Free The Porridge Incident by Herschel Cozine Page A

least, she wasn’t even here, so I had no information that would be pertinent. Other than the trespasser, the only eyewitnesses to this caper were three unreliable Bears. Now, I hate to stereotype groups. But in this case I will make an exception. Have you ever met a reliable bear? And consider the language barrier. I have a feeling a lot was lost in translation.
    Be that as it may. There was nothing to indicate that Greta had ever been in the house, so I had no reason to doubt her word. Over the years I have become a pretty good judge of character, and I was convinced that Greta was as innocent as a newborn baby. Well, at least not guilty of trespassing.
    As much as I hated the thought, I would have to talk to the Bears. I had only heard second hand what they had to say. But how does one communicate with individuals who are not conversant in your mother tongue?
    It turns out I was unnecessarily concerned. I soon learned, upon their return, that Baby Bear was in the second grade at Mother Goose Elementary School. He spoke English like a native, a serendipitous turn of events. He drooled when he talked, a trait I found disconcerting. But in my line of work you take what you get and make the most of it.
    Now, I know what you are thinking. If Baby Bear could speak English, how can I say that a lot was lost in translation? A valid question. But it seems that Bear protocol is such that only Papa Bear can swear out complaints or testify to events. Which, of course, begs the next question: how did I manage to speak with Baby Bear? That took a little ingenuity on my part. I lied. I misrepresented myself. I used subterfuge. In short, I did exactly what any self-respecting private eye would do.
    I told Baby Bear I was from CNN and we wanted to feature him on an upcoming show about the plight of bears in today’s world. OK, so it wasn’t a brilliant idea, but he fell for it.
    Baby Bear was a mere 250 pound ball of fur—small by ursine standards. What I found interesting about this is that Greta purportedly broke his chair when she sat in it. How was that possible? Greta didn’t weigh more than 95 pounds soaking wet. Add three pounds for clothing and you still fall short by a hefty amount. I posed the question to him.
    “I dunno,” he said with a shrug. “Mebbe she jumped around on it. Besides, it was old.” He drooled and eyed me suspiciously. “What does that have to do with the plight of bears?”
    “She may have done it deliberately,” I lied. “You know, an act of malice against bears. Where was she when you discovered her?”
    “Lying on my bed,” he said.
    “Asleep?”
    He nodded.
    “Did you get a good look at her?”
    He nodded again. “When Papa, Mama and I came into the room she sat up and looked right at us.” He paused and scratched his back against the wall. “Funny thing about that. She didn’t seem to see us. She was, like, in a trance.”
    I made a note of this. It was the first bit of useful information that I had, even though I didn’t have a clue as to what it meant.
    “Describe her,” I said.
    “Well,” he drooled. “She had blonde hair. Brown eyes, I think. Pretty, I guess, by human standards.” He made a face. “Not my type.”
    “How was she dressed?”
    Baby Bear shrugged. “I dunno.” He put a huge paw on his forehead, or at least where a forehead should be, and growled. “Come to think of it, she was wearing nightclothes. That’s strange, isn’t it? In the middle of the day.”
    I was a little surprised by this. Why would someone roaming through the forest be wearing nightclothes? Even in this strange town that doesn’t seem to be normal behavior. Oh, I know all about Wee Willie Winkie. But at least he was running around town at night. I made a note of this revelation.
    “OK,” I said. “What happened then?”
    Baby Bear thought for a minute. “Well,” he said finally, “she got up from the bed slowly, walked right by us and went downstairs and out the door.”
    “Did