The getaway jalopy raced off, dodging through streets in the Quarter before it vanished into a convenient fog bank that one of the feuding weather wizards had stored there.
All the while, Stentor kept pointing after Mr. Bignome, squeaking in anger. “That’s him! He stole my voice.”
Although McGoo had seen enough unusual things in the Quarter that he took it all in stride, he was disgusted that the gang had gotten away again. As squad cars rushed up, he went into the novelty shop to talk with the manager and retrieve the security camera footage.
McGoo might have lost his suspects, but I had gotten a major lead on my case. I turned to Stentor. “Now that we know who has your voice, let’s go to the Wannovichs to see if they can help us reunite you with your vocal abilities.”
He brightened as we headed off to the headquarters of Howard Phillips Publishing. “I’m willing to try anything, Mr. Chambeaux. My legacy to the arts is at stake.”
Inside the lobby, we again encountered problems with security. Even though the receptionist recognized me from the last time, she had seen so many “Dan Shamble” impersonators that she remained suspicious. Even worse, Stentor couldn’t find his ID, so he fumbled through his pockets, crevices, and other embarrassing hiding places, hoping he had just tucked it away somewhere. Meanwhile, the human security guard stood in the corner, trembling as he watched us.
So, once again, I had to wait in the lobby for Mavis Wannovich to come to the rescue. This time I didn’t see any would-be zombie detectives loitering in the waiting area. The only other person was a tan-furred werewolf meticulously and nervously combing his face and the backs of his hands. He wore a dark pin-striped suit and polished wingtip shoes. A fresh and sprightly sprig of lavender flowers poked up from his lapel. At first I thought they were lilacs, but then I realized they were lupines.
The werewolf sized me up and down and stepped forward, thrusting out a paw. “You must be auditioning for that Dan Shamble character. Have you talked to marketing yet?”
I took his grip automatically. “I am Dan Chambeaux. The real one.”
“That’s the spirit—stay in character, no matter what!” said the werewolf, adding a classy-sounding growl to his voice. “I’m up for Lou Lupine, Werewolf P.I. It’s the launch of their new Unnatural Detectives line.”
“A werewolf detective?” said Stentor. “Oh, I’d read that!”
“You don’t think it’s just a little derivative?” I asked.
The actor playing Lou Lupine snuffled through his dark snout. “Sounds better to me than Francis, ghoul bounty hunter. I’m pretty sure they’ve canceled that one already.”
The elevator doors opened, and Mavis Wannovich emerged. She brightened when she saw me, waving her hands. “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Chambeaux!”
The werewolf adjusted his pin-striped suit, straightened the lupine on his lapel, and waved after me. “Good luck with the audition, bro.”
When I introduced Stentor the ogre, Mavis was cheerful. “Yes, we have your delightful frog. This is a very interesting case—it’ll make the backbone for a great new novel in the Dan Shamble series.”
Stentor blinked incredulously. “I’ll be a character in a book?”
“Well, somewhat,” said the witch. “Our stories are inspired by actual events, but our ghostwriter has a certified poetic license.”
Stentor’s case sounded like no more than a B storyline to me, but then I’m neither a writer nor a publisher.
After the ogre signed a waiver, promising to cause no mayhem in the publishing offices, Mavis got each of us a visitor’s pass, led us through security, and again up to the thirteenth floor. We went straight to her office, where Alma sat white and clean, with no sign of her editorial mud bath.
Robin’s plastic lunch container sat on the desk between two copyedited manuscripts. The lid was ajar, and the speckled frog seemed content. Stentor brightened and used his ham-sized hands to slide the lid aside. “There he is! I missed him.” He looked at the Wannovich sisters. “You took care of my frog?”
“The best of care,” Mavis said, and Alma snuffled.
Stentor touched the frog with a frog-sized finger and looked at me. “He and I were very close.”
“Frogs don’t pick just any throat,” I said.
“It was a happy circumstance,” the ogre answered, “despite the way it turned out.”
I explained to the Wannovich sisters that we now knew who had stolen Stentor’s voice, and the ogre asserted that his distinctive baritone voice was much better suited to opera singing than to yelling commands during a robbery.
Mavis had already set out the books about vocal displacement spells and their uses, using a sticky note to mark the section on amphibious-transfer protocols. “Lawn gnomes aren’t generally loud,” said Mavis. “They keep quiet so as not to scare fairies that might visit the gardens. But this Mr. Bignome sounds like he has compensation issues.” She adjusted her pointy hat. “I believe he stole the ogre’s famous voice so he could command his gang.”
“Now that we know who took the voice, can we get it transferred back?” I asked.
Mavis wasn’t as enthusiastic as I would have liked. “Alma and I studied the spell books, and yes, we think we have a way to reconnect Stentor with his voice.”
The ogre leaped to his feet with such excitement that he jostled the desk, scattering manuscripts. The frog sprang out of the plastic container and landed on the floor, hopping around in confusion. The ogre backed away, afraid he might hurt it. Alma scurried after the creature, trying to corner the poor frog with her snout. I fumbled after it, but Mavis finally removed her pointy hat, scooped up the frog, and deposited it back in the plastic container.
“From what we can tell, it’s a simple enough spell,” she said, putting the lid over the top of the plastic container so the frog couldn’t escape again. “We can reestablish the connection between you and your distant voice, but there’s one catch. In order to implement the spell, we’ll have to use the same catalyst that was used to steal your voice in the first place.”
“A catalyst?” Stentor asked.
“Yes,” Mavis said. “You’ll have to swallow the frog.”
Inside the plastic container, the spotted creature hopped and thumped against the lid, as if it had heard and understood its fate.
Although determined to get his voice back, Stentor was also concerned about his amphibious friend. He stroked the plastic lid. “It’s all right. This won’t hurt,” he said in his squeaky and not-quite-soothing voice. “There’s plenty of room in there, and I promise not to swallow all the way.”
Alma trotted around the desk, which I realized was part of the spell preparations. I assisted in setting out the candles, copying designs for specific runes from the spell book. As he waited, the ogre clutched the plastic container to his enormous chest, obviously nervous.
When we finished setting up, Mavis drew a deep breath and prepared for her incantation. “It’s time for the frog to go back in the throat,” she said.
I gave Stentor a reassuring pat on his sofa-sized arm. He closed his eyes as if to be brave, popped open the plastic lid of the container, and upended it into his mouth. The frog tumbled down his throat, and the ogre closed his lips tight.
Mavis quickly read her spell after reassuring us that she had proofed the words herself to make sure there were no typos. Stentor squirmed. I could see his throat convulsing, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he struggled not to swallow.
As the witches continued their work, I could sense magic flying through the air as the spell’s crackling energy swirled around the ogre. His clumps of hair began to stand out straight from static electricity.
Suddenly, Alma blew out the candles, ending the spell. Mavis let out a sigh and leaned back in relief. “There, it was a complete success!” she said. “Stentor, you are now reconnected with your voice.”
The ogre tried to talk, but even less sound came out now—just a breathy few words, like a ghost of a voice. “This doesn’t seem like a success to me.”
I realized the problem. “Of course not. You’ve still got a frog in your throat.”
I pounded him on the back, and Stentor opened his mouth and coughed. The panic-stunned frog flew out like amphibious sputum to land among the manuscripts on the editor’s desk. The ogre’s shoulders bounced up and down as he chuckled and said, “There, that’s better.”
But his voice was still a nearly inaudible breath.
His expression fell like a curtain at the end of a performance. “What’s wrong? Where’s my voice?” He clutched his throat.
The dizzy frog kept hopping in circles around the desk.
Mavis studied the spell book with concern, and Alma grunted a few suggestions, but her sister shook her head. “Wait a second, I’m checking something.”
Trying to be useful, I scooped up the frog and returned it to the plastic container, where it huddled in the corner, traumatized.
“Let me revise my opinion,” Mavis said. “This spell was a complete partial success. You are indeed reconnected with your voice, Stentor, but the voice hasn’t been put back into your larynx yet.”
“What does that mean?” Stentor breathed.
“It means that your voice is yours again, but the words you speak are coming out of Mr. Bignome’s mouth.”
The ogre groaned in dismay.
Not what either of us had hoped, but I pondered the problem. “Hmm, that might still be useful. If you talk, but your words come out of the lawn gnome’s mouth, then he has no control over what he says. We could use that to our advantage—like a game of long-distance Marco Polo across the Quarter.”
Stentor understood. “I see.” He drew in a deep breath and began to bellow, though he produced almost no sound. “Stop! Thief! Somebody call 911. This lawn gnome has kidnapped my voice.”
Even though we couldn’t hear anything, if Mavis was right, his displaced shout would be coming out of Bignome’s mouth, somewhere across town.
Smiling, I handed Stentor the plastic container with his frog. “Let me talk to my policeman friend. We may be able to wrap up two cases at the same time.”