Essie’s pep talk had done the trick. I had played every detail and every moment out in my head a thousand times and I was ready to go the following night when I heard the sound of screeching brakes in the alley. Fred and Lester French, two brothers who owned a laundry service, came down the stairs with a huge linen basket. I had helped them with some tax documents last year. They told me to get in so they could smuggle me out.

“You could get in big trouble for helping me,” I said. “You don’t’ have to stick your necks out for me.”

Fred and Lester smiled.

“You would do the same for us,” Lester said. “Get in.”

The helped me get into the basket and covered me with table cloths. Then they carried me up the stairs to the alley, loaded me in their laundry truck and drove me over to Nellie’s House of Beauty where they secretly delivered me into Frog Town’s only beauty salon.

Nellie Jones, was the shop owner. I had convinced a judge to let her out of jail three months ago after she fell asleep on the bus and inadvertently failed to move to the back when the driver started picking up white passengers. Nellie wheeled me into a back room where she dyed and cut my hair. When she got done with me even I didn’t recognize myself.

“Thank you Rubie,” she said. “God be with you.”

From there I was picked up by a cab driver, who took me to a black funeral home where I was led through an alley to a florist who sent me off with a special delivery to Lady Gladys’ Ardsley Park home. All the while I was given bits of information about the conniving and underhanded dealings of Lady Gladys’ money grubbing children. It seemed like everyone in Frog Town wanted to see me beat this bad rap.

When I arrived at Lady Gladys’ with the phony flower delivery Bosier quickly ushered me into the kitchen and filled me in on what had been going on. He took me through a network of back staircases, servants quarters and service corridors. The small utilitarian spaces had been designed to keep servants out of the sight and minds of their wealthy employers until they were needed. It was the perfect place to hide and keep an eye out for clues.

“You won’t believe it Rubie,” he told me. “Their mama isn’t even in the ground yet and are running through her money like they’re trying to win Olympic medals.”

From a third floor storage room window we could see the entire layout of the the house and grounds. Bozier pointed out the tennis court and the adjoining courtyard where Owen was always hitting his balls. I could see where Mr. Gilbert Fanciworth had finally been laid to rest. Pinkney was in the courtyard filling in the grave and setting up the tiny headstone as Lady Gladys had wanted. It was in the exact spot where the cat used to sit and sun himself. I could also see the bedroom window where Lady Gladys kept watch on her cat and courtyard movements. Pinkney cut some pink Azaleas from a bush, removed his hat from his balding head and looked up at Lady Gladys’ window, as if she were still up there watching. Just as he knelt down to lay them on the cat’s final resting place, a tennis ball came flying across the courtyard and hit him in the temple. The force of the blow knocked Pinkney to the ground and a lump had already begun to rise on his shiny bald spot. The stunned gardner pulled his pocket knife and hopped up angrily, swinging at the air. When he realized he had been struck by one of the tennis ball at his feet, Pinkney cursed and kicked them into the bushes.

Chef Bozier doubled over in laughter.

“Did you see that ball hit old man Pinkney,” he roared. “He acted like Babe Ruth had snuck up behind him and cracked him across the scalp. Thank God he has a hard head and a strong heart or he would have died right there in the same spot as the cat”

“Do you mean to tell me that’s the spot where the cat died,” I asked.

“Yeah,” Bozier laughed. “In that very spot. Surrounded by tennis balls and fur balls.”

“That’s it! That’s how the did it,” I shouted. “They didn’t have to sneak up on the cat and hit him, Owen fired rounds of tennis balls down on its head.”

Bozier stopped laughing and thought about the idea.

“That would have to be one heavy tennis ball.” he said. “Do you think he could have weighed one down; filled it up with cement or rocks or something to make it even deadlier?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But we need to find out.”