The very next day...

"Ray?"

"Yes, Benny?"

"I believe that sign back there said that this was a school zone."

"You mean, the yellow, triangle sign?"

"Yes, Ray."

"You mean, the one with the drawing of a stick kid and a stick book on it?"

"Yes, Ray."

"Saw it, Benny. Don't see no school, though."

"It doesn't matter, Ray," his friend argued. "You are now driving sixty-five miles per hour in a twenty-five mile per hour, clearly marked, school zone."

"OK, Benny, just to keep you happy, I'll slow down," Ray said, tapping the brake pedal.

"Ray, while I appreciate the effort, I don't think reducing your speed to sixty can be deemed much of an improvement."

"It don't matter, Fraser. I still don't see no school." The Chicago detective waved one hand around, indicating the general landscape. "Benny, I don't see nothin' here except a bunch of trees." Flashing blue lights appeared from behind a screen of those trees. "And a cop," Ray amended. "Damn." He pulled the car over to the side of the blacktop road, coming to a stop on a precariously narrow, red dirt shoulder, and rolled down his window, admitting a ton or so of red dust. An elderly police cruiser rolled to a stop inches from the rear bumper, contributing mightily to the dust cloud. Trying in vain to wave away the dust, Vecchio triedto find a bright side. "Hey, I'm a cop, you're a cop, he's a cop -"

"She's a cop," Fraser, looking in the rear-view mirror, corrected his friend.

"She's a cop. We're on cop business. Cops don't give other cops tickets."

"Didn't you say that once before?"

Ray ignored this, instead focusing his attention to the woman now at his window. Tall, with dark hair pulled into a bun behind her head, dressed in khakis and a blue Oxford cloth shirt, the only things cop-like about her were her car, the badge pinned to her shirt, and the ticket book and radar gun in her hands.

"Any trouble, Officer?" Ray turned on his nicest smile and as much charm as he had left. After a flight over the entire southern tier of the United States, an argument with the woman at the car rental agency over whether or not an extra deposit was required for the transportation of Diefenbaker, and a drive along some of the most twisted roads and stuck behind more pickup trucks and campers than he'd ever dreamed existed, it wasn't much. But he tried.

"You see a yellow sign back there?" the woman asked. "Triangular, with a stick figure on it?"

"Why, yes, I did," Ray admitted. "But I didn't see no school."

"But you did see the sign," she said, her voice as dry as the dust drifting through the open window. Ray nodded. "Good. We are in agreement, then, that you did see the sign, the stick figure --"

"With a stick book," Fraser, ever helpful, joined in.

"Shut up, Fraser," Ray directed.

The cop looked away from Ray, took in the Mountie in his red serge uniform, touched upon the Stetson resting on the dash, and came to rest upon Diefenbaker in the back seat. Her expression did not change one bit; in fact, Ray would have been willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that she didn't even blink once. It was unnerving. Even more so was the blue engraving on the gold badge.

"Whoa, wait a minute," Ray said. "You're the police chief? Chief Hanks, of Maggody?" The woman actually blinked at this, then nodded assent. "I'm Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago P.D.," he continued, reaching for his shield.

"Keep your right hand where I can see it," Chief Hanks directed. "And use your left hand."

"Good move, you're right, Chief," Ray complemented her. "Anyway, I'm Detective Vecchio," he continued, very slowly handing over his shield case.

"Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Chief Hanks," Fraser introduced himself. "And this is Diefenbaker," he added, in reply to an indignant growl.

"R.C.M.P.," Chief Hanks said. "Never would have guessed. Nice looking wolf," she added, warily. "Got a license for him?" Fraser nodded, and reached into his pocket, intending to produce the document. "Oh, don't worry," the woman said. "What's the odd wolf license or two between friends? And now that we are all friends...why the hell should I care?"

The Mountie looked worried. "I suppose, technically speaking, that Diefenbaker's wolf license is a bit odd. True, it bears the signature of the Mayor of Chicago, but--"

Ray turned to glare at his friend. "She's not talking about the license, Benny. Look," he said then to the woman, "I spoke with your secretary yesterday and told her we were coming today." His expression exhibited the concern he was rapidly developing; visions, nasty visions, of Southern prison farms, guards wearing mirrored sunglasses, and swing blades flashed through his mind. "She said she'd give you the message."

"My...secretary." Chief Hanks actually blinked.

"She said her name was Marjorie," Fraser added. "She did not give us the name of your receptionist, however."

"My secretary, Marjorie," the woman said slowly. "And my receptionist. We seem to have a failure to communicate here," she added, her expression odd.

"Cool Hand Luke," Fraser noted. "One of Paul Newman's better performances."

Chief Hanks looked narrowly at the Mountie, then continued, "So what, exactly, was the message that my Marjorie and my receptionist forgot to give me?"

"I can't believe this!" Ray exploded. "We flew all the way down here to Mudbug, Arkansas --"

"Maggody, Ray," Fraser corrected. "And I really don't think you should be upset with Chief Hanks because her staff made a...small mistake."

"Small mistake? Small mistake?" Ray continued his rant, unaffected by Fraser's attempt at reason. "We're talkin' about international gunrunners, Fraser, not unpaid parking tickets. God knows where these Buchanon people --"

"Buchanon?" Chief Hanks, who'd (unblinkingly) listened to the Chicago detective's raving, interrupted. Her eyes narrowed with thought. From the expression on her face, the thought was unpleasant.

"Yes, Chief, Buchanon," Ray said caustically. "Kevin and Dahlia Buchanon. We're here to question them about a shipment of automatic weapons that was discovered in a warehouse on the docks in Chicago."

"Kevin and Dahlia Buchanon," Chief Hanks mused. "That wouldn't happen to be Dahlia O'Neill Buchanon, would it?" She sounded like a person prepared to hear the very worst. She got it.

"Yes, Chief," Ray, sarcasm dripping, said. "Kevin and Dahlia O'Neill Buchanon. Like you didn't know."

"Now, Ray --"

"Shut up, Fraser!"

"And you told this to my secretary, Marjorie," Chief Hanks continued.

"Yeah. What about it?" Then, Ray thought of something. "Wait a minute, is Marjorie a Buchanon, too?"

"Yeah," sighed Chief Hanks,an odd look on her face, "probably one of the smarter ones."

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, Chief Hanks," Vecchio apologized, distressed. "I didn't know...I didn't mean to mean that...I mean, I didn't mean to say...."

"I think what Detective Vecchio is trying to say," Fraser interpreted, "is that, unaware as he was that your secretary --"

"Marjorie," Chief Hanks said.

"Your secretary, Marjorie, was, indeed, a member of the alleged --" Ray rolled his eyes heavenwards at that, which Fraser ignored, "suspects' family, and so was not intending to say that, that is, he did not mean to implicate you --"

"You're making it even worse, Benny."

Chief Hanks waved her radar gun and ticket book at them. "You didn't mean to indicate that I was covering up for a pair of...gunrunning international terrorists." Her mouth tightened in a smile; for some reason, neither man thought it was meant to convey enjoyment. "I am so relieved. OK, guys, just follow this highway at a reasonable rate of speed, preferably the posted limit, into town, and pull in front of the police station. You can't miss it, it's across from the Flamingo Inn." At the word flamingo the wolf in the backseat whined pathetically and tried to crawl under a floor mat. Chief Hanks' eyebrows raised at that, but she did not bother to ask about it. Instead, she continued with her directions. "In town, on the left. I really want to hear this story from the beginning. Really." With that, she pivoted neatly on one foot and stomped back to her patrol car, sending up little puffs of red dust with each stomp.

Ray watched in the rear view mirror as the chief yanked opened the driver's side door, threw the ticket book and radar gun in, slid behind the wheel, gripping it tightly...and began banging her head against it. "Wanna analyze that, Sigmund?" he asked the Mountie, who then turned to look out the back window. Fraser, rubbing his eyebrow, contented himself with looking puzzled and remaining silent.

 A whine came from the backseat.

"No one asked you," Ray snapped.        

Same day, down the road and on the left....

"Now, I just want to make sure I've got this straight," Chief Arly Hanks, seated behind her desk, directed towards the two visiting policemen. They were seated across from her in not-too-comfortable, rickety wooden chairs. Ray and Fraser could see a slightly curved red mark under the police chief's bangs; fortunately, it appeared to be fading. Diefenbaker was in a corner, determinedly not facing the open door, through which he could have had an excellent view of the faded neon flamingo across the street. "You say that a cache of automatic weapons was discovered in a warehouse on the Chicago docks, and that the names of Kevin and Dahlia O'Neill Buchanon, along with their address here in Maggody, were on the cases. Is that it, more or less?"

"More or less," Ray acknowledged.

"The crates were labeled as coming from Ozark Folkworks, with shipping manifests listing such items as corn husk dolls, weavings, and other such items," Fraser added. "Of course, when a crate labeled 'sorghum syrup' exploded, dock officials became a little suspicious."

"More or less," Ray repeated.

"Of course," Chief Hanks said. "Sorghum is not especially noted for its incendiary capabilities. And your government is involved, how, Constable? I mean, besides having the desire to keep Canada safe from combustible breakfast condiments?"

"The delivery address was an art import company in Toronto which has been under suspicion for some time as being involved in illegal arms sales. Of course, company officials denied any knowledge of the materials found in the warehouse and any knowledge of a company called Ozark Folkworks."

"What a surprise. But then, I haven't heard of them either," Hanks admitted, "what with my subscription to the New York Times Art Review being lapsed and all. So I'll make some calls and check around. This part of the state, Maggody excluded, is fairly infested with artists and craftspeople." She sighed glumly. "It is also, unfortunately, infested with pockets of survivalist and anti-government types, so as badly as I want to...and trust me, Detective, Constable," she said, looking each soberly in his eyes, "Lord knows I really want to...I can't discount your story, at least for location. As for instigators..." she broke off, and chewed her bottom lip a bit. "Are you sure -"

"Arly! I gotta talk to you!" came a voice from outside. Chief Hanks closed her eyes and sighed. Her visitors turned to see the voice's owner enter the door, accompanied by an unbelievable funk. Both voice and funk belonged to what had to be the most stereotypical hillbilly in existence, and the rankest human being either Vecchio or Fraser had ever seen (or smelled). Considering they were fresh from the mean streets of Chicago, that is saying a lot.

Chief Hanks opened one eye and ordered, "Not now, Raz."

"But Arly, Marjorie's been upset by sump'n strange goin' on, up on Cotter's Ridge," the funky stereotype protested through tobacco-stained lips, mustache, and scraggly beard.

Ray was alerted by the mention of a known name. "Marjorie?" he asked, turning towards Chief Hanks. He was unsettled to see her eyes, both fully open now, holding an unholy gleam of amusement in them.

"Raz, you say Marjorie's been upset. She with you now?" Hanks asked her unsavory townsman.

"You know she is, Arly," said unsavory type told her. "She's out in the pickup now."

"Why don't you go and bring her in?" she requested sweetly.

The old fossil looked surprised, even overwhelmed. "You'd let 'er in here this time?"

Arly Hanks carefully laced her hands before her on her desk. "Raz Buchanon, these two gentlemen here have come all the way from Chicago and Canada just to see Marjorie. Of course she may come in." Her wide open eyes and her expression of perfect innocence caused Ray to feel uneasy and just a little irked. Being Ray, he put his suspicions into words.

"Chief Hanks, just what the hell is going on here?"

"Ray!" Fraser looked scandalized. Turning to the old man, he asked, "Mr. Buchanon? Could you introduce us to Kevin and Dahlia Buchanon, also?"

"Could ifin' I knowed where they was," Mr. Buchanon said. "Ain't seen 'em today.  Ain't looked for 'em, neither. It's just me an' Marjorie. You gotta make it quick, though. I gotta go by th' store an' git sumthin' for Marjorie, she's been feelin' poorly lately after eatin' that quiche. An' it's almost time for the Tournament of Champions on Jeopardy, an' Marjorie, she'll be right upset ifin' she misses it, havin' follered it all week, more 'r less." Raz turned to the two men, "I just can't work that danged VCR. What with all of them buttons an' lights an' things."

"Oh, it won't take too long, Raz," the police chief reassured him. Hearing this, the old coot went back outside. Soon they could hear a vehicle door opening, and heard the old man talking to someone. That someone, from the sounds of the wheezing and grunting, had a terrible respiratory problem. Dief, still in his corner, turned around with a food! expression on his face, which was explained when Raz Buchanon and his companion entered the room.

"That's... a pig," a stupefied Ray observed.

"A pedigreed American Landrace," Fraser, typically himself, added.

"Marjorie," Chief Hanks murmured dulcetly.

"You sure do know your pigs, son," Raz Buchanon, a combination of pride and affection on his face and in his voice, complemented the Mountie. Marjorie contented herself with eyeing everyone in the room through exceptionally evil pink eyes. Diefenbaker retreated behind Chief Hanks's desk. Ray experienced a fleeting desire to join the wolf, but restrained himself. (I can do this, I'm a Chicago cop.) To calm himself, the Detective inhaled deeply, and was hit by the double whammy of lack of hygiene (Raz) and addition of pig (Marjorie).

"You boys think you can handle the interrogation by yourselves?" asked a suspiciously demure Chief Hanks. "Or should I call for backup?"

All was quiet, except for Ray's coughing.

Finally, Fraser (naturally) broke the silence. "Marjorie is a splendid animal, Mr. Buchanon," he complimented the old man.

"Absolutely lovely," Vecchio added, still coughing. The old coot positively beamed.

"Thanks, Raz," the police chief said to the old man. "I think you and Marjorie can go on now. Don't want her to miss the Tournament of Champions. Unless you want to discuss exactly what on Cotter’s Ridge has her so upset.”

The old man’s face took on a furtive expression at Chief Hanks’s last statement. Seeing this, Hanks continued, “Ok, then. Hope Marjorie gets to feeling better soon. And leave the door open."

The old man looked grateful; his porcine companion continued to look surly. "Why, thankee, Arly. Gents," he nodded to Fraser and Vecchio. Then man and animal departed, to everyone's relief. To everyone's greater relief, so did the smell.

The two men turned to look, one annoyed, the other bemused, at the police chief. The police chief looked at them in turn, her mouth twitching, until she finally dissolved into laughter. Fraser joined in, then, reluctantly at first, then with appreciation for the absurdity of it all, Ray. After a few minutes, Chief Hanks wiped her eyes with the back of a hand, then said, "Why don't we start over, from the beginning, gentlemen?"

"I first came to Chicago on the trail of my father's -" Fraser started.

"Not that far in the beginning, Benny," Ray corrected. "I think what Chief Hanks means is, now that we're all through pissin' each other off, maybe we can all start to figure out what's going on."

"More or less," Arly Hanks added, deadpan. Ray shot her a suspicious glance, which she returned, unrepentant. She first turned on the answering machine by her phone. "You have no messages," the mechanical voice informed her, at which her eyebrows rose. She then picked up the receiver from the old rotary phone and dialed in a number. Both Ben and Ray could hear the ringing; after ten rings,

Arly broke the connection, frowned, and then dialed another number. This time, the other party answered before the first ring could finish; began talking that soon, too. Arly was unable to do anything but listen for a good two or three minutes, until she was able to break in (or maybe the other party ran out of breath).

"No, Eileen, this is Arly. I've not seen Kevin or Dahlia, either. When? Yesterday?" Arly propped her forehead upon one hand, a look of calm resignation on her face. "They talked to Ruby Bee. Of course. And they borrowed the car. Didn't know Earl let Kevin drive anymore. Of course. I understand, with the baby coming and all, they'd want a little time to themselves. Yeah. Well," she tried to reassure the other woman, "they'll probably call you from Farberville any time now. But I'll check into it, and let you know. You just try to calm down, Eileen. 'Bye." Chief Hanks gently returned the receiver to its cradle. Then, folding her arms upon the desk in front of her, she buried her head, face down.

Total and absolute silence reigned for a few minutes.

The two men looked at each other, puzzled, then focused their attention on the top of the police chief's head. "Chief Hanks?" Fraser brought himself to break the quiet.

"Yes?" came the muffled reply.

"Are you all right?" the Mountie asked cautiously. At least she wasn't banging her head. Again.

"Just peachy," she assured him. As her head was still buried, her voice was muffled, but still understandable. "Couldn't be better."

Ray couldn't decide whether to be concerned for a professional colleague or concerned that he was supposed to work with same colleague. "Who is this Ruby Bee?" he finally asked. "Another Buchanon?"

Arly's head snapped up at that. "I never used to think so," she said. Ray found it difficult to judge her expression. The words amused and indignant came to mind, though. Along with the phrases somebody please shoot me and I could kill you now and no one would blame me.

"Gentlemen," she said, straightening up in her chair. "Gentlemen, I propose that we go across the street and have a little meeting with my...secretary and my receptionist. Do not, I repeat, do not be fooled by what you see or hear. Those two are among the most devious and... ..." she sputtered, evidently at a loss for words and overwhelmed with emotion. "The most devious two people you will meet," she concluded, "ever."

"Who are they?" Ray asked.

Arly sighed. "Ruby Bee Hanks and Estelle Oppers, my mother and her best friend."

Meanwhile, up on Cotter's Ridge...

A HumVee bounced to a stop on a red dirt trail. Its driver, a man with crew cut hair and wearing military camo and boots (custom tailored and handmade, respectively), bolted out and ran towards a dilapidated shack, stumbling over assorted rotten logs and rocks. Seeing a similarly dressed and shod man emerge from the shack, he snarled, "Cops!"

"Where?" the other man said, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. His eyes, liberally flecked with yellow, scanned the area nervously. "Don't see no cops," he said, relieved. "Just see a bunch of trees."

The other man, exasperated, was becoming less and less enthused with his partner. "Not here, you idiot! Back in that hick town."

The idiot blinked, and said, "Well, we knew there was a cop there, that woman. So that's just one cop, singular, and not the plural cops." He paused, considering. "Besides," he finally continued, "we're just a coupla good old boys from Texas, just up here to do a little huntin' and drinkin' and visitin' with family, Bert. Why should the cop care?"

Bert wished for about the fiftieth time that day that he could simply shoot the moron he was working with, but he needed the help. Besides, his mother would be upset with him if he killed his younger brother. She might understand, even sympathize, but she'd still take it badly. Trying to explain the situation, he said, "Couple of more cops came in, according to what that old fool of a hillbilly said at the super market. One's Chicago, the other's Canadian, a Mountie."

His brother perked up at the last bit of information. "The guys in red? The ones who ride the horses and sing?"

Bert sighed tiredly. "Yes, Ernie, the guys in red. But this one's not on a horse and the only singing he's doing is about that little mishap in the warehouse."

Ernie blinked rapidly. Then, with a flash of brilliance, "That could be bad, couldn't it?" He looked upset, then fretfully asked, "What'll we do, Bert?"

"We, Ernie? What will we do?" Bert said sarcastically. "We will do what we always do. You will stay here and keep our guests occupied, and I will take care of everything else. OK?"

His brother looked relieved. "OK, Bert. But I'd really rather not go back in there." A growl, somewhat like that of a grizzly bear with both hemorrhoids and an attitude problem, issued forth from the cabin. Bert felt a flash of sympathy, but, looking at his brother's terrified, vapid expression, felt it extinguish quickly.

"That's your part of the job," Bert reminded him. "Just keep a lid on things here, OK?" Reluctantly, Ernie nodded and, more reluctantly, re-entered the shack. Bert rolled his eyes (only a speck of yellow in the right iris) and muttered to the heavens, or perhaps to the late Jim Henson, "I'd been better off with a sock puppet."

Across the street at the Flamingo...

Arly rose from her chair and headed for the door. Stopping there, she turned to face the two men. "So, how do y'all want to play this? Good cop, bad cop," she said, indicating first Fraser, then Ray, then, herself, "thoroughly pissed off cop?"

"Your call, Chief," Ray said agreeably.

The quartet (three human, one lupine) walked across the street to the bar and grill, the smell of fried chicken drifting towards them on the cool breeze. The wolf, torn between phobia and food, obviously decided to follow his stomach and ran to the door. Someone exited, holding the door ajar, and Dief shot in. The upstanding local citizen, his own mouth agape at the sight of the Mountie in full uniform, stood and helpfully kept holding the door for them. "Evenin', Arly," the man finally was able to stutter out.

"Yeah," Arly answered, entering, Ray and Benny behind her.

The Mountie turned towards the man, saying, "Thank you, kindly," before being swallowed by the relatively dark room.

"Yeah," the helpful citizen replied, ducking his head in to stare at Fraser. Catching the eye of the bar and grill's proprietress, he promptly shut the door and scurried away.

"Why, Arly, honey," came a voice from the end of the bar. "Who are your friends?" The speaker was an incredibly thin, middle-aged woman with a mass of bright red curls. She took a delicate sip from the glass of sherry she held. Behind the counter, a motherly woman was busily scrubbing the immaculate counter top so vigorously that her blond beehive wobbled. Arly didn't bother to answer the speaker but contented herself with staring at the scrubwoman.

The blond woman ignored the police chief, focusing instead upon the detective and the Mountie. "What can I do for you two boys?" she asked, her voice as motherly as her appearance. "Y'all hungry? I got fried chicken, mashed potatoes an' gravy, purple-hull peas, biscuits, and a blackberry cobbler for dessert, if you want it." Diefenbaker, ever alert when food was involved, whined. The lady looked over the counter at the wolf, then up at the two men. "Nice looking wolf," she said.

"Ruby Bee Hanks," Arly said through gritted teeth, indicating the woman behind the counter. "And her partner in crime, Estelle Oppers. This is Detective Ray Vecchio of Chicago, and Constable Benton Fraser of -"

"Tuktoyaktuk, the Northwest Territory," Fraser said, helpful as always.

"Tuktoyaktuk, the Northwest Territory," Arly repeated dutifully. "But I'm pretty sure you're already familiar with the Detective's and Constable's names. They're here on official business, the wolf included. Now, officially, I think the two of you could be brought in on charges of tampering with police property --"

"Now, Arly, you know I don't know how to operate that danged answerin' machine," Ruby Bee protested. "All those buttons an' lights an' all. It's about as bad as a VCR."

Arly smiled sourly. "And who said the property in question was an answering machine?" she asked. "OK, how about lying to police officers during the course of an official investigation? Not that that'd be a first for you two."

"Now you wait just one minute, missy," the other lady protested, setting her glass on the counter with enough force to cause Ruby Bee to wince. "Ariel Hanks, you know neither your mother or I'd lie to anyone, much less a policeman." She smiled graciously at the two policemen, who had, prudently, remained silent. "You bein' in law enforcement and all yourself."

Ruby Bee sniffed, offended. "And you stand there, in front of these two nice young officers, and call your mother a liar? They're gonna think you been raised in a barn."

"Behind a bar, more likely," Arly corrected her. "And given a little more exposure to you and Nancy Drew here," she continued, gesturing towards Estelle, "while they might not conclude that either of you intentionally lied, they should be able to tell that your grasps of the truth are Munchausian to the extreme."

Estelle looked puzzled. "I don't remember no Monk Housin," she said. "How about you, Ruby Bee?"

Ruby Bee looked interested. "Don't recall one, either. He a preacher like Brother Verber?"

Ray glanced at his Arkansas colleague, who presented the appearance of a person working very hard to not explode like a crate of faux sorghum syrup. Having a mother of his own, he could sympathize. But sympathize as he would with Chief Hanks, it would get them no where, so he decided to, if not take charge, at least stop being a spectator. "Is that offer of fried chicken and everything still open?" he asked, unleashing his best lady-killer smile.

Evidently it was the right tactic, for almost instantly he and Benny were treated like long-lost and dearly beloved relatives, seated at a table and supplied with huge glasses of iced tea by Estelle, while Ruby Bee sat plates heaped with obscene amounts of food in front of them. Dief wasn't forgotten; the wolf had what looked like an entire chicken to himself.

The Mountie felt moved to protest. "Really, Mrs. Hanks --"

"Just call me Ruby Bee."

"Ruby Bee," Fraser continued obediently, "he really doesn't need that much. You'll spoil him."

"Nonsense," his gracious hostess said. "Nothing I wouldn't do for anyone, whether they deserved it or not." She then pointedly sniffed and sat a plate down in front of her daughter with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. Soon Ruby Bee and Estelle joined them at the table, happy to talk.

"Thing is, between hearin' that you were callin' all the way from Chicago, and that you were wantin' to talk with Kevin and Dahlia, we just got a bit flustered," a sincere Ruby Bee added.

"And the answering machine?" a skeptical Arly asked.

"I guess I just mashed the wrong button or somethin' when I was straightenin' your desk yesterday," her mother told her.

The police chief looked unimpressed by such maternal care. "Must have decided to do a little extra today, Ruby Bee," Arly said. "I had one message on there this morning before I left. Yet when I returned with the Constable and Detective Vecchio this afternoon, the tape was as empty as the average Buchanon's head."

"Well," her mother admitted, "I did just pop in and out for a second. That window was open, and dry as it's been, I didn't want the dust to settle. Not with such important visitors comin’ to town." Both Ruby Bee and Estelle smiled warmly at the two men.

Taking advantage of such blatant goodwill, Fraser said, "Perhaps you just happened to run into Kevin and Dahlia yesterday, after you left the police department."

Ray, following suit, added, "And, perhaps, you might have, oh, I don't know, just talked about their plans for the weekend? Maybe made a few suggestions of your own?"

"I do believe we did see those two young things right after we cleaned up the office," Estelle admitted.

Ruby Bee nodded. "Why, I think you two young men are right. We just got to talking about what a shame it was they hadn't had much quiet time alone together since they got married. I mean, what with their honeymoon bein' ruint when they were held hostage by that Iranian terrorist in that cafe."

"He was a Muslim extremist, and it was a gas station," Estelle corrected her dear friend.

Ruby Bee looked a bit upset with being contradicted. "Now, Estelle Oppers, are you going to sit there and tell me that I don't remember what happened?" Understandably annoyed, the Flamingo Motel's owner and operator's voice had increased in volume.

Estelle, in turn, was now miffed. "Rubella Belinda Hanks, you don't have to yell; I'm sittin' right here and I ain't deaf, you know."

Diefenbaker, who had been following the exchange between Estelle and his new best friend, Ruby Bee, wuffed.

"She didn't say Dief, she said deaf," the Mountie told the wolf. "Like you."

Ray snorted. "Like he's supposed to be."

Fraser looked upset at Ray's cynicism. "Now, Ray...but the matter of Diefenbaker's handicap is not important right now." The wolf whined in protest. "Forgive me, Diefenbaker," Fraser apologized, "of course it is of extreme importance to you. Just not to this case." Diefenbaker did not look absolutely convinced.

"He talks to the wolf?" Arly asked Ray, who nodded. "And the wolf talks back?" Ray shrugged his shoulders and made what-can-I-say gestures with his hands. "Well, as much fun as all of this has been," Arly said, sounding eerily like Lieutenant Welsh, "I think we've strayed a mite from the original point. And that point is that you two," she pointed to Ruby Bee and Estelle, "intercepted your call," she then gestured towards Ray, "and then took it upon yourselves to... remind Kevin and Dahlia that their days alone were dwindling down to a precious few. Well, you probably had to say it in much simpler terms, seeing that you were talking to Kevin and Dahlia, but the upshot is, they've gone off in Earl's car and no one has heard anything of them or from them since yesterday."

That last tidbit upset the two older women. "Why didn't you tell us that?" an irate Ruby Bee demanded. "His poor mama must be must be near out of her mind with worry."

"Poor Eileen," Estelle said fretfully. Then, with exasperation, "Honestly, Arly, you should have told us."

"Do you notice," Arly said to Ray and Fraser, "that, somehow, I've become the bad guy here?" She sighed. "Tell you what, why don't you two get settled in, then meet me back at the police office in about, oh, thirty minutes or so. I'll make some more calls, see what I can find out, then. . .we'll see what we will see." The police chief rose from the table and started to walk away, but paused, and looked at Ruby Bee. "Not number five; I've got enough trouble as it is," the police chief said, cryptically. Ruby Bee shook her head no. Arly, seemingly assured, nodded at her mother and Estelle, then, to Fraser and Ray, said, "In a

bit, gentlemen." In just a few steps she was out the door.

Back at the Flamingo Motel, Unit 4...

"Well, it ain't the Hilton," Ray said, surveying the room.

"But it's not the Bates Motel," Benny reminded him.

Both men were right. While the Michelin Guide wouldn't even give it a look, much less a mention, the room, with its two double beds, an old but comfortable overstuffed chair, ancient dresser, and pink-tiled, utilitarian bathroom was exceptionally clean and tidy. Diefenbaker had already claimed one of the beds, and was curled upon the faded chenille spread, asleep. Ray's suitcases (he'd actually limited himself to two) and Benny's backpack had been removed from their rental car and their belongings stashed.

"I do wonder what Chief Hanks meant about number five, though," Fraser mused.

Ray frowned. "I don't even want to know. Maybe number five is Bates, or the entry to the Twilight Zone. Maybe it's where they send nosy Yankee cops to die."

Fraser corrected his friend. "As I am from Canada, I do not see that I can be termed a Yankee." After giving the matter some more thought, he continued, Fraser-fashioned, "Although if you mean the word as an adjective describing anyone from north of the historic Mason-Dixon Line, then such a description would be correct, since Canada is, indeed, well to the north of that boundary."

Ray stood by, amazingly patient (considering he was Ray) until Benny wore down. But since the Mountie was about to open his mouth again, Ray felt it time for evasive measures. "It really doesn't matter, Benny. Isn't it time we go back over for our meeting with Arly?" Then, with calculated carelessness, Ray asked, "What do you think of Chief Hanks?"

Fraser concentrated, considering his answer. "I think the Chief is probably an able and efficient officer of the law, and while her attitude towards her mother is a bit disturbing, I suppose, given the fact that Mrs. Hanks and her friend did ..." he broke off, unwilling to harshly describe two ladies who'd been so nice.

"Mislead us? Failed to mention that we were coming? Made her daughter look like an idiot? Made us look like idiots?" Ray asked. "Take your choice, Benny."

The Mountie looked like he was actually considering his friend's words. Finally, Fraser said, "Actually, Ray, I feel more concern about the events the two ladies described. If even half of it is true, and since Chief Hanks declined to dispute what they said, I am inclined to believe them, the likelihood that Kevin and Dahlia O'Neill Buchanon can be seen as viable suspects seems remote."

Ray, his head tilted, asked his friend, "Don't you mean alleged suspects?"

The Mountie looked annoyed for a second. "Now, Ray, if you want to sit here and debate legal semantics, we could be here for some time. But I really think our time here would be better used in conferring with Chief Hanks in her office as she had suggested earlier."

Ray slapped his forehead with the heel of one hand, a look of exaggerated astonishment covering his face. "Great heavens, Sergeant Preston! I'd have never thought to do that."

"Now, Ray, there's no need to be so silly," Fraser, moving towards the door, reproved his friend. "I do believe that you and she share a rapport," he added as they walked out the door.

"A ... rapport."

Fraser blinked. "Why, yes, Ray. A feeling of harmony or kinship. The ability to work -"

"Benny."

"Yes, Ray?"

"Could you please explain why we have such a great rapport, when I sometimes would really like to kill you?"

"Very likely not, Ray."

"I didn't think so, Benny."

A pause, then, "Then why did you ask, Ray?"

"Never mind. Just never mind. Let's go and experience a rapport with Arly."

Back over at the Maggody Police Department...

"You got a copy of one of the labels found on those crates?" Arly Hanks asked her big city law enforcement colleagues. Ray reached into the pocket of the Armani jacket that, between the dust and the essence of Marjorie and her faithful companion, he was convinced, would never, ever be clean again, and removed a photocopy, which he handed over to Arly. The Maggody Chief of Police thanked him absently, devoting her attention to the copy. "Okie-dokie. Typewritten or computer generated. No way Kevin Buchanon could have produced this ."

"Even if he doesn't have either, couldn't he or his wife have borrowed a machine or used one somewhere?" Fraser asked.

Arly grimaced, rubbing her nose. "This is kind of hard for someone who hasn't had experience with a Buchanon or as an anthropologist, or maybe both, to understand. You recall that I said Marjorie was probably one of the smarter members of the Buchanon family?"

"Yes," Ray cautiously replied.

"That was really unfair... to Marjorie. That sow probably knows more of the alphabet than Kevin ever will, and, unfortunately, Dahlia, the brains of the two, is not a whole lot better off." A pause, then, "Even if she can operate the buttons on a VCR."

"Oh," both Fraser and Ray said. "What you're sayin'," Ray then said, green eyes glinting with mischief, "is that the Buchanon family gene pool is just a bit shallow."

"The family tree goes straight up and down," Arly returned the ball to Ray's side of the net.

"They've been to the same well a few times too many," Ray volleyed.

"The phrase 'aunt grandma' is seen as perfectly normal," Arly shot back.

"If ...if...I can't think of anything else," Ray had to confess. Game, set and match.

Fraser, with one of his patented puzzled expressions, looked from one to the other. "If I understand what you are saying, you mean that it is highly unlikely that either Kevin Buchanon or his wife Dahlia could be implicated in, besides be the authors of, such an elaborate criminal enterprise."

"You sure do know your village idiots, son," Arly, drawl exaggerated, complemented the Mountie. " And, unfortunately," her expression now morose, "this particular pair of village idiots has disappeared. That is never good news."

"Do you think their disappearance is linked to anything more than the result of their conversation with your mother and Miss Oppers?" Fraser asked.

"If we were talking about anyone else on earth, and I do mean anyone, no," Arly told him. "But since we're talking about Kevin and Dahlia...it's been my unfortunate experience that if something has hit the fan, even if they didn't produce it, sling it, know about it, or even recognize it for what it is, they will step in it. God help us, everyone." The police chief propped her chin upon her hands and looked, moodily, at some unseen point. "I've contacted the sheriff's office, but since Harve has more than his fair share of Buchanon-induced problems, he's prone to view Kevin and Dahlia as my own particular albatrosses."

"Lucky you," Ray expressed his sympathy.

"Oh, and you, two, too," she informed them. "Just too, too lucky, you two are. Since it's also the beginning of deer season this weekend, there's been an outbreak of a particularly nasty epidemic of buck fever at the sheriff's office, so while Harve'll spread the word and do what he can, we're pretty much on our own."

"What are your recommendations, Chief Hanks?" Fraser asked.

Arly considered him carefully. "First, stop calling me Chief Hanks; it makes me feel like I'm head counselor at summer camp. Call me Arly."

The Mountie looked repentant. "I apologize, Arly."

One eyebrow elevated, non-commentarily. Arly then continued, "Next, I would recommend getting a really good night's sleep. Tomorrow, earlier than I would like, we'll throw ourselves on the mercy of Ruby Bee for breakfast and provisions, put on stupid-looking, state-mandated hunting vests and hats, and then go driving over hill and dale, occasionally descending from our cop chariot so as to find two stray Buchanon lambs and their gunrunning buddies. And, oh, yeah, accomplish our goal while also trying to not get shot by every idiot from the surrounding five states who feels that it's his or her God-given, second-amendment right to come here with more armament than most Third World nations, drink more beer than Milwaukee makes in one year, and kill deer. Or each other."

"Or," Ray said gloomily, "the odd law enforcement officer or so."

"I take it the woods will be very crowded," Fraser noted.

Arly nodded. "You happen to notice a caravan of trucks, RVs, and everything else on four wheels migrating this way today?" she asked them. They, in turn, nodded. "They, their occupants, their occupants' shiny shiny guns, and about two thousand dogs," Dief, on the floor, looked interested in that, "will be out there tomorrow. Along with assorted snakes, skunks, bugs, lions, tigers, and bears."

"Oh, my," Ray, eyes closed, moaned, slumping in his chair. Then, squinting through one eye, he said, "You said ...bugs. What kinds?"

"I would imagine typical insects found in pine forests such as ticks," Fraser informed him helpfully.

"Oh, great," Ray whined. "Carnivorous, blood-sucking things that cause... what's that disease they cause? lemon fever? ...and we get to go out and be the human smorgasbords."

"Lyme disease, Ray," Arly told him. "Hope you have some hiking boots. Eyeing the expensive suit the detective was wearing, she added, "And some clothes you're not particularly attached to. Just in case we meet a skunk or two, or even worse, Diesel Buchanon."

"Diesel Buchanon?" Fraser asked.

"Lives in a cave and bites the heads off of dead squirrels," Arly informed him. "Which is an improvement, 'cause he used to bite 'em while they were still alive."

Ray just dropped his head, despair personified.

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