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familiar about those close-together eyes? I sniffed at the door, but couldn’t pick up his scent, maybe overwhelmed by the powerful smell of pepperoni, coming from an open pizza box on the floor. Pepperoni in my near future? No one has it better than me.
    We watched the little dude. Trashing maybe wasn’t exactly what was going down, although things were getting trashed. Am I confusing you? That would be bad. The point is the little dude seemed to be looking for something. He checked the cupboards, the fridge, the freezer, grabbing all sorts of things—ice cube trays, pickle jars, plates, and bowls—and tossing them aside in a bigshattering mess, but not before first examining them for who knows what. Car keys? His wallet? Those were my best guesses.
    The little dude picked up a toaster, turned it upside down, and shook it. Crumbs fells out. He threw the toaster across the room, and on the follow-through I got a real good look at his skinny arm. And what was this? On his skinny wrist he was wearing Bernie’s grandfather’s watch, our most valuable possession! I barked a short, angry bark, couldn’t help myself. The little dude spun around in our direction. His mouth fell open and he bolted from the kitchen and out of sight. Bernie tried the door: locked.
    â€œBack, Chet.”
    I backed up the tiniest bit. Bernie kicked at the glass, shattering it in the most exciting way, and the next moment we were racing side by side through the kitchen, me a little in front, my MO when it comes to racing side by side. Did I slow down slightly in the vicinity of the pizza box? Possibly, but I made such quick work of that slice—or two—that you wouldn’t have noticed. And here was something interesting: as we left the kitchen and entered the hall, leaving the zone of pizza smell, I picked up another scent, namely that of earwax. For a moment I thought I understood the entire case, if this was a case. But how could it be? Was anyone paying? I forgot the whole thing, charged down the hall and out the open front door.
    The little dude was sort of hopping up and down in what you might call fury beside the van, so nicely blocked in the driveway. Perps—the little dude had to be a perp, no doubt in my mind—hopping up and down in fury was just one of the fun things you get to see when you work at the Little Detective Agency. But we’re not hiring, so don’t even think about it.
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    Do you ever get so full of life you can hardly keep it all inside? That was me chasing down a perp, the situation we had going on now. The little dude shot us a fearful glance—actually closer to terrified, always a gratifying sight—and booked. What a fast runner he turned out to be, at least for a human! He was almost clear out of the driveway before I grabbed him by the pant leg.
    He did some kicking and screaming. I—how would you put it? Urged him to put a lid on it? Something like that. He went quiet. Bernie came over, looked down, and said, “Merrrry Chriiiistmas.” The little dude called Bernie a name I’m sure he didn’t mean. “Is that any way for an elf to talk?” Bernie said.
    Elf? That earwax smell? Yes. Those close-together eyes? Yes. But what about the strange pointy ears and the long, droopy nose, no and no? I was a bit lost. Lucky for me, I had Bernie.
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    First off—all of us back in the kitchen of what I had a notion was Plumpy’s crib, but don’t ask me to explain how—Bernie examined the little dude’s phone. After a few moments he nodded, held up the phone so I could see. What was this? A video of Bernie spinning the dial on our safe, real close up so you could see the numbers?
    â€œYou’re a quick thinker, Elrood.” Bernie laid the phone on the counter. Elrood! I’d almost gotten there on my own! Was I on fire or what? “So you already know how this is going to play out,” Bernie went on. “Start by