Free The Case of the Fiddle Playing Fox by John R. Erickson

was this deal working? Old Hank had set the trap of love, and now he was fixing to release the spring.

Chapter Eleven: The Trap of Love Backfires

    B eulah, my prairie winecup, I can’t say that I knew that you loved fiddle music, but I did sort of suspect it. Now, if you will close your eyes, I will produce from the ectoplasmic vapors of the atmosphere some of the most gorgeous fiddle music you have ever heard.”
    She twisted her head and gave me a puzzled look. “Are you joking? How can you . . . ?”
    â€œNever mind the questions, my little sunflower. Close your eyes, open your ears, and hang on to your heart. Ready? Here we go!”
    Good old Frankie the Fox! He came in right on cue and played a real pretty little number. I watched my prey . . . uh, my darling as she swayed back and forth with the pure sweet sounds of the fiddle. I could see that she was becoming vulnerable and more vulnerable all the time.
    â€œBeulah, may I have the honor of this dance?”
    â€œOh, I shouldn’t . . . but . . . maybe just one, for old times’ sake.”
    I really didn’t care whose sake the dance was for. I took her in my paws and we became as one with each other and with the music.
    All at once her eyes popped open, and she gasped, “Oh Hank, that is the most divine fiddle music I ever heard!”

    â€œIs it now? How interesting, yes, but keep your eyes closed, my buttercup.”
    â€œHank, what is the name of that song?”
    The music stopped. “Uh, ‘Just Friends,’” said the fox.
    â€œQuiet, Frankie, I’ll handle this. The tune is called ‘Just Friends,’ my darling, which doesn’t really describe . . .”
    Her eyes popped open again. “Hank, I simply MUST find out where it’s coming from!”
    â€œOh no, I don’t think . . .”
    â€œWHO IS THAT FIDDLE PLAYER?”
    â€œOh, it’s nobody you’d . . .”
    The music stopped and . . . I couldn’t believe this part . . . that sneaking no-good egg-stealing fox poked his smiling face around the trunk of the tree and he said . . .
    Here’s what the sneaking, scheming, back-stabbing fox said. “Why, hello there, Miss Beulah! I was just a-sittin’ here under this tree, a-playin’ this old fiddle of mine, and I thought I heard the voice of an angel.”
    She gasped and held a paw to her heart. “Are YOU the fiddle player?”
    â€œUh, yes ma’am,” he bowed to her, the wretch, “I have that little distinction. My name is Frankie the Fox, and I am at your service at any hour of the day or night.”
    I stepped in between them. “Excuse me, Beulah, if I might intrude here to make a . . .”
    She slipped past me. “Oh sir, your music is just divine!”
    â€œWell, we thank you, ma’am. We try to do our best with the little gifts we have.”
    â€œOh sir, you have a wonderful gift!”
    Again, I tried to push between them. “Beulah, I think this would be a good time for me to point out . . . oof!” I never dreamed that sweet Beulah would stoop to throwing elbows, but she did.
    â€œMa’am,” said the fox, “I’d be so proud if you’d just touch my fiddle. I do believe it would make all my music, uh, that much sweeter.”
    â€œWhy, I would just be . . . if you really thought . . . where should I touch it?”
    The villain presented his fiddle. “Just place your fine, delicate, perfectly-made little paw right here.”
    She closed her eyes and placed her right paw on the fiddle.” Oh, this is so exciting! And Hank, it was all your idea.”
    â€œWell,” I scowled at the fox, “up to a point it was. However . . .”
    She swooped over to me and gave me a peck on the cheek. “And there’s your reward! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just must run and tell Plato! He’ll be so excited!”
    And with that, she went dashing off to find her