The Mysteries of Max Box Sets 3

by Nic Saint

  Then he pressed his finger to the bell and pushed. Nothing. Not a sound.

  He cursed silently. Dammit! Just his luck. The only house without a bell.

  Good thing he had a back-up plan. He dashed across the street again, where the chief’s pickup was parked and gave its tires a hearty kick. Nothing. He kicked the back panel and this time he hit the jackpot. The car’s alarm started blaring so loudly it could probably be heard all the way to the other side of town.

  He ducked back down behind his bushes, laying low, and watched with bated breath.

  After a long moment, the lights went on inside the chief’s house.

  He watched on, giddy with anticipation. Any moment now. Any moment…

  Just then, there was a loud meow, and suddenly a cat came hurtling out of the underbrush and raced across the street! It was a red cat, and a chubby one at that. But it still moved with marked agility and speed. It was going for the door—going for the bottle!

  “No!” he cried, getting up from behind his hiding place. “You stupid cat!”

  And then the cat launched itself at the bottle and jumped right on top of it!

  Probably thought it was a frickin’ mouse! Just his luck to encounter a kamikaze cat!

  He ducked down, pressing his fingers in his ears. And then… nothing. No explosion.

  He stuck his head out again, staring in horror and shock. The cat was kicking the beer bottle down the front yard, and the damn thing didn’t explode! How was this possible?!

  But then the front door opened and the chief stepped out. And then up and down the street doors opened and people appeared, annoyed by the blaring alarm.

  Time to move.

  Time to get the hell out of there.

  And then he was speed-walking away, putting as much distance between himself and the chief’s house as possible. They’d find the bottle and they’d find the nitro and the note and he wanted to be back at the hotel when they came to arrest the Most Iconic Man.

  Just like the day when he’d blown up his grandfather. After he’d placed the bottle in the man’s room, while Burt was in the shower, he’d quickly left the hotel via the fire escape, gone down around the back, and met this annoying reporter woman out in front, giving himself a nice solid alibi in the process.

  And it was then that he discovered he was no longer alone.

  That fat red cat was following him, meowing up a storm!

  He walked faster, and the cat moved right along, now joined by a white cat, a small tabby and a big black cat that looked like it meant business. And as he broke into a trot, more cats joined the fray, and he saw that he was suddenly surrounded by the foul creatures! All around him they moved like a mass of fur! And then suddenly one of them jumped out of a tree and landed right on top of his head, claws extended, and dug in!

  “Get off me, you horrible monster!” he cried, and tried to extricate himself from the clawed menace. “Get off!” He dragged the creature off and threw it away, but more cats used him as a climbing pole and suddenly they were everywhere! On his face, on his chest, digging their claws into his back. Dozens—hundreds! Thousands!

  He stumbled and fell and his world turned into a nightmare of clawing and screeching monsters pressing him down, scratching his face, his hands, his neck!

  “Get away from me, you beasts!” he roared, thrashing wildly. “Leave me alone!”

  This was the stuff from a Stephen King novel! Cujo: The Sequel. This time with cats!

  And then he heard the sound—the terrible sound.

  Sirens. Police sirens.

  He couldn’t see a thing. The cats were all over him, blocking his view. Immobilizing him. Screeching up a storm. Going completely berserk.

  The sirens stopped right next to him. Doors were slammed. Footsteps sounded.

  And then a voice. A woman’s voice.

  “Well done, Max. You got him.”

  Suddenly, as if by command, the cats retreated.

  When he had managed to adjust his glasses, he saw he was surrounded.

  There was that annoying reporter—Odelia Poole. And Chase Kingsley, that equally annoying cop. And Chief Alec and Tracy. And more cops. Lots and lots more. He didn’t even know a small town like this could have so many damn cops.

  He gave them a feeble smile. “I was—I was out walking and I was attacked. Attacked by cats. Cats—cats gone crazy!” He emitted a laugh. It sounded shrill to his own ears.

  Detective Kingsley didn’t look convinced, and neither did the others.

  “Philippe Goldsmith,” said Chase in a rumbling undertone. “You’re under arrest for the murder of your grandfather and the attempted murder of Alec Lip and Tracy Sting.”

  And as he was cuffed and led to a police car, an audience of cats was looking on, all along the street, sitting on tree branches and even lying on the roof of the squad car to get a better look. They were staring. Actually staring, unblinkingly. It was the freakiest thing.

  And there was Shadow, giving him the evil eye as the cop tucked his head into the car.

  And he could have sworn the little sucker’s face was contorted into an actual smile.

  The cat’s lips moved, and before the car door was slammed shut, he thought he heard her say, “Gotcha!”

  Epilogue

  It was grill time at Tex and Marge’s again. This time Chase had kindly offered the good doctor Tex his professional grilling expertise, probably hoping to dig his teeth into something more tasty than a charred sausage, scorched steak or blackened chicken skewer. Marge had made her fabled potato salad and Gran had actually baked no less than three apple pies.

  Not that I cared. I’m not so big on potato salad or apple pie and I like my meat raw and juicy, not grilled to the texture of leather. And since Odelia knows how I like my food, she’d provided me and my fellow cats with some excellent nuggets of actual raw chicken.

  Yes, I was the hero, fêted by all, and with good reason. Like some kind of action hero I’d actually thrown myself down on top of a live bomb. On closer inspection the bomb had been a beer bottle but I hadn’t known that when I performed my act of heroism. I thought there was actual nitro in that bottle. And if Alec hadn’t replaced the bottle of nitro with a bottle of Corona while Philippe Goldsmith wasn’t looking, I’d have been dead by now.

  But I wasn’t, and anyway, cats do have nine lives, as everyone knows, so the explosion would have claimed only the one life, leaving me with eight more to regale my friends with the story of my exploits. And regale them I had. Wherever I went, cats wanted me to tell the story of how a cat had saved the day—and a couple of humans in the process.

  “I’m telling you, Odelia,” said Chase as he took the barbecue tongs from Tex and gave the doctor a gentle nudge in the direction of the bowl of sunset punch. Bourbon, vermouth, ginger beer, lemon and sugar. Even Tex couldn’t mess that up. “Those cats of yours are something else. I still can’t believe Max would throw himself on a bomb! Or maybe he thought it was a fat pigeon?”

  “No, I think he actually thought it was a bomb,” said Odelia, placing a bowl of apple and poppy seed coleslaw on the table. “And that he was actually saving Uncle Alec’s life.”

  “And I for one am mighty grateful,” said Uncle Alec, holding up a bottle of Corona in a toast to me. I would have held up my bottle but for one thing I don’t drink beer and for another I was too busy sampling all the delicious foodstuffs Odelia had set out for us.

  “I think it’s amazing,” said Chase. “Simply amazing. Did you give him some extra-crunchy kibble as a reward?”

  “I gave him some extra-tasty chicken,” said Odelia, throwing another juicy sliver in my direction. I deftly managed to snatch it from the air and gobble it down. Score!

  “So how did you find out Philippe Goldsmith was the one you wanted?” asked Marge.

  “Odelia called me in the middle of the night. Said she had a hunch Philippe might be the one,” said Chase. “So I got on my computer and found he’d once burned down the school lab
in some experiment gone wrong—the police report mentioned some type of home-made explosive he used that time. And only a few weeks before Burt’s murder a garden shed blew up not far from the Goldsmith family estate. Luckily no one was hurt but police found traces of nitroglycerin at the scene, and a neighbor said a young man fitting Philippe’s description had been seen hauling ingredients and equipment into the shed. He’d been experimenting for a while, trying to perfect the mixture he’d use on his grandfather.”

  “Why wasn’t he arrested?”

  “The Goldsmiths are a well-respected bunch, and the investigation was dropped.”

  “Someone paid the right person the right amount of money,” said Tex.

  “No amount of money will save him now,” said Odelia. “This time he was caught in the act.”

  “Didn’t you search his room after his grandfather was murdered?” asked Marge.

  “We did. But since the explosion had happened in the next room it was only logical we found traces of nitro.”

  “Where did he keep his stash of explosives?” asked Tex.

  “Hotel kitchen fridge,” said Uncle Alec. “He’d told one of the servers his grandfather liked his beer cold, and had tipped the kid handsomely for the favor. He never had a clue.”

  “Clever.”

  “He was. Until someone saw right through him.” He directed a look of admiration at Odelia.

  “I think Max deserves all the credit,” said Odelia. She couldn’t tell Chase it was me who warned her about Philippe. It was her, though, who warned her uncle, and by the time Philippe arrived, police were at the scene, keeping a close eye on the amateur bomber.

  “All’s well that ends well,” said Tex, and took a sip from the fruit punch and winced.

  “So when can we get rid of these collars?” asked Harriet, addressing the topic that interested her far more than humans trying to murder other humans.

  “Right now,” said Odelia, and proceeded to remove all of our collars!

  “Burn them,” said Brutus soberly, checking himself for fleas.

  “Are they gone?” asked Dooley. “Are you sure they’re gone?”

  Odelia gave him a brief inspection. “All gone,” she said. “Not a single one left.”

  “Oh, joy!” Brutus said, and did a little impromptu wiggle of his tush.

  I took the butch cat aside. “How about your… issue?” I asked.

  He gave me a wink. “What issue?”

  I guess those pills Vena had dispensed had done the trick, for the moment he said it, Harriet sashayed over, and the two of them wasted no time stalking off into a laurel bush.

  I hopped up onto the porch swing, turned around a few times, and took a seat next to Dooley. “I’m so glad those fleas are gone, Max,” Dooley said, looking extremely relieved.

  “Yeah, and I’m glad the Most Interesting Men in the World are gone, too, and they took their Most Interesting Cats along with them.”

  “Aren’t you sad Shadow left?”

  Shadow had been adopted by the Goldsmith family, and would live with Burt’s second cousin twice removed, who was a genuine cat person. Tracy had promised Shadow a part in future beer commercials if she wanted. But the cat had decided to retire from the world of advertising. Acting in ads simply wouldn’t be the same without Burt. Tracy, meanwhile, had also left, which made Uncle Alec a little sad. She’d promised to return, though, and maybe she would.

  “It’s fine,” I said.

  “But you liked Shadow,” said Dooley. “She could have been your girlfriend.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You’ll always have #nitrogate, though.”

  I shrugged. I liked Shadow, I really did, but not in an amorous capacity. I guess the right cat for me is out there somewhere, and one day we’ll meet. Maybe. I’m not holding out hope, though. Cats aren’t like humans. We don’t mate for life. We’re more like George Clooney before he met Amal, or Leonardo DiCaprio before he meets the next hot young model. We like to play the field. Keep our options open, if you know what I mean. We’re cats, for crying out loud. Not Ward or June Cleaver.

  “What about you, Dooley?”

  “What about me?”

  “Still nervous about the baby thing?”

  He blinked. “Why? Should I be nervous? Do you think Odelia lied to us? Max—is she going to kick us out?!” His voice was rising precipitously. “Tell me the truth! Is this the end?!”

  Oh, boy. I should have kept my mouth shut. “No, it’s not the end, Dooley. For one thing, as long as Gran stays at Odelia’s, there won’t be no babies.”

  Dooley glanced at Gran, who was stuffing her face with potato salad, as if she was the great white hope. Then he frowned. “I don’t get it. What does Gran have to do with babies?”

  “No young couple likes to be hassled by a live-in know-it-all granny cramping their style and sticking her nose in. No way Chase is moving in as long as Gran is in the house.”

  “I knew it,” said Dooley. “I knew my human would save me. She’s doing this for us, isn’t she? She’s trying to keep those babies from muscling us out of the house.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s pissed at Tex and Marge and trying to get back at them for not supporting her claim to Goldsmith fame and fortune. She’ll move back out at some point.”

  “When?!” he cried.

  I shrugged. “When she feels Tex has suffered enough.”

  We both directed a curious look at Tex, who was humming a pleasant tune, looking pleased as the punch he was serving. “Tex doesn’t look like he’s suffering, Max,” Dooley said.

  “Tex has never been happier. He’s finally managed to achieve the one thing he’s always wanted: kick his mother-in-law out of the house. Tex is living the dream right now.”

  “Which means… Gran will live with Odelia forever! This is good!”

  I transferred my gaze to Chase, who looked decidedly unhappy. Which just goes to show that one man’s dream is another man’s nightmare. Frankly I didn’t care either way. Chase moving in or Chase moving out. Gran moving out or Gran moving in. Babies or no babies. I knew that Odelia would always have my back and so would the rest of the Pooles and the Lips. They’d saved me from an exploding beer bottle and I’d done the same for them. In other words, it was all good.

  And as I watched my humans tuck in and be merry, I placed a paw around Dooley’s shoulder. “Relax, buddy. Babies or no babies, we’ll always be Odelia’s pets. And who knows? If a pack of wild babies should happen to pop up one day all it would mean is more humans to buy tasty bits of kibble for us, right? And more humans to cuddle us and spoil us rotten.”

  He eyed me with surprise. “You really think so, Max?”

  “I know so. You know what I heard? That babies love cats. Absolutely adore us.”

  He thought about this. Hard. I could tell from the whirring sound his brain made. Then something clicked and he nodded solemnly. “All right, Max. I’m ready to have a baby.”

  Purrfect Secret

  The Mysteries of Max - Book 2

  Prologue

  Dick Dickerson slipped his feet into his red velvet slippers and groped around on the nightstand for his glasses. Fumbling a little to put them onto his face, he glanced before him confusedly. Why was he sitting up in bed in what felt like the middle of the night?

  Picking up his phone, he saw it was only a little after three. Too early to get up. And then he realized what had awakened him: loud music blasting from the speakers downstairs.

  He drew a hand through his grizzled mane, got up with a groan and put on the white boxing robe that Sylvester Stallone had worn on the set of Rocky IV, Dick’s favorite movie.

  He moved out of his ornate bedroom, along his equally ornate hallway, down the no less ornate marble staircase, to arrive in his ostentatiously ornate entrance hall, where he only had to follow the music still blasting away to locate its source: his private study.

  He couldn’t remember having left the music on. Then again, lately he’d had so
much on his mind he probably could have. As usual he took a Sonata before laying down his head, then some Provigil in the morning, along with a line of coke and his usual Prozac tablet. The Sonata knocked him out pretty good, so he might not have noticed leaving the music on.

  Then again, if he heard correctly this was What Goes Around… Comes Around, the Justin Timberlake song. Not exactly Dick’s taste. He liked Michael Bublé. He liked Michael Bublé a lot. In fact Michael Bublé was all he listened to lately.

  With a sigh, Dick shuffled into his office, and that’s when he saw it: the door to his giant walk-in safe was wide open. Dammit! Anyone could have just walked in!

  “Dick, Dick, Dick,” he muttered to himself. “You’re losing it, pal.”

  Even though Doctor Mueller had told him to take it easy on the pills, and the coke, he couldn’t help himself. He needed a little pick-me-up from time to time, and he was a firm believer in the old saying ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ And since the coke hadn’t killed him yet, or the pill-popping or even the vodka, it stood to reason it was making him stronger, right?

  He shuffled to the safe door and peered inside. Odd. He’d even left the light on.

  Shaking his head, he shuffled into the steel contraption. The moment he had, though, he saw that there was something seriously wrong with this picture: the countless stacks of files he kept in there, neatly organized in alphabetical order… they were all gone!

  His jaw dropped as he stared at the empty shelves. Only a single file folder remained. He picked it up, his hands trembling, and opened it. Inside, there was a single picture. A picture he immediately recognized, and which sent his blood pressure rocketing skywards.

  He gulped as he held onto the wall to steady himself.

  This wasn’t happening!

  Just then, the giant steel door slammed shut with a thumping clang!

  “Noooo!” he cried, pounding the door. But to no avail, of course.