The Mysteries of Max: Books 31-33

by Nic Saint

  “Exactly! There should be more to life than working your fingers to the bone just so you can put food on the table for your family, right?”

  Since both his and Harriet’s bowls were pretty much empty, Brutus would have suggested their humans didn’t work hard enough, since they had obviously failed in their most important task. “I wouldn’t say they work their fingers to the bone, exactly,” he said, still eyeing Max’s bowl with a keen eye. “You know… I was thinking that maybe, just this once, we could dip into one of the other bowls.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Max and Dooley’s bowls,” Brutus clarified.

  Harriet turned to him. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”

  “Just this once.”

  “We can’t break the code, Brutus. You know we can’t.”

  “But…”

  “No. Absolutely not. No way.” Though Brutus could see she was slowly warming to the idea. She was taking in those bowls and soon her tongue stole out and she was licking her lips.

  “We could tell them one of the neighbors snuck in and stole all of our food,” Brutus suggested. “It wouldn’t be the first time either.”

  “But that would be lying,” said Harriet, giving him a startled look.

  “So? You know as well as I do that it’s not fair that Max has a food bowl here while he spends all his time next door and almost never sets paw in here.”

  “It would be a pity for that lovely food to get stale,” Harriet agreed.

  “Stale food is the worst.”

  “Marge was complaining to me just the other day how she’d had to throw out some of Max’s food, as he hadn’t touched it in days and she was sure it had gone bad.”

  “See? We’d be doing Marge a favor.”

  For a moment, they both studied Max and Dooley’s bowls, then, as one cat, they descended upon the neglected delicacies and attacked those poor neglected nuggets.

  Vesta was in a bad mood. She’d gone out to get some free potatoes and instead had found a dead man. Not exactly the kind of thing a person looking for a bargain hopes to find. Her conscience told her this is what you get when you try to get something for nothing, and of course in a sense her conscience was absolutely right. Then again, who wouldn’t like to fill up their pantry without cost when given the opportunity?

  She took her place behind the desk at her son-in-law’s doctor’s office and picked up the phone, which had been ringing off the hook.

  “Doctor Poole’s office,” she said. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, aren’t you the consummate professional?” a familiar voice said on the other end of the call.

  She smiled. “Scarlett. Don’t tell me you need to see Tex.”

  “I heard you found a dead body this morning?”

  “I didn’t find it. A truck driver did. I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  “Of course you were. So what do you reckon? Neighborhood watch business?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Vesta as she powered up her computer. “He was found just beyond the town limit, way past the town sign. Now I know we of the watch like to take the broad view when determining our purview, but even for us that would be stretching things. Besides, as far as I can tell there was no foul play involved. Just some poor schmuck who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “So he wasn’t dead when he got onto that truck?”

  Vesta paused. She hadn’t thought that far. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “How did you know I was out there this morning?”

  “I saw you. On the news. They were interviewing your son and I caught a glimpse of you and your cats rummaging around those potatoes.”

  “For your information, I wasn’t rummaging. I was trying to find out if there were more dead people hiding in that cargo. One of the onlookers had the bright idea there was a load of illegal aliens hiding in the truck.”

  “To do what? Cross the border? Mexico is two thousand miles away.”

  She grinned. “I think you better get off the phone now, honey. I’m sure there are people who need to call in—actual patients?”

  “See you at the usual place?”

  “At the usual time,” she confirmed, and hung up. After she’d replaced the phone on the charger, she sat there thinking. What was the guy doing in that truck anyway? Hitching a ride? The more she thought about it, the more she smelled a rat. A smelly one.

  Chapter 7

  “Evelina must be very proud to have a pet like Mr. Ed,” Dooley said as we traversed the sidewalk on our way into town. “Not many pets would have their human’s back like Mr. Ed does. Don’t you think so, Max?”

  “No, you’re absolutely right, Dooley. Mr. Ed is a credit to his owner. In fact he’s probably a better pet than most pets I know.”

  We’d walked the distance to Main Street, and I had a vague plan in mind to talk to Odelia first. She is, after all, the real sleuth in our modest little outfit of amateur sleuths. Now I know what you’re thinking. Shouldn’t we head on down to the police station and inform the proper authorities about these new and frankly sensational developments? Unfortunately our local law enforcement personnel has but one flaw, and it is a doozy: they don’t talk to cats. And you can see how that would hamper a conversation. It would get awfully one-sided, and presumably cut very short indeed. Uncle Alec would smile affectionately while I tried to educate him on the finer points of Bob Rector’s recent past, and offer me a dish of milk. Chase would probably frown intelligently and nod equally intelligently and would give us a pat on the back and a ‘That’s just swell, you guys. Now run along and go and catch a mouse or something.’

  Sherlock Holmes probably never had to put up with stuff like that when he talked to Inspector Lestrade. Then again, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a cat, of course.

  “What are you going to tell Odelia?” asked Dooley.

  “I was thinking we tell her everything,” I said. “After all, she’s the one who should lead this investigation, not us.”

  “But why? We’re the ones Mr. Ed hired to take on the case. He’s our client and we’re the detectives officially assigned to the case.”

  “I know, but sometimes it helps when you’re human,” I explained. “Especially when dealing with other humans.” I shrugged. “It’s just easier this way. Trust me.”

  “I don’t think it’s fair,” said Dooley, giving me some lip. “We should be in charge of the case and Odelia should be our loyal sidekick. The one who does all the legwork. Like Archie Bunker did for Mr. Nero Wolf.”

  “I think the person you’re thinking of is Archie Goodwin. But you’re absolutely right, Dooley. We should be the ones running point on this case. But unfortunately this is still a man’s world, and so it’s man, not beast, who’s mostly in charge.” I gave him a wink. “Though we all know that behind every great woman is a great cat, right?”

  We’d arrived at the offices of the Hampton Cove Gazette, the place Odelia calls home—when she’s not home, at least. We entered through the front door, which is always ajar, as Dan Goory, Odelia’s editor, adheres to a strict open-door policy, just in case a member of the public drops by with some killer scoop or front-page breaking-news story.

  We walked straight through to Odelia’s office and found our human hard at work, bent over her laptop, eyes focused on the screen, looking the epitome of the hard-working newshound.

  “Stop the press,” I announced. “We have some breaking news for you.” It was something I’d always wanted to say, even though nowadays the Gazette is mostly an online affair, and as far as I know the internet isn’t powered by a printing press.

  Odelia looked up and rubbed her eyes. “Oh, hey, you guys. What’s going on?”

  “A snail asked us to investigate the abduction of his human’s boyfriend,” Dooley explained, getting down to brass tacks without delay—a practice that he probably learned at our human’s knee. Reporters like to get
to the juicy stuff ASAP.

  Odelia frowned. “A snail asked you to do what now?”

  I decided to take over from my friend. “Mr. Ed, who is a snail—”

  “One of those creatures that like to carry their homes on their backs,” Dooley added helpfully.

  “—has asked us to look into the kidnapping and death of his human’s boyfriend.”

  “Oh, so it went from a kidnapping to a death in less than five seconds now, did it? That’s fast work, Max.”

  “First he was kidnapped and then he was killed,” Dooley said. “Not the other way around. At least I don’t think so,” he said, giving me a questioning look.

  “Usually people get kidnapped before they’re killed,” I confirmed. Though of course there are always kidnappers who abduct dead bodies, for whatever reason. But I didn’t think we were looking at such a case here.

  “So… a snail’s human’s boyfriend was kidnapped then murdered? Am I getting this right?” asked Odelia, blinking a little now.

  “His name was Bob Rector,” Dooley went on. “Though she liked to call him Bobby. They met on a dating site. They hit it off but then he was taken and the kidnappers wanted seventy-five thousand dollars for him. She paid the money but he wasn’t released.”

  “Well, he was probably released,” I said. “Only by that time he was already dead.”

  “Death by potato,” said Dooley, nodding. “Very sad.”

  Odelia’s face betrayed a sudden animation. “Wait, you’re not telling me that this Bob, this guy who was kidnapped, is the same guy who was found this morning?”

  “One and the same,” I confirmed cheerfully. I quickly tamped down on my cheerfulness, though. It doesn’t suit a serious-minded detective like me to be flippant when dealing with death. So it was in grave tones that I continued, “Mr. Ed thinks there’s something fishy about Bob’s death. In fact he thinks Bob was in on the whole thing. That the only reason he got involved with Evelina was to get his hands on her money.”

  “So Mr. Ed—your snail—thinks Bob Rector set up his own kidnapping?”

  “Mr. Ed isn’t our snail, Odelia,” said Dooley with a laugh. “He’s Evelina’s snail.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Odelia pensively. I could see her little gray cells were working hard now, trying to grasp the salient facts. “So this Bob Rector sets up his own kidnapping, he collects the money, and then he disappears… only to turn up dead on a potato truck.”

  “That is a very succinct and accurate summary,” I said admiringly.

  “Oh, and Brutus and Harriet don’t believe Mr. Ed’s story,” said Dooley. “But Max and I do. Just so you know. In case they try to convince you that Mr. Ed is full of manure.”

  “Full of crap,” I corrected automatically.

  “I think maybe we should go and have a chat with Evelina,” I suggested. “And Evelina’s sister, too. Because as far as I understand, it was the sister who set things in motion. So she’s the one who could possibly tell us more about Bob and his motives.”

  Odelia was still assuming the position of Rodin’s Thinker, though without taking off her clothes, of course. “I think I’ll go and talk to my uncle first,” she said, immediately countering my suggestion with a suggestion of her own.

  That’s the trouble when you work with humans: they always have their own opinions—and more often than not what they say goes. What can I say? That’s the life of a cat.

  Chapter 8

  “What were you working on, Odelia?” asked Dooley as we set paw—or at least we set paw, while Odelia set foot—in the direction of the police station.

  “It’s an interesting story, actually,” she said. “Wilfred Hilbourne, who’s an actual English lord, is coming to visit. He’ll be in town for a week or so, and Mayor Butterwick is going to give him the keys to the city. Or one of the keys, at least,” she added with a smile.

  “Keys to the city?” asked Dooley. “What does he want with the keys to Hampton Cove?”

  Odelia laughed. “It’s an honor bestowed on people the town feels have made a big contribution in some way. Lord Hilbourne’s mother actually grew up in Hampton Cove, before she met Wilfred’s dad, and followed him to England, where they live in a castle.”

  “Lord Hilbourne,” I said musingly. “So he’s a lord, is he?”

  “What’s a lord, Odelia?” asked Dooley.

  “A lord is a man of noble rank or high office,” Odelia explained. “A peer.”

  “A pear?”

  “Not a pear. A peer. A member of the nobility like a duke, or an earl or a baron. Collectively they’re members of the House of Lords—part of the British Parliament.”

  “So… he’s a politician?”

  “Well, not really. It’s more of an honorary position. They don’t actually do a lot of the real decision-making as far as I understand. But it is a very prestigious title, and Mayor Butterwick, and the rest of the town council and many people in Hampton Cove, feel it’s an honor to have a son of the city who’s now a lord.”

  “When is he arriving in town, this Lord Hilbourne?” I asked.

  “Oh, he’s here already. He’s staying at the Hampton Cove Star. In fact I’m scheduled to meet him in… one hour,” she said as she checked her watch. “Dan asked me to conduct the interview. It’s going to be tomorrow’s front page.” She smiled down at us. “Unless your story of Bob and Evelina bumps Lord Hilbourne to the second page, of course.”

  We’d arrived at the police station and trudged into the vestibule, where Dolores Peltz, the dispatcher and desk sergeant who presides over these hallowed halls, gave us a curious eye. “One of these days you have to explain to me why every time I see you you’re surrounded by a flock of cats,” she said in her customary raspy tones.

  “It’s a clowder of cats,” I corrected the blond-haired dispatcher with a penchant for mascara, even though she probably couldn’t understand me.

  “Well, you know how much I like my cats, Dolores,” said Odelia with a smile.

  “Oh, I know, honey. You’re probably here about that potato truck incident?”

  “You heard about that?” asked Odelia, approaching the woman’s desk.

  “Heard about it? Phone’s been ringing off the hook. People wanna know what happened. They figure there must have been more dead bodies—a massacre. I keep telling them it was just the one guy, but they don’t believe me. Figure we’re trying to keep the whole thing under wraps.” She shook her head. “Damn conspiracy wackos.”

  “Was it an accident, you think?” asked Odelia.

  “I doubt it,” said the receptionist with a growl. “I think the guy was probably murdered and dumped on that truck.” She leaned a little closer and lowered her voice. “If you ask me this thing’s got mafia written all over it. Wouldn’t surprise me if the guy was a mobster and either some rival gang took him out or he was whacked by his own people for shooting his mouth off—or stealing from his crew. Take your pick.” She tapped her nose. “Trust me—when the truth comes out you’ll see I wasn’t far off. I got a nose for this stuff.”

  We quickly resumed our trek through the police station’s inner sanctum and soon found ourselves in Odelia’s uncle’s office. Uncle Alec, who’s also the chief of police of our small town, was sitting behind his desk, quietly pulling at those few remaining strands of hair on his head. In front of him sat Chase, and he looked just as frustrated as his boss.

  “Everything all right?” asked Odelia when she took a seat in the last remaining chair and made herself comfortable. “You both look a little… flustered?”

  “Flustered is right,” the Chief grumbled. “Turns out the guy on that potato truck was murdered. Can you believe it? For once I would have liked one of those open-and-shut cases you always hear so much about to land on my desk, but instead it’s one homicide after another.” He shook his grizzled head. “If this keeps up I’m going to apply for early retirement. I never signed up to be the chief of police of the homicide capital of America. I signed up to be in charg
e of a pleasant little town, at most having to drag in a couple of drunk and disorderlies on a Friday night, and otherwise enjoy the peaceful life of a small-town cop.” He gave his deputy a scathing glance. “I blame you, Kingsley.”

  “Me!” said Chase, extremely surprised. “What did I do?”

  “Ever since you joined up the number of murder cases has been on the rise. You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you? To pester me.”

  “Honestly, Uncle Alec, you can’t be serious,” said Odelia with a smile. “Now tell me more about this Bob Rector guy, and how he ended up on that truck.”

  Uncle Alec stared at her in surprise. “Bob Rector? How do you know his name?”

  “Oh, I have my sources,” she said as she patted my head. I’d assumed my position next to her chair, with Dooley inspecting the room and sniffing around to make sure nothing had changed since the last time we were in there. Cats like to make sure, you see. We like to be in the know.

  “Well, by all means enlighten us,” said Uncle Alec, spreading his arms.

  “Yeah, what do you know that we don’t?” asked Chase, giving me a look of appreciation—or at least I thought it was appreciation. With humans you never know. It could have been a look of frustration that we had discovered certain aspects of the case that the cops hadn’t. Then again, I doubted it. Chase is not one of those people who dislike cats. On the contrary.

  “Well, Max and Dooley had a long talk with Evelina Pytel’s pet,” Odelia began.

  “Evelina Pytel? Who’s Evelina Pytel?” asked Uncle Alec.

  “Bob Rector’s girlfriend.” She took a deep breath, then proceeded to recount the story to her uncle and fiancé, who both sat riveted, hanging on her every word. “So you see,” she said in conclusion, “Mr. Rector’s kidnapping probably had something to do with the fact that he’s now dead.”

  Uncle Alec and Chase shared a look of consternation.

  “And this Evelina Pytel’s dog told you all this?” asked Odelia’s uncle.