The Mysteries of Max Box Sets 3

by Nic Saint

  “But why? If she loves you—”

  He opened his eyes and hissed, “Harriet loves the butch Brutus. The he-cat. Brutus the brute. She doesn’t love the sissy cat who can’t get his machinery to work as it should.”

  “I think you’re selling yourself short, Brutus. These are new and exciting times. These days lady cats love a tomcat who shows his feelings—who’s not afraid to open his heart. To lay it all out there for everyone to see. It’s the millennial cat they want. The soft cat. The cat who dares to cry in front of his lady cat. Shed a few tears and admit that we’re all feline.”

  A strange sound attracted our attention. When we turned in the direction of the sound we discovered that Dooley was softly weeping, tears trickling down his furry face.

  “Oh, stop crying, Dooley,” Harriet said gruffly. “Are you a man or a mouse? Have you seen Brutus cry? No, you haven’t. Because my Brutus is a real cat. A cat’s cat. A cat who wouldn’t be seen DEAD crying like a sniveling whiny little cry-baby.” She directed a loving look at Brutus. “Tough as nails he is,” she added proudly. “And that’s what I love about him.”

  Brutus slowly turned back to me and raised a single whisker.

  I nodded. “You’re in a heap of trouble, my friend,” I said.

  “I told you, Doc. If you don’t fix my plumbing I’m a dead cat.”

  Chapter 6

  Grandma Muffin came walking up to the small gathering in front of the hotel, shaking her fist and crying, “Where is he? Where is my lover? Don’t tell me he’s dead!”

  Odelia and Chase shared a look of confusion. “Her lover?” asked Chase.

  “She’s finally lost her final marble,” said Uncle Alec. He stepped forward. “Ma. What the hell do you think you’re doing, making a spectacle of yourself like that?”

  The old lady stood her ground. “I’ve come here to meet my lover. Where are you hiding him?”

  Alec gave her a weary look. “And who would this lover of yours be?”

  “Why Burt Goldsmith, of course. Most Fascinating Man in the World.”

  “Ma, Burt Goldsmith is not your lover.”

  She waved that fist again. “Watch your tone, son. Burt Goldsmith was my lover long before you were born.”

  A look of confusion stole over Alec’s face. “Long before I was born?”

  “Sure! Each time he came to town we went at it like rabbits! Burt was my lover in the swinging sixties! The time of anything goes. Not like nowadays, when people clench their butt cheeks each time someone mentions the word sex.” She glanced around at the gathering crowd. “Sex!” she cried. “See how they cringe? Sex! That’s right—I like sex!”

  “Ma!” Alec growled, and took a firm grip on her arm and led her away and into the hotel vestibule. Odelia and Chase followed, and so did Philippe Goldsmith, who seemed to have developed an odd and rapturous fascination with the old lady all of a sudden.

  Inside the hotel, Alec pushed his mother down on one of the plush sofas and towered over her. Not that it intimidated the old lady one bit. Vesta Muffin was a tough old broad, and in spite of the fact that she was rail-thin and the spitting image of Estelle Getty, with her close-cropped white hair and large glasses, she was afraid of no one—not even her son the big police chief. She pointed a bony finger in his face. “I demand to see my lover!”

  “Your lover is dead,” Uncle Alec said before he could stop himself.

  She gasped—a quick intake of breath. “Dead?”

  “Yeah, he was killed this morning.”

  Her face turned into a scowl. “You killed him, didn’t you?”

  “What?!”

  “You didn’t want your mother to carry on with the Most Fascinating Man in the World so you killed him before we had the chance to hold our hot and steamy reunion!”

  Uncle Alec directed his eyes heavenward and planted his fists on his hips. “God, give me strength,” he muttered. “Give me the strength not to strangle my own mother.”

  Odelia decided to step in and prevent a second murder from taking place. She took a seat next to her grandmother and held her hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Grandma,” she said. “But I can assure you Uncle Alec had nothing to do with Mr. Goldsmith’s death.”

  “Then who did?”

  “We don’t know yet. All we know is that there was an explosion in his room and as a consequence of the blast he died.”

  “Can I at least see the body?”

  Odelia shared a quick look with her uncle, who shook his head, No!

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. The explosion—it did a lot of damage.”

  Grandma nodded firmly, then bit her lower lip. “Just my rotten luck. To find my lover again after all these years only to have him snatched away from me—just like the first time.”

  “Is it really true you and my grandfather had an affair?” asked Philippe Goldsmith. He’d been listening intently and now joined the conversation.

  Grandma directed a scathing look at him. “Who are you?”

  “This is Philippe Goldsmith,” said Odelia. “Burt’s grandson.”

  Grandma studied the bespectacled young man with interest. “You don’t look like Burt.”

  “I take after my mother,” said the kid. “She was a dainty, delicate woman.”

  “I’ll bet she was.”

  “So is it true about you and Grandpa?”

  “Sure it’s true—don’t you believe the naysayers,” she added, giving her son a nasty look. “Burt and I really whooped it up back in the swinging sixties. We were hot to trot and that’s exactly what we did for all those summers he spent down here in Hampton Cove.”

  Philippe nodded. “Grandpa did mention that he had fond memories of this town. Which is why he was so happy to be back. Did he grow up here?”

  “Nah. He was a city boy. But every summer his folks would come down to Hampton Cove and rent the old Mason place near Devil’s Point. The house is long gone now, bulldozed in the eighties and developed into a big fancy hotel. Oh, the fun times me and Burt used to have. Then one summer his folks didn’t come down, and I never saw him again. We didn’t have no internet back then, and he never gave me his address or else I would have written. He did have my address, though, and for three years I hoped he’d write.” She pressed her lips together. “He never did, so I finally mended my broken heart and moved on with my life. That’s when I met Jack. He was a sailor.” She shrugged. “The rest is history.”

  Uncle Alec grumbled something. He was part of that history, Jack being his dad.

  “So how did you finally reconnect?” asked Philippe.

  “He left a message on my Facebook page,” said Grandma.

  They all looked at her. “You have a Facebook page?” asked Odelia.

  “Sure I do. No thanks to you people. I had to set it up all by myself.”

  “What do you need a Facebook page for?” asked Uncle Alec.

  “Where else am I going to meet some nice boys?”

  Alec raised his eyes to the ceiling again. “Why do you need to meet nice boys?”

  “You may not want to hear this but a girl’s got needs,” she snapped. “And since all the nice boys are taken or on the Facebook I made myself a page. With some help from Dick Bernstein and Rock Horowitz from the senior center. They were only too happy to oblige.”

  Alec pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something. It sounded like a prayer.

  “Grandpa told me he met a woman online,” said Philippe.

  Grandma tapped her chest. “I’m that woman, kiddo.”

  “So he reached out to you?” asked Odelia.

  “He sure did. Said he remembered me fondly and wanted to apologize about never writing to me back in the day. Turns out his folks discovered he’d been seeing some local hussy—that’s me,” she added proudly, “and wanted to break up the affair before things got serious. He did write me, he said, but his parents intercepted his letters and burned them.”

  “Just like The Notebook,” sai
d Chase quietly.

  “I was supposed to meet him here today,” Grandma continued. “For our grand reunion. And now you tell me he’s dead!”

  “At least in The Notebook they were together at the end,” Odelia said.

  Philippe wiped away a tear. “What an amazing story.”

  “Yeah, pretty swell, huh?” said Gran. She smacked her lips. “Burt promised me apple pie. Do you think he ordered and paid in advance? I could use a piece of warm apple pie.”

  Just then, another elderly lady stomped into the hotel lobby. Odelia recognized her as Scarlett Canyon. She was Gran’s age but looked years younger. The Hampton Cove scuttlebutt had it that Scarlett had had work done on her face, which looked suspiciously wrinkle-free. It lent her an unnatural look, her lips puffy and her eyes cat-like. She also had an impressive décolletage that she liked to play up by wearing dresses a few sizes too small.

  “Vesta Muffin!” she roared the moment she walked in. “You whore!”

  Grandma shot to her feet. “Look who’s talking!” she retorted furiously.

  “Who’s this now?” Chase asked.

  “Scarlett Canyon,” Odelia said. “She hates Gran’s guts. And vice versa.”

  Rumor also had it that Scarlett had once tried to seduce Gran’s husband Jack and succeeded. The couple had stayed together but Gran had never forgiven either Scarlett, her former best friend, or her husband, who’d proceeded to drink himself into an early grave. The drinking had nothing to do with Scarlett, though. The man had been a closet alcoholic.

  “Burt was my lover!” Scarlett cried, waving her arms dramatically. “Not yours!”

  “Is it just me or does she remind you of Elizabeth Taylor?” asked Chase.

  “Tell her. You’ll make her day,” Odelia said.

  “Burt was mine—all mine!” Gran returned.

  Philippe was staring from one old lady to the other, visibly confused that the scene had so abruptly switched from The Notebook to an episode of Feud.

  “He always told me he loved me more,” claimed Scarlett.

  “That was before he met me,” said Grandma.

  “Impossible! Burt liked a woman with curves! Not a bag of bones.”

  “Burt liked women—not skanks who prey on other women’s husbands.”

  “Oh, boy,” said Chase. “Maybe we should break this up.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Before these ladies break the internet.” She gestured to several people filming the scene with their smartphones. Everybody likes free entertainment.

  But before Chase could intervene, Scarlett broke down in tears, swooping down on one of the sofas and tremulously declaring, “My lover is dead. Now my life is over.”

  Philippe, who’d been following the interaction with breathless anticipation, suddenly asked, “So who of you is my grandmother?”

  Both ladies looked up in confusion. “Huh?” asked Scarlett eloquently.

  The kid was wringing his hands, his face flushed. “My dad always told me his mother was a woman Burt had loved and lost in the Hamptons. So one of you must be her.”

  “I was wrong,” said Chase. “This isn’t The Notebook. This is The Bold and the Beautiful.”

  And to add credence to his claim, suddenly Gran cried out, “Me! I’m your grandmother, my sweet, dear boy. It’s me!”

  Philippe’s face cleared and he opened his arms to hug his newfound relative.

  Uncle Alec appeared confused. “How can you be his grandmother? Wouldn’t you remember giving birth to a second son?”

  Gran shrugged. “You try to remember everything that happened to you when you’re my age.”

  “Don’t you believe her! Vesta is not your grandmother!” suddenly cried Scarlett, rearing up from the sofa like an opera star and approaching Philippe. “My precious boy. You finally found me.” She then threw out her hands and without warning clutched the kid to her ample chest. “My lovely, beautiful boy! My precious, precious grandson! My beloved Pierre!”

  “Philippe,” the kid managed from between the massive mammaries.

  “Whatever.”

  Uncle Alec blew out a sigh. “Oh, boy.”

  Chapter 7

  Dooley and I were wandering along the street. It had been tough to get Dooley to relinquish his spot on the ground and return animation to his listless form but finally I’d managed. I’d told him Kingman, whose owner runs the General Store on Main Street, was the town’s expert on fleas, and that if anyone would know how to fight this infestation it was him.

  “Do you really think Kingman can help us?” Dooley asked for the umpteenth time.

  “Yes, I really think Kingman can help us,” I replied. In actual fact Kingman couldn’t save us if his life depended on it. But I had to get away from Harriet and Brutus who were the perfect double act to lead me straight into a nervous breakdown. As if the fleas weren’t bad enough, now I had to cure Brutus’s performance anxiety? Give me a break.

  So a nice walk was exactly what the doctor ordered.

  Soon I felt my mood lift. The slight breeze ruffling my furry flanks. The sun casting its golden rays upon a near picture-perfect world. Sidewalks full of happy people pushing strollers. Kids gurgling cheerfully. Moms merrily gossiping about other moms. I even liked the sight of all the dogs that pranced around, restrained by those nice sturdy leashes and collars.

  That’s how you can tell the difference between a dog and a cat: a cat will never allow a human to put a collar or a leash on them. Cats are free-roaming spirits, not slaves like dogs.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing,” I told Dooley. “Odelia will fix this.”

  “I thought Kingman would fix this?”

  “Someone will fix this,” I said, my confidence in the happy solution returning.

  “I wonder who patient zero is.”

  “Patient zero?”

  “Don’t you remember from the movie? Gwyneth was patient zero. She got the virus from bat and pig poop after she shook hands with the chef who hadn’t washed his hands.”

  “I don’t think it was bat and pig poop, exactly.”

  “It was some creature’s poop.” He turned to me, his tail swishing excitedly. “We need to find our patient zero so we can save the world.”

  “Maybe we should focus on saving ourselves.”

  “It’s too late for us, Max. Even Rose from Titanic didn’t make it.”

  “Oh, will you please forget about Rose from Titanic! It was just a movie!”

  He didn’t speak for a moment, then said somberly, “I’ll bet I’m Rose. And I’ll bet you’re Morpheus from The Matrix and you get to live. Or maybe you’re Matt Damon.”

  “I’m not Matt Damon and you’re not Rose! It’s fleas, Dooley. Stupid fleas!”

  “It’s an infestation,” he said stubbornly. “And we saw that movie for a reason.”

  “Not everything happens for a reason, Dooley.”

  “Everything happens for a reason.”

  “Not everything.”

  “Everything.”

  “Oh, God!”

  We walked on in silence for a moment. My happy mood dampened, I suddenly wished that instead of Contagion we’d seen Ratatouille. It was also about a group of critters but these critters lived in Paris and they could cook. I was pretty sure Dooley’s outlook would improve if I could convince him fleas were happy little critters who enjoyed cooking.

  We’d arrived downtown and were walking along Main Street, with its throngs of shoppers, honking cars and busy shops, when we noticed a peculiar scene. The hotel across the street from Kingman’s General Store had one of its windows blown out, as if a fire had raged through it. And down on the sidewalk a sort of tent had been put up, with funny-looking people in white coveralls hovering about. They looked like astronauts.

  “What’s going on over there?” I asked.

  Dooley barely glanced up. “Who cares?” he said. “We’re all going to be dead soon.”

  “Nice attitude.”

  “It’s true. Nothing Kingm
an or anyone else can do about it.”

  “Shall I tell you something that will cheer you up?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing can cheer me up.”

  “Do you want to know what Brutus told me in confidence?”

  He sighed. “What?”

  “He’s having trouble with his cathood.”

  Dooley frowned. “Trouble with…”

  “His machinery.”

  He gave me a blank look and I could see I would have to spell this out.

  “His pee-pee has stopped working.”

  He blinked. “He can’t go wee-wee anymore?”

  “I suppose he can—it’s the other thing he can’t do anymore.”

  “What other thing?”

  “Sex, Dooley. Brutus can’t have sex anymore.”

  His lips formed a perfect O, and for the first time since the fateful discovery of the flea issue, a smile slowly crept up his face, until he was softly chuckling. Dooley has never liked Brutus very much, mainly because he’s had a lifelong infatuation with Harriet. So when Brutus swept in and swept the prissy Persian off her paws, it didn’t endear him to Dooley.

  “Brutus can’t get it up?” he chuckled.

  “That seems to be the gist of it.”

  “And I thought we were screwed.”

  “The best part is that he’s asked me to help him.”

  Now he was laughing outright. “You told him no, right?”

  “Oh, no, I told him I would help him. Why wouldn’t I?”

  He abruptly stopped laughing. “You’re going to help him?”

  “Of course. He’s a fellow feline. I believe in helping out my fellow feline.”

  “Very noble of you, Max,” he said, a scowl returning to his face.

  “He’d do the same for me.”

  “I’m sure he would.”

  “He’s not a bad cat, you know.”

  “Oh, he’s a real prince.”

  I sighed. Dooley really was insufferable today. I decided to let it go.