Chapter 7
The Case of the Crooked Croquet Mallets
More peculiar events unfold: croquet mallets bend mysteriously. Elara investigates, noticing patterns that link the disturbances to specific locations mentioned in the diary.
The late afternoon sun, usually a warm, buttery sort of light that made Willow Creek look like a postcard someone had forgotten to mail, was currently casting rather alarming, wobbly shadows. Elara squinted from her perch on the porch swing, her chin resting on Sir Reginald Fluffernutter’s surprisingly soft fur. He twitched his nose, a tiny, inquisitive gesture that Elara interpreted as a shared concern.
“It’s just not right, Reggie,” she whispered, stroking his back. “The croquet mallets at Mrs. Higgins’ house… they looked like they’d been left out in a heatwave and melted into sad, droopy banana shapes.”
Sir Reginald chuffed, a sound that Elara always felt was the hamster equivalent of a knowing sigh. He’d seen the news report on the town’s little television, a blurry image of Mrs. Higgins wailing about her prize-winning garden game. It wasn’t just the mallets, though. The mallets were merely the latest in a string of increasingly bizarre occurrences that had Willow Creek buzzing like a beehive that had discovered a secret stash of fizzy lemonade.
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