A harried-looking woman with ink-stained fingers emerged from the municipal building, clipboard in hand. "Sir, you have three budget meetings and the enchanted pothole committee?—"
"Cancel everything! Town emergency!" He snatched the clipboard, scribbling furiously while Mildred sighed with the resignation of someone who'd seen this particular drama too many times.
Within minutes, a crowd had gathered as town workers hastily assembled a podium in the square's center. The mayor's hat began producing miniature scrolls that floated down to confused onlookers.
"Mayor Grimble, this isn't necessary—" Delilah began, but he was already tapping the microphone.
"Citizens of Assjacket!" His voice boomed across the square. "I call this emergency session to order!"
Mildred tugged at his sleeve. "Sir, proper legislative procedure requires public notice forty-eight hours in advance, followed by?—"
"Emergency powers!" Mayor Grimble declared, his hat's clock tower chiming in agreement. "Section twelve, paragraph seven of the town charter: 'In times of magical disruption, the mayor may enact temporary ordinances to ensure public safety and investigative continuity.'"
Sam looked up at Delilah, his expression clearly asking if this was actually happening.
"Just go with it," she whispered. "Maybe we can use this chaos to our advantage."
Several townspeople had begun humming a strangely familiar melody—the same tune Elder Thornberry had been humming. They seemed unaware they were doing it, swaying slightly in unison.
"As your duly elected magical emergency response coordinator," the mayor continued, "I hereby classify Investigator Wolfe as a 'service werewolf' with all associated privileges and immunities! Anyone who says otherwise answers to me and this official hat of office!"
The hat produced a shower of golden sparks that formed into a badge that floated down to land at Sam's paws.
"Furthermore," Mayor Grimble added, "Miss Hart is granted temporary deputy status with full access to all municipal records and buildings!"
Mildred looked ready to faint. "Sir, there's no precedent for deputizing a fortune-teller to investigate?—"
"Create the precedent! That's what leaders do!" He adjusted his hat importantly. "The ordinance is effective immediately and shall remain in force until Investigator Wolfe returns to his... usual proportions."
Sam barked once, then sat at attention, somehow looking both ridiculous and authoritative.
"Well," Delilah murmured, accepting the official-looking badge that materialized in her hand, "I guess we have municipal permission now."
As they finally continued toward the library, townsfolk nodded respectfully, several even saluting Sam, who managed a dignified head tilt in response.
"Service werewolf," Delilah chuckled. "I'm never letting you live this down."
Sam's responding growl held no real heat, especially when his tail betrayed him with a brief, happy wag.
The Assjacket Memorial Library's magical archives smelled of dust, ancient leather, and something indefinably arcane that made Delilah's nose itch. For Sam, with his enhanced canine senses, it must have been overwhelming. His tiny nose twitched constantly as they descended the spiral staircase to the restricted section.
"Try not to sneeze on anything older than America," Delilah whispered as Mrs. Shufflewick unlocked the heavy iron door with a key that changed shape three times during the process.
The librarian adjusted her glasses, which had transformed into pince-nez since they'd entered the building. Her posture had become more rigid, her hair tighter in its bun, and her accent distinctly British.
"The restricted archives contain texts of considerable sensitivity," Mrs. Shufflewick announced, channeling what appeared to be a stern Victorian schoolmistress. "Many have protective enchantments that respond poorly to... canine enthusiasm."
Sam sat at attention, the picture of dignity—until a dust mote floated past his nose, illuminated by a shaft of light from the enchanted windows that showed a sunny day despite being underground. His head swiveled to follow it, then another, and suddenly he was spinning in circles, paws scrabbling on the polished floor.
"Sam!" Delilah hissed, mortified.
He froze mid-spin, looking as embarrassed as a fluffy white puppy possibly could.
Mrs. Shufflewick's demeanor softened, her posture relaxing as her outfit subtly shifted to a tweed skirt and cardigan. "Now then," she said, her accent becoming distinctly different, "I've cataloged many curious creatures in my time, but never a detective who becomes his own tracking dog! Most efficient, I must say."
"Miss Marple?" Delilah guessed.
"Indeed." Mrs. Shufflewick beamed. "Agatha's finest creation, in my humble opinion. Now, what exactly are we looking for today?"
