It didn’t add up. Eggs go missing from the henhouse, but the owner doesn’t call out the dogs. And now the goods turn up stashed all across town wearing a cheap dye job, just lying there for anyone to find. I was about to head back to my office when I heard the pounding of dozens of feet, tearing up the ground like the ponies at Pimlico, stampeding my way. Children. Lots of them. I’d been framed.