The Mysteries of Max: Books 31-33 by Nic Saint (chrome ebook reader txt) 📗

so I’ll pretend to be Max.” She lowered her voice an entire octave. “Oh, dear goodness me, Brutus, will you look at that. Someone cleaned out our bowls. Now I wonder who that could have been—why are you laughing?”

“Max doesn’t sound like that!”

“It doesn’t matter! So what are you going to say?”

“Um… I don’t know what dogs were in here and besides, it doesn’t matter?”

“No! Just repeat after me, ‘I know nothing.’”

“I know nothing.”

“I know nothing.”

“I know nothing.”

“Now keep repeating that to yourself so that by the time Max and Dooley come home it will roll from your tongue like the most natural thing in the world.”

Brutus nodded. These were simple instructions. In fact they were so simple he figured even he could commit them to memory. He was terrible at lying. It was one of the areas of improvement he needed to work on. “I know nothing,” he murmured.

“Exactly. And whatever they say, you just keep repeating the same thing over and over again, like a mantra. Is that clear?”

“Uh-huh. I know nothing.”

“Which dog stole our food, Brutus?”

“I know nothing.”

“Was it Fifi, you think? Or Rufus?”

“I know nothing.”

“Or maybe it could have been some neighboring cat?”

“I know nothing.”

She smiled and patted her mate on the back. “Excellent, my snickerdoodle. I think we’re just about ready to face the firing squad.”

Brutus gulped. “The firing squad! Y-y-you don’t think—”

“Just a manner of speech, sugar bear. Cats can’t handle a firearm. Everybody knows that. But they will grill us to within an inch of our lives, so we need to be ready.”

“I know nothing,” he murmured.

“Make that your life’s motto from now on,” Harriet advised, “and I will do the same. Now let’s get going. I don’t want to miss the social event of the season, just because our humans are too lazy to drop by to feed us—or to pick us up.”

“You mean Odelia’s wedding? But I thought that was next Saturday?”

“Not Odelia’s wedding, doodle bug. Lord Hilbourne being handed the keys to the city.”

And so they set off on their journey into town. Max and Dooley might have bought into some delusional snail’s crazy ramblings, but Harriet and Brutus were going to collect those precious few nuggets of information that have your star reporter yipping with delight: not a snail’s folly, but actionable intel, straight from the horse’s mouth.

In other words: they were going to mingle at the reception Mayor Butterwick was throwing in honor of her distinguished guest and keep their eyes open and their ears peeled. Harriet, who’d always had a competitive streak, had vowed that they’d be the ones to deliver Odelia a few tasty morsels of gossip and that was exactly what they were going to accomplish, blowing Max’s silly Potato Man story straight out of the water.

Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to be on Odelia’s good side, considering that as soon as the Poole family arrived home and discovered someone had emptied all of their cats’ bowls, all hell would break loose.

Chapter 15

Dooley had his own thoughts about the investigation he and Max had recently become involved in. If others thought it was unusual for two cats to accept an assignment from a snail, he most certainly didn’t. After all, if Odelia accepted assignments from all sorts of people, why couldn’t he and Max do the same thing? Not many people were aware of this—in fact as far as Dooley knew only the members of the Poole family were in this unique position—but Max had a rare talent for spotting clues and making those complicated conclusions that left others—not least of which Dooley himself—baffled and speechless with abject admiration.

Dooley thought it was an honor that Max had chosen him as his loyal sidekick, and not a day went by that he didn’t have to pinch himself for being in this position. Some cats said he was the perfect sidekick, too: after all, Captain Hastings usually was the most dimwitted part of the Poirot stories. The comic relief. Likewise Doctor Watson fulfilled that role to perfection as Sherlock Holmes’s peabrained stooge. What this said about Dooley, Dooley did not know, but he figured it was probably some kind of compliment, and that was how he had decided to treat these remarks, which often were accompanied by a good deal of suppressed snickering for some mysterious reason.

And so it was that he and Max were on the trail again, like bloodhounds, but without the hound part. And probably without the blood part, too, as they usually preferred to figure things out intellectually rather than by following a trail of blood left by the killer.

“Where are we going, Max?” he asked when they’d left the barbershop and were on their way to a destination or destinations unknown.

“I’m not sure,” said the great detective named Max. “We should probably catch up with Odelia, though. She was going to interview Evelina Pytel, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Absolutely,” said Dooley, who knew from experience and close association with Max that the stout blorange cat was never mistaken.

And just as he’d expected, suddenly Odelia hove into view, accompanied by Gran and Scarlett, as the trio walked out of the Hampton Cove Star hotel.

Dooley, even though he was used to these flashes of deductive brilliance from his friend, still gasped in amazement. “Max, how did you know Odelia would suddenly show up like this?” he asked, always ready to learn from the master sleuth.

“I didn’t,” said Max curtly, and set paw for the three humans.

Odelia, when she spotted her two cats, smiled and crouched down to tickle them behind the ears. Max purred, and so did Dooley. Max might perhaps be the greatest cat detective that had ever lived, and Dooley his loyal sidekick, but they were still cats, and enjoyed these expressions of affection from their human as much as the next feline.

“We just talked to Buster,” Max announced, “but unfortunately he couldn’t shed any light on the death of Bob Rector, and neither could Kingman.”

“We better go and have that chat with Evelina