A Pattern in the Puzzles

The chipped ceramic gnome, Bartholomew, had vanished from Mrs. Gable’s prize-winning petunias. Gone. As if plucked from the earth by an invisible, gardening-averse poltergeist. Marcy, fueled by lukewarm coffee and sheer, unadulterated stubbornness, was already at the scene, meticulously examining the disturbed soil. Officer Davies, bless his earnest heart, hovered nearby, clutching a notepad like a shield.

“Anything, Marcy?” he ventured, his voice a hopeful chirp.

Marcy didn’t look up. “Just the usual. A distinct lack of gnome. And, frankly, a distinct lack of anyone who’d want to pilfer a gnome that’s seen better days, Bartholomew or not.” She pointed a gloved finger at a faint scuff mark near the flowerbed. “This looks like a boot print. Size nine, maybe ten. Standard issue, probably.”