Prologue The office of Percival Smidgely, PI, was situated on the third floor of the historic Blinkhopp Building in downtown Gizzford.
In Percival’s office, there was a desk and a window. There were also several chairs and an elderly rubber plant.
The rubber plant had lost most of its leaves to time and neglect, and the six leaves that remained were coated in a thick layer of dust.
The window in Percival’s office looked out on a brick wall.
Sometimes, in the late afternoon, the window grudgingly admitted a small square of sunlight that appeared and then quickly disappeared. It was almost as if the sun were embarrassed to show up in such a dingy office.
A single pigeon had taken up residence on the window’s narrow ledge.
This pigeon was prone to staring in the window at Percival Smidgely in a judgmental way.
Percival Smidgely did not mind being judged by a pigeon because Percival was a man who believed that he was destined for great things.
He was a man with a moustache and a detective license.
He was a man with a sign on the door that read: percival smidgely, private investigator.
Percival’s girlfriend had stenciled the sign for him.
Sometimes, Percival would get up from his desk and go out into the hallway and admire the sign on his door and then he would come back into the office and close the door and sit at his desk and twirl his moustache and consider the great things he was surely destined to do.
Also, he stared at the phone. He waited for it to ring.
When the phone did ring, it was usually Percival’s girlfriend, Louella Smith.
“Don’t call me at work,” said Percival Smidgely.
“But that’s what I’m calling about,” said Louella, “to see if you have any work.”
“The world is full of mysteries, Louella. The world is full of missing people and lost items. Eventually, those mysteries will find their way to the door of Percival Smidgely, PI.”
“When?” said Louella.
Percival hung up the phone.
He twirled his moustache.
The pigeon stared at him. The square of sunlight appeared and then quickly disappeared. The dust on the six leaves of the rubber plant grew the tiniest bit thicker.
Percival Smidgely got up and looked at his sign: percival smidgely, private investigator.
Yep.
The mysteries would present themselves.
�� �� ��
On a bright morning in early autumn, Percival sat at his desk reading the
Gizzford Gazette. He was keeping an eye open for potential mysteries.
The headlines, however, were not very mysterious.
new traffic light at twinkle and main butter barrel candy factory begins production in gizzford imogene faulkner celebrates 100th birthday in style The pigeon shifted her position on the window ledge and stared in at Percival with beady, judgmental eyes.
More dust settled onto the leaves of the rubber plant.
The office was very quiet.
Percival rattled the pages of the newspaper.
He read another headline.
i-16 to be repaved That was a good thing. No one should have to drive on bumpy roads.
Surely, if Percival Smidgely waited patiently, fate would intervene, and the mysteries would present themselves.
Surely, the mysteries would appear.
Chapter One On a bright morning in early autumn, Mercy Watson went missing.
Mrs. Watson looked in the pig’s room.
“Mercy?” she said.
No one answered.
“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Watson.
She went downstairs and looked in the kitchen.
There was no pig in the kitchen.
“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Watson.
She walked into the living room. Mr. Watson was, as usual, sitting on the couch. His face was obscured by the
Gizzford Gazette. The headlines shouted information about traffic lights and birthday parties and Butter Barrels.
“Have you seen Mercy?” said Mrs. Watson.
“I have not,” said Mr. Watson.
Mrs. Watson felt a pebble of worry in her stomach.
“I’ll just check at the neighbors’,” she said.
“Excellent,” said Mr. Watson.
But Mercy was not at the Lincoln sisters’ house.
“What would that pig be doing here?” said Eugenia Lincoln.
“Mercy is missing?” said Baby Lincoln. Her worried face hovered behind Eugenia’s for just a moment before Eugenia closed the door (slammed it, actually) in Mrs. Watson’s face.
Eugenia Lincoln could be quite abrupt at times. Mrs. Watson tried not to let it hurt her feelings.
She went down the street to the Endicotts’ house.
Frank answered the door.
“Have you seen Mercy?” asked Mrs. Watson.
“No,” said Frank. “Is she missing?”
“I don’t know if she’s missing exactly,” said Mrs. Watson. “It’s just that she’s not where I would expect her to be.”
“Maybe she’s playing hide-and-seek,” said Frank’s sister, Stella.
“I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Watson. “At least, I’ve never known her to do such a thing.”
Still, in the spirit of a potential game of hide-and-seek, Mrs. Watson went up and down Deckawoo Drive. She looked under cars and searched behind trees. She peeped into garages and lifted the lid on garbage cans.
Not that Mercy would hide in a garbage can. She was not that kind of pig.
What kind of pig was she?
Well, she was the kind of pig who liked to eat toast with a great deal of butter on it.
Oh, toast with a great deal of butter!
The comfort of it! The warmth of it!
Mrs. Watson felt a sudden overwhelming urge to make toast even though there was no Mercy to make it for.
“Mercy?” she called. “My darling? My dear?”
Mrs. Watson returned to 54 Deckawoo Drive with dread in her heart. What had started as a pebble of worry was turning into a boulder of despair.
Mercy lent weight and shape and wonder to all of Mrs. Watson’s days.
Life without her was unimaginable.
Copyright © 2023 by Kate DiCamillo; Illustrated by Chris Van Dusen. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
