Free The Porridge Incident by Herschel Cozine Page B

she run?”
    “No. She walked. Slow and steady. Like I said, she acted like she was in a trance.”
    “Mmmm,” I said. “Interesting. Which way did she go?”
    “That way,” Baby Bear said, pointing toward the forest, away from town.
    I thought about that. It was in the opposite direction of Greta’s house. I realized that this didn’t mean anything by itself, but with the other information, I was certain that the intruder lived in the forest. At least she lived somewhere other than in town.
    “Shoes?” I asked. “Was she wearing shoes?”
    “I don’t think so,” Baby replied. I don’t remember seeing them.”
    “Describe her nightclothes. What color? “
    Baby Bear scowled. “I don’t know one color from another,” he said. “But there was a big ‘A’ on the right shoulder. Short sleeved. Knee length.”
    “Would you be willing to tell this to the police?” I asked.
    Baby Bear shuddered at the suggestion. “No! Only Papa is allowed to talk to the police.”
    “But,” I said. “Papa told the police it was Goldilocks in the house. From what you have told me I don’t know how he could come to that conclusion.”
    Baby Bear scratched his back again, drooled a little and snorted. “Papa only speaks ‘bear.’ The cops misunderstood.” He put a paw to his chin. “Besides, all humans look alike.”
    “You can clear it up for them. Greta is being accused of something she didn’t do.”
    Baby shrugged. “Maybe yes. Maybe no.”
    “Please,” I said. “You have to help.”
    “Nope,” he said.
    OK, OK. Bears have their way of doing things, and we humans have no right to interfere. But I was more than a little upset with B.B. for refusing to help my client because of some bear “code of conduct.” I vowed that the next time I went to Yosemite I would not feed them. Let them find their own granola bars!
    I started to leave, but Baby got in front of me. “What about the plight of bears?” he asked.
    “Oh, yes,” I replied. “Bears are misunderstood. In fact, I don’t think I understand them.” I looked around at the well-kept yard, frame house, and neatly trimmed lawn.
    “But you seem to be doing all right. I know a lot of bears who would be happy to trade places with you.”
    “Will I be on CNN?” he asked.
    I looked at him a long while, then shrugged. “Maybe yes. Maybe no.”
    Before he could say anything, I left.
    On the way back to my office, I recounted my findings at the Bears’ place. I was certain that much of the problem was due to the language barrier. But I was certain too, that some of it was skullduggery on the part of Papa Bear. Take Junior’s chair, for instance. It was broken long before anyone came into the house. I realized that when I inspected the chair. It was an old break.
    I turned my attention to Baby’s description of the girl. Her strange behavior and her clothing were significant. It was as if she were sleepwalking.
    I sat up straight. Of course! That was it. She was sleepwalking. I searched my memory, trying to place the girl. The letter on her nightie was probably her initial—the first letter of her name. Bells were ringing in my memory. It was all familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
    Back at the office, I looked into some old files. I remembered a case I worked on some years before. It was a strange case—much like all the others I have worked on in this town. It concerned a young lady about Greta’s age and looks. She had become a legend in town—Sleeping Beauty, as she was called. Whatever happened to her , I wondered. I decided to find out.
    It was late afternoon when I arrived at the castle. From what I had heard and read, I fully expected the castle to be sealed off and surrounded by overgrowth. But, except for an unmowed lawn, the castle seemed to be in good repair. It just goes to show you can’t believe everything you read.
    The place was eerily silent. The bridge over the moat was down, and the gate open. There were no guards,