute. Then, "In the barn. At the festival. I gave the lady tea and she died. Floxpod tea. I was scared. I hid." He hung his head. "But the police came and found her, so I came here and gave myself up."

"Floxpod tea? But that's not poisonous."

Woofie eyes widened. "Then . . . then who killed the lady?"

"I don't know, Woof." But I was sure as hell going to find out.

Jai Ranganathan, county coroner, pulled on a pair of latex surgical gloves and turned to face the corpse laid out on a wide stainless steel table in the morgue. She'd been somewhere in her thirties, had short, dark blonde hair, and had been dead long enough that he had the overhead vent fan running full blast.

He gingerly unbuttoned the peach orange blouse, then cut the sleeves up to the neck and removed the front pieces. Cutting up the sides of the legs of the khaki slacks took a bit longer. He blinked for a moment at the Power Puff Girl-printed underwear before removing these as well, and the athletic grey sports bra. Finally he removed the very dirty lemon yellow deck shoes and the once-probably-blue-but-now-greyish-teal socks. He then proceeded with his autopsy, working his way from head to feet, then after turning the corpse over, back again from feet to head. Using a large magnifying glass, he plucked 17 pieces of straw from the congealed fracture wound just above the left temple.

He straightened up, and sighed. After three and a half hours, he didn't know anything new except that she had a large bruise on her left outer thigh, and, not only was there no sign of sexual activity, he was pretty sure she'd never had any sexual activity in her life. He was also pretty sure the wound hadn't been caused by a blow with an instrument, but it was too old to be certain.

He washed up, and just before he turned out the lights he paused for moment and took another look at the items removed from her clothing and body. A green jade bead bracelet, and a St. Bartholomew medallion on a tarnished chain. 8 newspaper rubberbands of various colors. 3 candybar wrappers, 2 Snickers, 1 Hershey. 4 brand-new 20-dollar bills. A Floxpod Festival flyer. A dirty red bandana. And a navy blue Crayola crayon.