Chapter 1–Sunday, 3:15PM

Something was eating at Herb as he sat watching the Sunday afternoon stalk car race. A crime wave was sweeping Garden City, the likes of which no vegetable living could recall. Of course, veggies don’t have much of a collective memory, so that wasn’t saying a lot. There’d been a string of choppings, one celery salt and battery and numerous reports of stalking.

Folks were terrified. They ventured out only when absolutely necessary and only in bunches during daylight hours. They had stalked up on essentials and barricaded themselves in their homes. Worse, citizens were stalkpiling weapons – potato guns, carrot sticks, ginsu knives. Herb knew he had to stem the tide or the whole town would stalk off and find themselves a new chief of police. Already Mayor Matthew H. W. Redman III, a red-hot radish, was screaming, ready to bite Herb’s leafy celery head off and the rank-and-file at the station were ribbing him at every briefing. The “stalk holder,” as they called their jail, was full of petty thieves and hot bed hussies, a seedy bunch to be sure, but incapable of the vicious murders and the single attack.

As he clicked over to reruns of the Brady Bunch – Chef Gourdon had won in sunny Garden Grove – Herb took stalk of the situation, recalling what he knew. All the chopping victims, each sliced neatly into quarter-inch chunks, had been stalky celery fellows – six, seven inches tall, green as the day is long, in their prime, hearty men with no fear of peanut butter.

The battery victim, a stalk broker at the exchange downtown, was much the same. He’d viewed two or three line ups, but not one of the crooks looked even vaguely familiar. He’d tried to describe his assailant, but with little success. All he could say was, “Celery, I think. Paler than usual. Blanched, maybe. And dark eyes.”

The composite sketch Herb’s artist had put together looked like something out of Frankencelery’s Monster or Tales from the Crisper. Hideous.

Herb was sure such a sinister creature could not exist, but he had posted the drawing anyway – on the city’s website, in the rib joint’s window, under every awning at the farmer’s market, at the stalkyard, Gourd’s Gym, the mall, everywhere.

Those stalking shelves at the five-and-dime had glanced at the picture as Herb taped it up. They’d mumbled something about incompetent detectives and walked away shaking their heads. Herb stewed as he thought of it.

Then there were the EMTs at the StalkAid ambulance barn. They had laughed themselves silly. “We’ve never seen a compost victim this ugly!” He’d endured the ridicule hoping for a lead.

Three weeks had passed. Nothing. Not one stinking...

The phone on the chief’s lopsided end table rang. Its shrill chirping startled Herb. He snatched up the handset, nearly toppling the lamp beside it. “Yeah,” he answered.

“Hey, chief! It’s me, Woodstalk.”

“Who?”

“Woodstalk, the most irritating rookie you’ve ever seen come out of the Academy.”

Herb groaned. “What do you want?”

“There’s someone from VBI here. Wants to talk to you about the choppings. Won’t speak to anyone else. You’d better come right away.”

“Bloody Mary!” Herb swore as he hung up. What was the Veggie Bureau doing sticking its nose in his investigation? He could handle things. Why did those folks from Stalkton always have to butt in where they weren’t needed? He’d complain to the mayor. Wouldn’t do any good, but he’d gripe anyway. Herb smiled as he pulled on his stalking cap. The idea of annoying his pompous boss brought him great joy.