Susan said. She handed Arnaldur the picture—a blurred shot of a gnome with chubby legs, a long white beard, and a pointed hat. It carried a dead cat in one arm and was pulling a rhododendron aside, revealing a ripped screen that led into the crawl space. Arnaldur stared at the picture with furrowed brow, ever the brooding Scandinavian. Then he set the picture down and spooned a sardine onto his toast, as though the situation didn’t bother him at all. “Aren’t you going to do anything about it? You know what they do. They eat cats and dogs. They whittle away at rose bushes to make arrows and spears. Do I have to remind you?” “I remember very well,” he said. The thought of it made him wince and touch his leg. Arnaldur had fallen prey to a gnome’s thorny rosewood arrow last summer. The pointed tip, dipped in condensed, bacteria-rich gnome saliva, pierced his calf when he’d treaded too close to the juniper in Mr.
What do You think about Suburban Gnome Invasion (2012)?
