paid,” Hobbs said, “to assist me in catching the Garden Gnome
Bandit.”
“And you blew it. Not my problem.”
“Isn’t it?”
Whitey’s face tightened. He looked ready to cry again.
“Hobbs,” I said, “you’re scaring him. You want him pulling that bawling act with
the cops?”
“Hardly a concern.” Still holding the bike, Hobbs ripped open the Velcro strap on
one of Whitey’s pannier bags. With a flourish, he reached in and pulled out an
ugly little garden gnome. “Not when he’s the bandit.”
The ride across town was noisy. Despite the kid’s protestations,
Hobbs was determined to lay the matter before his parents before deciding how to
proceed. Whitey had at first denied the charge, but faced with the evidence of
two more gnomes and a black hoodie, he gave that up. He then claimed to have no
parents, so we could not possibly speak with them, but Hobbs badgered him until
he directed us to a quaint old house on SE 16th, only a few doors off
Hawthorne.
“What tipped you off?” Whitey wanted to know.
Hobbs looked smug. “Lint,” he said, “and beauty bark.”
Whitey just stared.
“When I saw you on the sidewalk after your bicycle was stolen, you had black
cotton fuzz in your hair, indicative of a hood. And your jeans bore traces of
bark dust, showing you had been kneeling in someone’s garden.”
Whitey’s shoulders slumped. “What if I promise never to do it again?”
“A good start,” Hobbs said. “Now please escort us in, or the good doctor will
sound his horn and raise the entire neighborhood.”
So in we went. Hobbs carried one of the hot gnomes as evidence, while I toted the
others.
The door opened onto a dark entryway, with stairs on one side and a living room
on the other.
Head hanging, Whitey led us toward the back of the house, where he knocked softly
at a door. “Grandma? It’s Harold. I’m home.”
Hobbs and I shared a look. I wrinkled my nose. Harold. No wonder he preferred
Whitey.
A weak voice answered from within, but I could not discern the words. Whitey led
us in, pausing at a dresser to switch on a lamp.
“I brought visitors, Grandma. Look.”
On a frilly white bed lay a woman with tufts of grey hair protruding from an
old-fashioned nightcap. Thin, mottled arms extended from the sleeves of a
flowered nightdress, while a thick quilt was bunched beneath her chin.
At the sight of us, her eyes brightened and twenty years seemed to fall away. Her
smile was enough to warm the hardest heart.
“Oh!” she said. “How delightful. What are their names?”
Hobbs gave a short bow. “I am honored to be Mr. Skyler Hobbs, madam, and this is
my good friend Dr., uh . . .”
“Wilder,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”
The woman continued to beam, but I noted something strange. She was not looking
at our faces, but at the gnomes in our hands.
Whitey stepped back, taking the one Hobbs held. “This,” he told his grandmother,
“is Percival. He’s a carpenter. You can tell by the little hammer.”
“Hello, Percival,” the woman said warmly. “You are most welcome here.”
“And these guys,” Whitey said, “are his brothers Ernest and Murgatroyd.”
“Welcome to you all,” she said. “Harold, you’ll show them where they can
sleep?”
“Certainly, Grandma. Let’s check on the others, shall we?”
“Oh yes. Let’s.”
Whitey looked at us and winked. Striding around the bed, he found a cord and
pulled it, causing a frilly curtain to slide away. Through panes of glass I saw
moonlit trees and bushes, but could make out little detail.
All that changed as Whitey flicked a switch, and the yard was suddenly as bright
as a department-store window.
Beneath the trees and bushes were flowers of every shape and color. And next to
every plant stood some variety of garden gnome. There were so many it took an
effort to focus on any in particular, but I soon discovered they were all
Bandit.”
“And you blew it. Not my problem.”
“Isn’t it?”
Whitey’s face tightened. He looked ready to cry again.
“Hobbs,” I said, “you’re scaring him. You want him pulling that bawling act with
the cops?”
“Hardly a concern.” Still holding the bike, Hobbs ripped open the Velcro strap on
one of Whitey’s pannier bags. With a flourish, he reached in and pulled out an
ugly little garden gnome. “Not when he’s the bandit.”
The ride across town was noisy. Despite the kid’s protestations,
Hobbs was determined to lay the matter before his parents before deciding how to
proceed. Whitey had at first denied the charge, but faced with the evidence of
two more gnomes and a black hoodie, he gave that up. He then claimed to have no
parents, so we could not possibly speak with them, but Hobbs badgered him until
he directed us to a quaint old house on SE 16th, only a few doors off
Hawthorne.
“What tipped you off?” Whitey wanted to know.
Hobbs looked smug. “Lint,” he said, “and beauty bark.”
Whitey just stared.
“When I saw you on the sidewalk after your bicycle was stolen, you had black
cotton fuzz in your hair, indicative of a hood. And your jeans bore traces of
bark dust, showing you had been kneeling in someone’s garden.”
Whitey’s shoulders slumped. “What if I promise never to do it again?”
“A good start,” Hobbs said. “Now please escort us in, or the good doctor will
sound his horn and raise the entire neighborhood.”
So in we went. Hobbs carried one of the hot gnomes as evidence, while I toted the
others.
The door opened onto a dark entryway, with stairs on one side and a living room
on the other.
Head hanging, Whitey led us toward the back of the house, where he knocked softly
at a door. “Grandma? It’s Harold. I’m home.”
Hobbs and I shared a look. I wrinkled my nose. Harold. No wonder he preferred
Whitey.
A weak voice answered from within, but I could not discern the words. Whitey led
us in, pausing at a dresser to switch on a lamp.
“I brought visitors, Grandma. Look.”
On a frilly white bed lay a woman with tufts of grey hair protruding from an
old-fashioned nightcap. Thin, mottled arms extended from the sleeves of a
flowered nightdress, while a thick quilt was bunched beneath her chin.
At the sight of us, her eyes brightened and twenty years seemed to fall away. Her
smile was enough to warm the hardest heart.
“Oh!” she said. “How delightful. What are their names?”
Hobbs gave a short bow. “I am honored to be Mr. Skyler Hobbs, madam, and this is
my good friend Dr., uh . . .”
“Wilder,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”
The woman continued to beam, but I noted something strange. She was not looking
at our faces, but at the gnomes in our hands.
Whitey stepped back, taking the one Hobbs held. “This,” he told his grandmother,
“is Percival. He’s a carpenter. You can tell by the little hammer.”
“Hello, Percival,” the woman said warmly. “You are most welcome here.”
“And these guys,” Whitey said, “are his brothers Ernest and Murgatroyd.”
“Welcome to you all,” she said. “Harold, you’ll show them where they can
sleep?”
“Certainly, Grandma. Let’s check on the others, shall we?”
“Oh yes. Let’s.”
Whitey looked at us and winked. Striding around the bed, he found a cord and
pulled it, causing a frilly curtain to slide away. Through panes of glass I saw
moonlit trees and bushes, but could make out little detail.
All that changed as Whitey flicked a switch, and the yard was suddenly as bright
as a department-store window.
Beneath the trees and bushes were flowers of every shape and color. And next to
every plant stood some variety of garden gnome. There were so many it took an
effort to focus on any in particular, but I soon discovered they were all
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