Prudence Crick is caring for the twenty cats that call The Maples home while Gerry Coneybear is off travelling. Looking for a change of pace Prudence starts working part-time as a barista at the new cafe while also entertaining her out-of-town guests, Bertie Smith and Marion Stewart. When the owners of two adjoining cottages located behind the cafe are suddenly struck down followed by a mysterious house fire, the valuable land where the house once stood becomes up for grabs and a greedy nephew, a condo developer, and a local businessman begin circling like vultures. When a body is found amidst the ashes, Prudence finds herself drawn into the mystery. Was the fire arson? Who is the dead body? And where did that missing cat go?

“Well, somebody’s been saved the task of pulling two houses down,” observed Lucy grimly. She and Prudence were standing on the lawn of the house across the street from what was left of the Ménard and Lester homes. They’d met at Lucy’s at nine then walked down from her house. Both were required to be at their jobs at ten.

“You’re assuming they would have ultimately been bulldozed and developed?” Prudence asked.

“Yeah. At least we managed to shift almost all Mme Ménard’s stuff to the church basement. Except the larger pieces of furniture.”

Prudence thought of the big old armoire with the heavy sideboard on top of it from the Ménard kitchen, now reduced to ashes. That piece was older than we are, she reflected, and should have outlasted us all. “I guess M Ménard will be happy. No way his aunt is ever going to return to live in that.” She added, “Happy first day of fall, by the way.”

Lucy grunted.

A backhoe, operated by the younger Hudson, supervised by his father, was slowly pulling the blackened rubble of the Lester house onto the front lawn. The town’s fire chief and an official were also watching. A dump truck waited.

Prudence nervously said, “They’re sure there’s no body in there?”

Lucy shook her head. “As soon as they heard the house was supposed to have one occupant, the firefighters did a search.” She continued. “How am I going to feed the cat? Where can I put his food now? Even the porch is burned.”

“Over by the fence?” Prudence suggested. “Put another box with a blanket in it and put the dish next to that? No, that won’t work when it rains. What about a larger wooden box and put the food inside?”

“I’ll figure something out,” Lucy said resignedly.

Once the earth where the Lester house had been had been more or less scraped clean, the elder Hudson gestured to his son that it was time to turn the backhoe’s attention to lifting the burnt mess into the waiting dump truck.

“Why don’t we look for the cat over behind the café?” Prudence suggested. “I saw him there once before.”

“Might as well.” They crossed the street and carefully passed behind the dump truck. As they neared the rear of Coco Poco, Prudence saw Dan Bartram standing inside watching it all. She waved and he lifted one hand and let it drop before returning to some task.

“Luc, Luc, Luc,” called Prudence, bending to look behind garbage cans and peering between buildings. They walked all the way to St. Pete’s and its graveyard, then back. “He’ll show up,” she said, “when he’s hungry.” She wondered if the same could be said for Walter Lester. She hoped so.

“Not if he was burned to death on the front porch,” Lucy responded gloomily.

“I think, as he was sleeping outside, he would have heard or smelt the fire and escaped. Don’t you?”

“I really don’t have a clue, Prue,” Lucy said peevishly. “The whole thing is making me ill.” They crossed the street to their former position and resumed watching the men working. The dump truck was full and slowly trundled away up Lucy’s street.

Prudence said idly. “I suppose the ruins are well soaked with water and ready to dump safely.”

Lucy said bitterly, “Yes. I think the fire department managed that much at least.”

“Now, now,” Prudence remonstrated. “Old wooden houses.

Must be impossible to put out once the fire’s got a good hold.”

“Exactly.” Lucy turned to her friend. “I watched the whole thing. What if it had been my house? And I sleep upstairs…”

“Ah.” Prudence examined Lucy’s miserable face. “Check your smoke alarms before you go to bed tonight. That’ll make you feel better.”

Lucy’s brow cleared. “I will. I always keep spare batteries.” They watched as the younger Hudson moved the backhoe to begin scraping at the Ménard house. “Gosh. Her vegetable garden and shrubs must be all burnt up.” Lucy sounded sad.

The backhoe lifted and pulled, its scoop reminding Prudence of a human hand, a gardener’s perhaps, digging in earth. How we make machines in our own image, she thought dreamily, mesmerized by its rhythmic rising, falling and dragging.

The mechanical arm lifted, lowered, then stopped, poised over its next load. The younger Hudson half-raised himself from his seat and peered over and around the scoop. He yelled something to his father who drew a forefinger across his throat. The son sat down, backed the machine away from the debris and cut its engine.

In the sudden silence that followed, his voice could be heard clearly, even across the street. “Found him,” he said.

“Oh, no!” Prudence exclaimed. And took a step forward.

Now it was Lucy’s turn to comfort her friend. “Come away,” she said, grasping Prudence’s arm. “Come away, dear.”