Sherlock Wolff tracked the notorious hacker, Lorelei, to the Rhine Club. Concealing himself at the back, he scoped out the exits. She sang. Too late, he noticed his cocoa turning wolfsbane blue. The arrest warrant in his hand wavered like a timepiece in a Dali painting. He found himself on stage.

Instead of serving the warrant, he was served. Instead of arresting Lorelei, she handcuffed him. Wolff’s supervisor appeared. “Good work, Detective Wolff.” He shook Lorelei’s hand.

Wolff couldn’t find his tongue.

He woke up in a Bavarian jail. The woodcutter in the next cell said, “Don’t I know you?”

“Sherlock Wolff, ma’am. National Narrative Crimes.” He held a promotional photo. “Have you seen this blond chanteuse?”

Mrs. Bear dried her paws . “Lorelei’s gone, I’m afraid.”

“Did she leave anything?”

“ A mess.” Mrs. Bear ushered the detective in.

“We’re looking for a first edition of Grimm’s Fairy Tales and a laptop. Seen anything?”

Mrs. Bear shook her head. She called her son in.

Babyface said, “Lori’s not a reader.”

“She’s a hacker. Breaking into physical books, shortening them, changing plots. Her ex-boyfriend reported her.”

“She told me about him. The beast.”

Detective Wolff said, “He’s a wolf. There’s a difference.”

Bavarian Boots had a storied history. Now the elves wanted to change the company name to Iberian Soles.

“We’ve voted to relocate to the Canary Islands.” The elf twisted his beard into a white knot that rested on his collar.

Shoemaker’s father had been right. What a mistake to encourage a union. First it was holidays, then four weeks vacation. Now this. “I’ll consider it,” Shoemaker said.

“When you’re two centuries old, you’ll want a warm place to live,” the elf said. “Visit. You’ll see.”

Shoemaker booked a trip for three days. A month later, the relocation plan was complete.