Bozier ran downstairs. From the window I could see him dash out into the courtyard and over to Pinkney. They talked for a while and looked over at Owen who was still practicing his serve on the tennis court. Pinkney rubbed the lump on his head, looked over at the tennis balls then back over at Owen. Then he unlocked the shed, went inside and emerged with a box full of tennis balls. In addition to cleaning up behind the cat and caring for the garden, a big part of Pinkney’s routine was picking up all of the stray tennis balls that ended up in the courtyard.

I watched intently as Pinkney handed the box over to Bozier. Then while Bozier headed back into the kitchen Antwan, Essie and Pinkney started poking around in the bushes.

There were exactly 67 tennis balls in that box. All of them were the normal fuzzy, white variety, except one. The very last ball Bozier pulled from the box was unusually heavy. At first glance it looked like any other tennis ball, but a small incision had been made along the seam and it was packed tight with a saw dust mixture. A powerful overhand serve could send that projectile crashing into the skull of a sleepy old cat and knock it senseless.

“Now we’ve got motive and the method,” I said.

But Bozier shook his head. Owen has a strong arm, but his mind is too weak to have come up with a plan like that all by himself.

Just then Essie and Antwan came rushing into my service hallway hiding place.

“Look what we found,” Antwan said, holding up the charred remains of a tennis racket that appeared to have cracked and lost several strings after hitting something very heavy and hard. “Someone had pitched it into a pile of burning leaves but they were too stupid to stick around and make sure it burned up.”

We just needed one last piece of evidence to clear my name and prove the murder plot was carried out by Emma, Jerome and Owen- the saw dust mixture. I knew exactly where to find it. I told everyone to follow me and we rushed down to the basement where Jerome, Emma and Owen had amassed knee high piles of sawdust from all of their crate making. There was everything in their little workshop from glue and nails to every kind of imaginable metal used for fastening and framing.

Essie, Pinkney, Bozier and Antwan searched through the crates of stolen contraband with amazement. There was enough evidence there to get the three of them locked up for life.

Madame Essie announced that it was time to pay a visit to her police department contacts and so we could give those brats what they deserve for generating a lifetime of misery.

Bozier smiled and gave me a hearty pat on the back.

“Rubie,” he said. “I’m going to make you a celebratory ham sandwich my friend.”