Mr. and Mrs. Bunny—Detectives Extraordinaire!

by Polly Horvath

  Periodically Madeline would call out, “Do you have an idea yet?” and Mr. Bunny would reply, “Shhh, patience, you must give the fedora time to work.”

  In the end, Mr. and Mrs. Bunny had not an idea between the two of them, but they did not want to tell Madeline this. They could see that what she needed most was hope.

  “Don’t worry,” said Mr. Bunny. “The germ of a seed of a spore of an idea begins. We must let it grow overnight.”

  “Really?” said Madeline. “That does sound promising.”

  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” said Mr. Bunny, feeling pleased with his big fat lie. “Dinnertime approaches. We would invite you to stay with us, but, of course, you won’t fit into the guest room.”

  “So perhaps we should all rejoin after my hat club meeting tomorrow,” said Mrs. Bunny as she headed into the house with the dirty cups and saucers. “Now, we should escort you home so you can get some rest. Tomorrow will be very busy.”

  What a long day it has been, Madeline thought. I can hardly stand the thought of those thirty-seven hills. Then she noticed the Smart car in the driveway.

  “You have a car!”

  “We have a car,” said Mrs. Bunny, coming out and wringing her paws. “We just don’t know how to start it.”

  “We don’t know how to start this kind of car,” said Mr. Bunny.

  “Well, I’ve seen KatyD start hers lots of times before,” said Madeline. “Give me the keys and I will see if I can show you what she does.”

  “Keys?” said Mr. and Mrs. Bunny.

  “The car keys,” said Madeline.

  The Bunnys looked at her blankly.

  “You need keys to start a car. The keys go into this little hole right here on the side of the steering wheel.”

  “Oh, I hope there’s room for them, what with all the parking coins,” said Mrs. Bunny, giving Mr. Bunny a look.

  “Do you know where the keys are?” asked Madeline.

  “No, you see, we inherited the car with the house,” said Mrs. Bunny.

  “Well, in my experience people quite often keep them hanging on a hook in the front hall,” said Madeline.

  Mrs. Bunny hopped into the house and came back out right away with a set of keys hanging from one paw. “Exactly where you said they’d be!”

  “You would make a fine detective, Madeline,” said Mr. Bunny. “If we could just find some way to disguise your gigantic bottom.”

  “Do you think you could show Mr. Bunny how to start the car?” interrupted Mrs. Bunny hastily. “And also how to drive it?”

  “Didn’t he have to learn before he got his license?” asked Madeline.

  “Bunnies don’t need licenses,” said Mr. Bunny. “They are born with a certain innate knowledge of all things worth knowing. Hand me the keys, please.”

  Mr. Bunny had to sit on six telephone books in order to see out the windshield because the Smart car was a normal human-sized car. Unfortunately, this meant his foot did not reach the gas pedal.

  “I have an idea,” said Mrs. Bunny, and she hopped back into the house. When she returned she had a pair of twelve-inch purple sequined platform shoes.

  “Ah, Mrs. Bunny,” said Mr. Bunny, getting out of the car and strapping them on. “A relic of your disco-dancing phase. I knew someday one of your short-lived enthusiasms would come in handy.”

  Everyone got back in the car. When Mr. Bunny reached down with his newly shod foot, he had no trouble reaching the gas pedal.

  Madeline sat in the front passenger seat and politely offered her lap to Mrs. Bunny.

  “I could sit happily on the floor,” said Mrs. Bunny. “Believe me, the less I see, the better.”

  “But then you wouldn’t fit in the seat belt, and I feel we should definitely wear seat belts,” said Madeline.

  Mrs. Bunny agreed to sit on Madeline’s lap because of the seat belt, but she rode with her paws pressed firmly over her eyes the whole way. Madeline found it comforting to have Mrs. Bunny’s warm furry weight on her lap. It reminded her of her younger days with stuffed animals.

  Mr. Bunny did not seem to care that he flooded the engine twice; he was clearly having a marvelous time. He braked when he should have applied gas only eleven times and bragged that it must be some kind of record for a beginner. There was no real whiplash, he insisted, that was just Mrs. Bunny exaggerating. By the time they arrived at the driveway to the manor house, Mr. Bunny declared he had things completely under control. Then he ran into the gate. But that could happen to anybody, he pointed out.

  Madeline asked Mr. Bunny to let her out there so the butler wouldn’t see her.

  “Why are you hiding from the butler?” asked Mr. Bunny.

  “It’s for Uncle’s sake,” explained Madeline. “Uncle would be thrilled to observe rabbits pulling up in a Smart car. He is going to make it his life work to study your, um, driving habits.”

  “To each his own,” said Mr. Bunny loftily. He felt sure there was an implied insult in anyone’s studying him in any way at all.

  “But Jeeves is apparently not to be disturbed with, any, um, disturbing concepts, such as some people might find, um, driving rabbits or kidnapping foxes,” finished Madeline awkwardly.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” said Mrs. Bunny, patting Madeline’s shoulder, which she could do easily from her position on Madeline’s lap. “Good help is so hard to find. In fact, don’t worry about a thing. Mr. Bunny and I have everything under control.”

  Mrs. Bunny, having thus reassured twelve children of her own in days gone by, had quite the knack for it, and Madeline found herself feeling greatly comforted. Nobody had ever reassured her about anything, and it was a wonderful novel sensation. She went inside, had dinner and went happily to sleep.

  But after Madeline had gone, Mrs. Bunny turned to Mr. Bunny and said, “I have no idea what we’re doing, have you? I mean, usually I don’t mind having no idea what we are doing, but now I feel we really must. We’re going to have to step it up, Mr. Bunny.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Mr. Bunny resolutely. “Already I suspect someone. I consider that half the battle.”

  “Whom do you suspect?” asked Mrs. Bunny.

  “The butler.”

  “How so?” asked Mrs. Bunny. “I thought it was foxes who were to blame.”

  “No doubt they have co-opted the butler,” said Mr. Bunny.

  “But then they would know where the uncle was,” said Mrs. Bunny reasonably. “They wouldn’t need to kidnap Madeline’s parents.”

  “And yet I feel we must still suspect him in some capacity. In every detective novel, is it not the butler who did it? They always announce it out of the blue at the end. But here’s where we have the jump on them. We are suspecting him from the first!”

  Mrs. Bunny sighed. When Mr. Bunny got ahold of an idea, he did not like to let go of it. And even when he did let go of it, he pretended he hadn’t. This whole idea of the butler was completely ridiculous, and now she would have to hear about him until the end of the case. She sighed again.

  “And I think we’d better get Madeline to stay with us,” continued Mr. Bunny. “She may be in danger even at the manor house if her parents suddenly remember where her uncle lives.”

  “But the foxes won’t care about Madeline at that point. It’s the uncle and his decoding skills they want.”

  “Unless they go on a fox rampage. You know how horrible that can be.”

  Mrs. Bunny shuddered. “I hadn’t thought of that. But where will she sleep?”

  “Tomorrow when you’re at your meeting, I shall bring her back to the hutch and we will build her a guest cottage just her size.”

  Mrs. Bunny nodded. “I’ll leave out some beet salad sandwiches for you. And cupcakes. Children love cupcakes.”

  “Mr. Bunny loves cupcakes,” Mr. Bunny reminded her, and then stepped on the gas, causing Mrs. Bunny to clamp her paws back over her eyes, which Mr. Bunny thought very unsporting of her. Until he realized that it gave him an excellent opportunity to give her t
he two swift pokes he owed her.

  THE CODED MESSAGE

  With a good day’s detecting work under their belts, the Bunnys were enjoying their nightly routine in their new hutch. Mr. Bunny had found an armchair and reading lamp by the living room fireplace that he declared an excellent fit. The old owners’ subscription to The Scientific Bunny hadn’t been canceled, and Mr. Bunny enjoyed reading choice nuggets of it to Mrs. Bunny while she knitted. He informed her of archaeological digs in search of ancient rabbit life, and the latest in genome phenomena (Mrs. Bunny usually tuned him out and thought about the garden during this), and now he was happily settled reading a very long article on new things that exploded.

  “What, invented just to explode?” asked Mrs. Bunny. “That seems very wasteful to me. Why would you want to invent something to explode?”

  “Science marches on, my dear,” said Mr. Bunny. “Sometimes a man just wants an exploding item around. And the things that exploded last year are old news. Listen to what they have developed to explode in just the last month: phenohepteroids—”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s an alkaloid of some kind,” said Mr. Bunny knowledgeably.

  “The things you know, Mr. Bunny!”

  “I like to keep up,” said Mr. Bunny. “Books with the word pfeffernüusse in the title.”

  “They explode?”

  “Exploding all over the place, apparently.”

  “Do they warn people?”

  “Doesn’t say. They’ve developed an exploding variety of prune plums. That’s a shame. I like prune plums …” Mr. Bunny would have gone on reading the list, but there was a knock on the door.

  “A visitor! Our first visitor, Mrs. Bunny. I hope he brought cake!”

  Mrs. Bunny opened the door. It was Mrs. Treaclebunny from across the way. She was a widow who lived alone in a tiny cottage on her own large meadow across from the Bunnys. The Bunnys were quite envious. Mrs. Treaclebunny had an ocean view.

  “How do you do,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “I have been waiting for an opportune time to come and introduce myself.”

  “Delighted,” said Mrs. Bunny. “Do come in.”

  “Oh, mustn’t intrude, mustn’t intrude,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny, coming in and sitting down in Mrs. Bunny’s chair by the fire. “My name is Mrs. Treaclebunny.”

  “Yes, so we gathered from your mailbox. We’ve seen you hopping about too, of course. Meant to say hello,” said Mr. Bunny. “I am Mr. Bunny, and this is Mrs. Bunny.”

  “Charmed,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny, and then no one could think of anything else to say.

  Finally Mrs. Treaclebunny said, “Well, now that we’re old acquaintances of several minutes’ standing, I feel I might ask you a favor.”

  “Anything at all,” said Mrs. Bunny, relieved that someone had found something to say.

  “Yes. I came over to see if I could borrow a cup of toilet bowl cleaner.” Mrs. Treaclebunny held out a teacup she had brought for this purpose. “I was cleaning the bathrooms and found I’d run out and I didn’t feel like hopping all the way into town just for that.”

  “Well, of course,” said Mrs. Bunny, taking the teacup and hopping into the bathroom to fill it. She handed it back to Mrs. Treaclebunny, expecting her to rise and depart. After all, who wants to sit around all evening holding a teacup full of toilet bowl cleaner? But Mrs. Treaclebunny didn’t stir.

  “I was also wondering if you had any spare dinner about?” said Mrs. Treaclebunny.

  Mr. Bunny threw Mrs. Bunny a look.

  “Uh,” said Mrs. Bunny. “We may. I made a stir-fry so there’s never very much left. It is one of Mr. Bunny’s favorites.”

  “It is Mr. Bunny’s favorite, and he was counting on the leftovers for a little midnight snack,” said Mr. Bunny, none too subtly.

  “I’m very hungry,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny.

  “Oh, of course, in that case,” said Mrs. Bunny, and, not knowing what else to do, hopped into the kitchen, heated the rest of the stir-fry in the microwave, brought it back to Mrs. Treaclebunny, held the teacup of toilet bowl cleaner for her and watched her devour the stir-fry.

  “It could do with some fresh ginger,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny when she was done. “Thanks very much. See you.”

  She took back the toilet bowl cleaner and hopped out without another word, spilling drops of it here and there on her way.

  “Honestly, Mrs. Bunny,” said Mr. Bunny. “Is this what you were pining for, living on the mountainside without bunnies all those years? Neighbors? Is this what you had in mind? I’m going to bed. Will you be coming too or waiting up to see if anyone is in need of deodorant and drain cleaner?”

  “Humph,” said Mrs. Bunny, who didn’t think much of Mr. Bunny’s sarcasm when it was directed at her. She countered it with a dignified flounce. She flounced all to pieces. Then, flounced out, she headed up to bed.

  The next day Mrs. Bunny made carrot cakes until she baked one she deemed worthy to bring to the hat club meeting. Mr. Bunny told her she was becoming an obsessive cake maker and he hoped it wasn’t the beginning of other odd habits.

  “How you do run on and on,” said Mrs. Bunny dismissively while knitting winter underwear out of used dental floss. She had greatly reduced their carbon footprint that year doing this alone. Suddenly she had an idea. She put down her underwear knitting pattern and turned the pages of her knitting book until she found what she wanted. Then she started a whole new knitting project with a smile on her face.

  Finally, it was time for Mrs. Bunny’s hat club meeting. She carried her cake out to the car, put it carefully on the floor and then put her paws firmly over her eyes as Mr. Bunny drove her to the hat shoppe.

  After Mrs. Bunny got out, he drove on to the manor house to collect Madeline, who was waiting by the gate.

  “How is your uncle?” asked Mr. Bunny.

  “He’s still in a coma,” said Madeline.

  “That’s dreadful,” said Mr. Bunny. “Gosh, I hope he doesn’t die!”

  “Well, that’s not very tactful!” wailed Madeline. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Oh dear, I’m afraid not. If Mrs. Bunny were here she would stuff a sock in my mouth,” said Mr. Bunny, looking remorseful. “I’m sure he won’t die. Don’t worry. I had a coma once for three years and woke up very refreshed. Mrs. Bunny even suggested to a travel agency that they offer bargain vacations along those lines. The ad campaign could read, CAN’T AFFORD THE BAHAMAS THIS YEAR? TRY A COMA!”

  “THREE YEARS!” said Madeline. “If we can’t find Flo and Mildred ourselves, we’ll need Uncle out of his coma and decoding that file card sooner than that. I’m sure there must be a clue there. A clue that starts with r. I need more time to brainstorm such things with you, so I thought maybe we could put up a tent for me at your hutch. I already told Uncle’s butler I was going to stay with the Bunnys. I think he may have thought that was the last name of someone human. Well, of course that’s what he thought. And you see, this way we can devote all our energies to the search.”

  “Our idea exactly. Except we thought you and I should spend the morning building you a guest cottage while Mrs. Bunny is in her hat club meeting.”

  “Isn’t that a waste of time? Wouldn’t a tent be easier and quicker? I really think we need to find Flo and Mildred soon!”

  “I think if the plan is to drag Mrs. Bunny out of the first club meeting she has ever gone to, it is going to take more than two of us,” said Mr. Bunny, looking speculative.

  “Oh, all right, but I hope it won’t be a long meeting,” said Madeline, nervously twisting the corner of her shirt.

  Mrs. Bunny’s hat club meeting was a howling success. There was some milling about and chitchat before it began, and Mrs. Bunny was quite the social maven.

  Then the proprietress, whose name was Mrs. Ruskeebunny, started the meeting by saying, “I have the most wonderful idea! Next week is the annual parade of bonnets. We had planned to be hopping down Main Street as usual. Howe
ver, I have just overheard some news that could change everything! Mrs. Bunny has been telling Mrs. Hopbunny that Prince Charles is coming to Comox Elementary! Suppose we take the parade to Comox? To hop in front of the school as the prince arrives? What greater honor can we rabbits bestow upon him than to grace him with our bonnety presence?”

  There was a great buzz of excited noise as the ladies considered this.

  “All in favor say ‘Aye,’ ” said Mrs. Ruskeebunny.

  It was unanimously decided to go.

  “Excellent. Then we will hire some Greyhound Explorers,” she began.

  There was a shrill shriek from the back. “Greyhounds! Run for your lives!”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sneepbunny, but not all greyhounds are dogs. Some of them are buses.”

  Several bunnies had fainted, but Mrs. Ruskeebunny paid no attention. There were always a few drama queen bunnies.

  “And thank you, Mrs. Bunny, for bringing us this wonderful information. And at your very first meeting!”

  There was a rousing round of applause. Mrs. Bunny blushed and blushed.

  “Now, we must make our bonnets extra-special. As you know, in years past we have lined the bonnets with silk, but if it rained, our furry heads got drenched. So this year it has been suggested that we make our bonnets more weatherproof. To this end I have purchased several rolls of plastic lining, and I shall show you how to attach it to the hats.”

  “Won’t that cause dreaded furry head sweating?” asked one of the members. Her husband was a furatologist and saw many cases of this when bunnies overhatted.

  “Not at all,” said Mrs. Ruskeebunny. “In my experience only the gentleman bunny sweats. The lady bunny dews, at most. And dewing is very attractive. No, I think we should line all the bonnets with plastic this year. It will be expensive but will protect the bunny’s head from rain. We don’t want to greet Prince Charles looking like a bunch of drowned cats! And next week it may be rainy.”

  “Very rainy,” said Mrs. Bunny.

  “Very, very rainy,” said Mrs. Tobagobunny.