"You can look for him tomorrow," said Mrs. Frensky, who was loading moist articles of clothing into the dryer. "It's getting dark."
Francine grabbed her red coat from the closet and started to pull it over her left arm. "I can't leave him out all night in the cold, Mom."
"Then you'd better find him quickly," said her mother.
Zipping her coat, Francine hurried down the stairway to the front entrance. To her surprise, she saw Beat Simon standing on the other side of the door, wearing a pink parka and cradling Nemo in her arms.
As Francine pulled the door open, Beat smiled at her. "You lost your kittycat, Frankie," she said sweetly.
Nemo, purring contentedly, looked up at Beat's face and said, "Mraawr" (which means, in English, "It would be so easy to destroy you").
The cold outside air seeped into the apartment building as Francine held the door open and fantasized. She imagined she saw a knight in shining armor riding toward her on a white charger, holding a striped cat in its hand. Coming to a stop in front of her, the knight pulled off its helmet to reveal Beat's face and unruly black hair underneath. Beat then lowered her metal-clad hand and placed the cat gently in Francine's welcoming arms.
Francine smiled gratefully...then shook her head vigorously in an attempt to make the fantasy disappear.
"Dang it, Beat!" she exclaimed angrily. "You're not making this easy for me!"
Grasping Nemo tightly, she turned and walked up the stairway as the front door closed on the confused Beat.
----
At the same time, Fern's parents were snuggling together on the couch in their living room, watching the beginning of a mystery movie on TV. The title appeared in large letters on the screen: AGATHA GRISLY'S MURDER WITH A DISORIENTED EXPRESSION.
"I just love a good murder...er, mystery," said Mr. Walters eagerly.
In the movie, Hercule Poulet, an elegantly dressed chicken man who spoke with a distinguished French accent, was checking into a room at the Dunn Inn. He glanced at a sign hanging over the front desk, bearing the words 72 MURDER-FREE DAYS.
"An enviable record, monsieur," Mr. Poulet remarked.
"Thank you, sir," said the desk clerk.
Suddenly they heard a woman's scream from one of the upper floors...
"Mon Dieu!" cried Poulet. "Call ze police, quickly!"
The clerk picked up an antiquated desk set, but found that there was no dial tone. "The phone's cut off!" he exclaimed anxiously.
"Let me try." Pulling a cell phone from the pocket of his beige suit coat, Poulet flipped it open but found that the monitor was blank. "Dead," he observed astutely. "I shall have to drive to ze police station."
"You can't," said the clerk. "We're snowed in."
"Zen zere is only one possible conclusion," said Poulet, gesturing dramatically with his finger. "Someone in zis building...is a murderer!"
As ominous music played in the background, the door to the Walters' home opened and Fern entered, followed closely behind by Greta.
"Hi, Fern," said Mrs. Walters, who tried to look at her daughter and the TV screen at the same time. "Who's your friend?"
"I'm Greta," said the horse girl. "Greta von Horstein."
"Take off your coat and make yourself comfortable," said Mr. Walters.
"This is my house," Fern said to Greta, waving her arm. "Those are my parents, that's the TV..."
Greta looked at the screen with interest. "Oh, is that 'Murder with a Disoriented Expression'?"
"Yes, it is," Mrs. Walters replied.
"I've read it," said Greta. "I've read all of Agatha Grisly's mysteries. This must be the made-for-cable version that came out last year. It's been adapted three times before. I think the 1963 version with Sir Alec Grimace is the best so far."
Fern stared motionlessly at her, astonished at her display of cinematic knowledge.
"Where's your computer, Fern?" asked Greta.
Fern led Greta to the other side of the living room, where the family computer was sitting on top of a desk, surrounded by peripheral devices and reams of papers with circuit schematics printed on them.
"My dad put this computer together from used parts," she explained. "He's an engineer."
Greta looked at the monitor. "You're still running Microstuff Portholes," she noted. "Lunix is the wave of the future, you know. It's more powerful, more reliable, and your money doesn't go into the pockets of the Microstuff monopoly. I have it on my computer, and I can do real-time video editing."
"Is there anything you're not good at?" Fern asked her.
"Quantum information theory," Greta replied. "But only because it's a new field."
Fern pointed toward her bedroom. "Let's go in my room and talk poetry," she suggested.
The two girls went into the bedroom, closed the door behind them, and seated themselves in two office chairs. "I really loved that Wilfred Owen poem you sent me," said Fern wistfully.
"It's a wonderful poem," said Greta. "No poet could ever express the futility of war better than Wilfred Owen. He even wrote a poem called 'Futility'. Have you read it?"
"No," Fern answered.
Greta started to recite:
"Move him into the sun,
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown,
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow..."
Midway through the poem, Greta began to choke up and could not continue. "He died when he was twenty-five," she related, her voice filled with emotion. "Killed in the war only a week before the armistice."
"That's so sad," Fern remarked.
"I had hoped he would survive the war, and write more poems," Greta went on.
Fern gave her a surprised look.
"I mean, I wish he had survived the war, and written more poems," Greta corrected herself.
----
Odette lay on her bed in the room she shared with her sister Quinn, reading Henry Skreever and the Cabbage of Mayhem and listening to a recording of Ravel's ballet Daphnis and Chloe. It had been three days since her rescue from the Higher Power compound, and she was still considerably thinner than she had been before the kidnapping.
As she turned the page to begin Chapter 5 (Persephone Goes to the Library and Finds a New and Dangerous Spell), Quinn walked into the room, holding a cordless phone receiver. "Call for you, Odette. It's Binky."
Sighing with exasperation, Odette laid the book down next to her and put the receiver to the side of her head. "This isn't a good time, Binky," she said impatiently.
"I just want to know if you're going to the recital," came Binky's friendly voice.
"No, I'm not," replied the swan girl. "I'm taking a break from ballet, and I'm taking a break from you. I'm sorry, but I need some time to myself."
"How much time?" Binky asked.
Odette closed her eyes tightly and gritted her beak.
"Hello?"
"Binky," said Odette slowly and sternly, "there are lots of girls your own age who like you."
"I just want to help," Binky offered. "You don't have to be my..."
Odette pushed the off button to end the call, and laid the receiver on the end table. "I'm not the same girl you remember," she muttered quietly.
----
"In what year did the Bolshevik Revolution take place?" asked Mrs. Stiles, who held a set of notes in her hands.
"Uh...1917," Muffy answered.
"Correct." Muffy's former teacher sat across from her in a recliner. "Now, who was the leader of the Bolshevik party at that time?"
"Vladimir Lenin," Muffy replied confidently.
"Correct." Mrs. Stiles pored over her notes for a second. "Who are the proletariat?"
"Uh...the class of peasants and workers who don't own land," said Muffy.
"Very good. Now why did the proletariat support the Bolshevik Revolution?"
"Um...er...because the Bolsheviks promised to put them in charge and give them land, and they also promised to stop the war effort."
"Excellent." Mrs. Stiles rose from her chair. "Now let's take a break, and then we'll work on your algebra."
Muffy followed her into the kitchen, where she opened the oven door to check the progress of a batch of peanut butter cookies.
"Mrs. Stiles," asked Muffy curiously, "what would happen if we had a Bolshevik Revolution here in America?"
The polar bear woman eyed her quizzically. "I don't think that would ever happen, Muffy."
"But it could happen," Muffy insisted. "Like, if everybody was really poor, and couldn't buy land or food."
Mrs. Stiles closed the oven door. "Under those circumstances it might happen," she mused.
"That would be scary," Muffy pondered. "They'd probably shoot my dad."
"Let's not think about that," said the former teacher as she pulled a jug of milk from the refrigerator.
The doorbell rang. "Will you please get that, Muffy?" Mrs. Stiles requested.
Muffy opened the door to the apartment, and to her surprise, Cedric Pryce-Jones stood in the doorway.
"Er...ah...hello, Mr. Pryce-Jones, sir," she stammered.
Muffy's teacher adjusted his spectacles and folded his arms. "School is not in session, Muffy," he said officiously. "You don't need to call me sir."
Mrs. Stiles set down the milk jug and hurried to Muffy's side. "You're Mr. Pryce-Jones?" she asked in an almost reverential tone. "Cedric Pryce-Jones?"
"That I am, madam," he replied.
"Do come in," Mrs. Stiles offered. "It's an honor to be in the presence of an educator of your stature."
Mr. Pryce-Jones strode into the apartment and glanced at the movie posters on the walls. "The honor is mine, madam. Your accomplishments as a thespian are very...er...well-known."
"Who is it, Jean?" came a woman's voice from the bedroom. A moment later, Angela Ratburn emerged.
Mr. Pryce-Jones' mouth fell open with surprise when he saw her face.
Angela, in turn, became ghastly pale with fear...
(To be continued...)
