The Case of the Missing Ninth Fish

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Mary was a cat who took fishing very seriously. She had caught nine different kinds of fish at Cattail Pond — nine! — and she had written every single one in her red fishing log. The log had a little fish doodle on the cover that she had drawn herself. She carried it everywhere. “The log is the whole point,” Mary always said. “Any cat can catch a fish. Only I know which nine.” This particular Tuesday, she arrived at the pond at exactly half past seven and reached into her vest pocket.

The pocket was empty. Mary checked the other two pockets. Tackle. Hooks. A squashed biscuit from last Wednesday. No log. She set her rod down very carefully, the way she always did when she needed to think hard. “Right,” she said to no one. “It was there yesterday. I wrote in it. I put it back. So.” She looked around the pond. Three familiar faces were already settled at the water's edge. Hmm. That was interesting.

There was Wren, the frog, hunched over a large green backpack. Wren collected bottle caps and was always stuffing things away. There was Otto, the otter, who fished at the far rock every morning and whose pockets were famously enormous. And there was Pip, the small hedgehog, who had arrived before Mary — which was unusual — and was reading something flat and red. Mary blinked. Something flat. And red.

Mary walked over to Pip with her most casual walk. “Morning, Pip. What are you reading?” Pip looked up cheerfully. “Oh! It's a menu. Otto brought it. The new pond-side café opens Thursday.” Mary looked. It was indeed a menu — red, laminated, with a picture of a sandwich. Not a log. Not her log. “Right,” said Mary. “Obviously.” She walked back to her fishing spot and sat down. She needed to start from the beginning.

Yesterday evening she had written the ninth entry — the stickleback — and tucked the log into her top pocket. She had walked home. She had eaten dinner. She had gone to get ready for bed. She had NOT put it down anywhere except the pocket. So either the log had fallen out — or someone had taken it. “But who?” Mary muttered. Otto waved at her from the far rock. Something orange flashed in his enormous pocket. Hmm. Orange was not Otto's usual color.

Mary moved her rod and settled closer to the far rock. “Nice morning, Otto,” she said. “Magnificent,” said Otto. “I caught a perch already. Wrote it in my fish book.” Mary's ears pricked up. “Your fish book?” “Started one last week,” Otto said proudly. He held up a small orange notebook. “Saw someone doing it and thought — brilliant idea, that.” Mary stared at the orange notebook. Her log was red. But Otto had just admitted he'd copied the idea from someone. From her?

“Who gave you the idea?” Mary asked, very casually. Otto thought. “Wren, actually. Wren showed me a little book a few days ago. Red one. Said it was brilliant for keeping track.” Mary stood up so fast her rod wobbled. Wren. Had shown Otto. Her red book. “Did Wren say where she got it?” Otto shrugged. “Found it by the reeds, she said.” Mary was already walking toward the green backpack.

“Wren,” said Mary, planting herself in front of the frog. “Did you find a small red book by the reeds?” Wren looked up, startled. “Oh! Yes, four days ago. I thought someone dropped it. I was going to hand it in — I just forgot, and then I showed Otto—” She was already pulling open the green backpack. “It's in here somewhere. I'm so sorry, Mary, I didn't know it was—” She stopped. Her hand was deep in the backpack. Her face had gone very still. “It's not here.”

“I had it Tuesday,” Wren said slowly. “I definitely had it Tuesday because Otto held it. Then I put it back. And then—” She squeezed her eyes shut, thinking. “Pip asked to borrow my backpack to carry something home. Just for an hour.” Mary turned to look at Pip. Pip was still cheerfully reading the menu. Mary thought: Pip arrived before me today. Pip never arrives before me. Pip had the backpack. And Pip was reading something flat, held at a very specific angle. She walked back across the grass.

“Pip,” said Mary. “Turn that menu over.” Pip blinked. “Turn it—?” “Over. Please.” Pip flipped the menu. On the back, in small careful handwriting — not Pip's handwriting, not anyone's handwriting Mary recognized — were nine lines of text. “It's a list someone wrote on the back,” Pip said. “I noticed it this morning. Isn't it funny? Nine types of fish.” Mary read it. Her nine fish. Her handwriting. Her list. She had been reading her own log this whole time. Cut out and glued to the menu.

Not cut out — copied. Someone had copied her list. Mary sat down hard on the grass. She thought very carefully. The log had fallen near the reeds four days ago. Wren found it, showed Otto, Pip borrowed the backpack. Pip had had the log. But Pip hadn't taken the list. Pip hadn't even known what it was. “Pip, when you borrowed the backpack — did you look inside?” “No,” said Pip firmly. “I only carried it. But a fisher-finch saw me with it. She asked what was in it and I said I didn't know.” A fisher-finch.

Mary's eyes went to the tall oak at the pond's edge. A small gray bird sat there. She had a neat, organized look. And balanced between her feet — small, red, with a white fish doodle on the cover — was Mary's log. The bird saw Mary looking. “Ah,” said the bird. “Yes,” said Mary. “Ah.” “I am Fenn,” said the bird. “I'm writing a book about the fish of Cattail Pond. I found that log — well, borrowed it from the bag — and I only needed the list. I've been meaning to return it.” She held it out.

Mary took the log. She opened it. Every page was exactly as she had left it, except a small note had been tucked inside the front cover: *Nine species! How did you find the stickleback? They are very rare. — F.* Mary looked at the note for a long time. “How did I find it?” she said. “I used a brandyfly lure and waited three hours.” Fenn pulled out her own notebook — much larger, very official-looking. “Three hours. Brandyfly lure. Would you — would you come back Thursday? I have twelve more questions.” Mary considered this.

“Thursday,” Mary said, “I'm fishing.” “Yes,” said Fenn. “That's rather the point.” Wren and Otto had gathered behind Mary without her noticing. Pip was there too, still holding the menu. “You could all be interviewed,” Fenn said, looking at them. “For the book. Any fish you've caught, any methods, any—” “I caught a perch this morning,” said Otto immediately. “I once caught a boot,” offered Wren. “Does that count?” “Absolutely not,” said Fenn. “It was a very interesting boot,” Wren said, sadly.

That evening Mary sat at the pond's edge as the sun turned the water gold. She opened the log to the ninth entry: *Stickleback. Three hours. Brandyfly lure. Worth it.* Below it, in careful new ink, she added a tenth line. Not a fish. Just a name: *Fenn. Fisher-finch. Asks good questions.* She closed the log and slipped it into her pocket — the top one, the one that had always been slightly open. She pressed it shut.