The Porridge Incident by Herschel Cozine

The Porridge Incident
    By Herschel Cozine
    Nathaniel P. Osgood III, here. As a private eye for the misunderstood people of fairy tales and nursery rhymes, I perform an important service.
    I had just finished with the strange case of the man who wasn’t there. It turns out he was not at a lot of places. No one has seen him lately. In fact, most people haven’t seen him at all. I had solved the case, more or less, using subterfuge and a few white lies. At least my client was satisfied, and that’s the bottom line in this business.
    But I digress. I would like to tell you about the little girl who was falsely charged by three bears of breaking and entering. I’m sure you are familiar with it. It was in all the papers a few years back. Papa Bear was suing her for breaking his son’s easy chair, eating their breakfast and other assorted mischief. She denied it and came to me for help.
    “Mr. Osgood,” she said. “I wasn’t in the forest that day. I was home taking care of my poor old grandmother.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “She was almost eaten by a wolf and…well, no matter.”
    I nodded sympathetically. There seemed to be an epidemic of grandmother abuse at the hands of big bad wolves that year.
    “And to accuse me of breaking furniture and eating their food…” She broke off and made a face. “I don’t even like porridge. It tastes like library paste.”
    I had never tasted porridge—or library paste for that matter—so I took her word for it.
    “Now, Miss Goldilocks,” I said.
    “Call me Greta,” she said. “My name is Greta Goldilocks. It’s Swedish.”
    “All right. Greta. It seems to me that you need a lawyer instead of a private eye. You have an alibi, and I am certain that your grandmother would be able to verify your story that you were with her that day.”
    My comments set off a wail from Greta. She pulled a small, useless bit of cloth from her pocket and wiped her eyes with it. I pushed a box of tissues in her direction and sat back.
    “My poor grandma passed away last week.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “Wolves?”
    “No” Greta said. “She crashed her motorcycle into a tree.” She sniffled and blew her nose. “So, you see, Mister Osgood, I need you to find the real trespasser.” She looked at me with those big brown eyes and smiled wistfully. I’m a sucker for wistful smiles, and a complete slave to big brown eyes. I took the case.
    My first act was to visit the house in question. The Bears were out, as usual, leaving the door unlocked and their breakfast on the table. Some people—or bears—never learn. I overcame my aversion to entering a strange home without being invited. We private eyes have to break the rules from time to time in order to do our job. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
    I waited a moment or two for my eyes to adjust to the reduced light. When they did, I saw that I was standing in a small room with three chairs, an end table and a black-and-white TV set. The smallest chair appeared to be broken. I knelt down and inspected it closely. One of the legs was missing. A block of wood had been placed under it to keep it level.
    A quick look around the house revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Mama Bear appeared to be a good housekeeper. Everything was in its place in the kitchen. Even the bowls of porridge were lined up in a neat row. I resisted the urge to taste it and went upstairs to the bedroom.
    I found the beds neatly made. A small room at the top of the stairs was most likely Baby Bear’s room. The wallpaper, the bedspread and the night-light all indicated that the room was meant for a child. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. Certainly I was not going to find anything of help in the house. I went downstairs, took a last look around the living room, and went outside to wait for the Bears’ return.
    While I was waiting I ran the facts through my mind. So far I had very little to go on except Greta’s story. Of course, according to her at