I’m staring at the coffee mug on the kitchen counter, and something’s wrong with it. Not damaged wrong. Not dirty wrong. Just wrong. I used it yesterday morning, washed it, and put it away exactly where it belongs. At least I’m almost certain I did. Yet there it is now, sitting near the corner of the counter with the handle pointing toward the refrigerator. I never leave the handle pointing toward the refrigerator. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but everyone has systems whether they admit it or not, and my system involves mug handles pointing to the right. That isn’t obsessive. That’s civilization.
Pandora says I’m staring at a coffee mug. I say I’m examining evidence. There’s a difference. She gives me the look she uses when she’s deciding whether participating in the conversation will make things better or considerably worse, then goes back to what she was doing. That reaction alone makes me suspicious. Yesterday I would have considered it normal Pandora behavior. Today there’s a displaced mug involved.
My first thought is John Mercer. I don’t particularly want my first thought to be John Mercer, but history has made that decision for me. John has demonstrated a remarkably flexible interpretation of personal property, especially when he believes he is being helpful. If a lamp moves three feet, John was improving the lighting. If something disappears from a drawer, John was organizing. If Pandora discovers one of her things somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t be, somehow John has an explanation involving efficiency. So if my mug has mysteriously migrated from the cabinet to the counter, John is at least a person of interest.
Pandora asks why John Mercer would move one coffee mug. That’s exactly the kind of question somebody asks before discovering that John Mercer has reorganized an entire kitchen according to a system nobody else understands. I tell her this. She reminds me that John isn’t here. I tell her that’s what makes it troubling.
Then Mr. Whiskers walks into the kitchen.
He stops beside the counter and looks up at the mug.
I look at him.
He looks at me.
This changes things.
Mr. Whiskers has always possessed the unnerving ability to appear precisely when something questionable is happening and then behave as though he has been investigating it for several hours. He sits beneath the counter, wraps his tail around his paws, and stares upward. I crouch beside him and follow his line of sight. Definitely the mug.
Pandora tells me he’s probably hoping there’s food on the counter.
Possible. Convenient, but possible.
Then I notice something else. The mug isn’t merely facing the wrong direction. It’s slightly farther back than I normally leave things. Maybe two inches. Three at most. Somebody didn’t just use it. Somebody deliberately positioned it.
Pandora asks how I could possibly know where a mug was sitting to within two inches.
That’s insulting.
Of course I know.
I live here.
Now I’m reconstructing yesterday. I had coffee in the morning. Pandora was in the kitchen later. Mrs. Jenkins stopped us in the hallway and talked to Pandora for a while. Karen was around at some point recently, although I’m refusing to drag Karen into this without evidence because I’ve learned that once Karen enters one of my theories, the theory develops branches. John Mercer has also been around enough lately that I can’t rule him out on principle. Dave, however, was at work, where Dave belongs, so for once my coworker has an airtight alibi.
I ask Pandora whether she used my mug.
She says she doesn’t remember.
Interesting.
I ask whether she moved my mug.
She says she doesn’t remember that either.
Very interesting.
She asks why I’m interrogating her about crockery.
Deflection.
I’m beginning to suspect the mug isn’t the mystery. The mug is evidence of the mystery.
Maybe Pandora was reorganizing the kitchen and moved it without telling me. That would explain the position but not why she can’t remember doing it. Maybe John used it when he was here previously and put it somewhere strange, then Pandora discovered it and moved it to the counter. Maybe Mrs. Jenkins distracted Pandora in the hallway while something was happening in the kitchen. Maybe Mr. Whiskers knows exactly what happened and is withholding information because he’s a cat and therefore legally accountable to nobody.
Mr. Whiskers suddenly jumps onto a chair.
I make a mental note of that.
Pandora notices me making a mental note of that and tells me not to make a mental note of that.
I make a second mental note.
The problem is that the longer I stare at the mug, the more certain I become that this isn’t my imagination. Something about it has definitely changed. I pick it up. I turn it around. I inspect the bottom. Nothing. I look inside. Empty. I hold it at eye level, which causes Pandora to leave the kitchen without saying anything.
That’s when I see it.
There’s a tiny chip near the bottom edge.
I knew it.
I call Pandora back.
She doesn’t come back.
I call slightly louder and announce that I’ve discovered physical evidence.
That gets her.
Pandora walks into the kitchen, looks at the chip, looks at me, and says, “Yes.”
Yes?
Apparently, yesterday evening Mr. Whiskers jumped onto the counter while Pandora was putting dishes away. She moved the mug before he could knock it over. It tapped against the edge of the sink, leaving the tiny chip. She set it on the far side of the counter because she wanted to check whether it was cracked before putting it back in the cabinet. Then she forgot about it.
I look at Mr. Whiskers.
Mr. Whiskers looks at me.
So I was right.
The mug had moved.
Pandora immediately says that absolutely none of the rest of my theory was right.
That’s beside the point.
John Mercer didn’t move it. Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t involved. Karen wasn’t gathering intelligence. Nobody was reorganizing the kitchen behind my back. There was no secret message, no conspiracy, and no coordinated attempt to destabilize my coffee-drinking routine. Mr. Whiskers jumped onto the counter, Pandora saved the mug, and the mug moved approximately three inches.
But it moved.
That’s the important part.
Pandora says the important part is that I somehow turned a chipped coffee mug into an investigation involving four people and a cat.
I tell her good investigators consider every possibility.
She tells me good investigators probably ask their wives what happened before accusing the neighbors of participating in an international mug conspiracy.
Fair.
Still, I can’t help feeling vindicated. I noticed something was wrong when nobody else did. My instincts told me that mug wasn’t where I’d left it, and my instincts were correct. Maybe the explanation wasn’t quite as complicated as I’d anticipated, but that’s hardly my fault. Evidence has to be followed wherever it leads.
I put the mug back in the cabinet with the handle pointing right.
Then I stop.
There are seven mugs in there.
Yesterday I’m almost positive there were eight.
I slowly turn toward Pandora.
She sees my face.
“No.”
I haven’t even said anything yet.
“No, Hal.”
Mr. Whiskers walks out of the kitchen.
Suspiciously.