The Case of the Three Rings by John R. Erickson

removed it.
    I went flying into the back as gracefully as a deer, then looked back to check on
    Drover. He was falling behind. He slowed, stopped, waved goodbye, and went back to the porch.
    Oh well, at least one of us from the Security Division would be there to help Slim through his time of greatest need.
    But it was too soon to celebrate. Don’t forget: We still didn’t know if Viola would be there.

Chapter Twelve: The Third Ring

    I wasted no time moving myself to the front of the pickup bed, where I crouched down behind the cab. I didn’t think there was much chance that Slim would check to see if he was hauling dogs, but a guy never knows. Just when you think he doesn’t notice anything, he notices something.
    It was a short three-mile drive down the Wolf Creek road to the old two-story house where Miss Viola stayed with her aging parents. When we pulled up in front of the house, the pickup was making even more noise than before, which is really saying something.
    Here’s how noisy it was. When we arrived at the house, Viola’s two dogs, Black and Jack, came rushing out, barking their heads off and talking all kinds of trash, but when they heard the squeals and shrieks coming from the motor, they did a one-eighty and vanished into the chinaberry grove behind the house.
    They didn’t know what we had under the hood, and they wanted no part of it.
    Or…wait, I just thought of this. Maybe they caught sight of ME in the back of the pickup and, you know, decided that they wanted no part of what I usually dish out to mouthy ranch mutts. That makes sense, doesn’t it? You bet.
    So, yes, they took one look at me and ran for their lives. I was tempted to chase them down and give them the thrashing they so richly deserved, but, well, Slim and I had important business and I decided to let it slide.
    You might say that the squeal of the pickup motor announced our presence. By the time Slim had gotten out and limped his way to the house, the porch light snapped on, the door opened, and out stepped an elderly, stern-faced man with white hair and suspenders on his pants.
    Woodrow, Viola’s daddy.
    He shaded his eyes with a hand and studied Slim with a suspicious look. “What’s all the noise?”
    â€œEvening, Woodrow, it’s me.”
    â€œWho’s me? I can’t see a thing.” He snapped on a flashlight and turned it on Slim’s face. “Oh. How come you’re dressed up? You going to a funeral?”
    â€œI hope not. I came to see Viola.”
    â€œWell, you’re too late. She’s gone.”
    â€œGone!”
    â€œYes sir, we’d just sat down for supper. She jumped out of her chair and left the house, crying. I don’t know what got into her head.”
    â€œAny idea where she might have gone?”
    Woodrow gave his head a shake. “She took her mandolin. Maybe she ran off and joined the circus. What’s wrong with your foot?”
    â€œHorse stepped on it.”
    â€œWell, if she ever comes back, I’ll tell her you were here.” He went back into the house and closed the door.
    Slim’s shoulders sagged and he stood there for a long time, staring at the ground. Then I heard him say in a croaking voice, “I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”
    He started back to the pickup, walking like a crippled old man, but then he stopped and listened. He’d heard something. I’d heard it too. Music, some kind of instrument. It seemed to be coming from the barn.
    Somebody was inside the barn, playing a mandolin! Could it be…
    Slim’s face lit up. He reached into the pickup and brought out his banjo case, then headed for the barn, walking as fast as he could on his bad foot.
    I slithered myself off the back of the pickup and followed along behind.
    He peeked through the window, gave his head a nod, and went inside. When he’d gone, I took his place and looked through the window. There, I saw Miss