The Mysteries of Max Box Sets 3

by Nic Saint

  “I told you—I don’t work for Wikipedia, Mr. Paunch.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now could you mention in tomorrow’s piece that President Wilcox is the tallest president that ever served this country? The absolute tallest?”

  “Tomorrow’s piece? How did you know I’m writing a piece for tomorrow’s edition?”

  “Oh, please, Odelia. Must we play this game? I’m one of the best-informed people in the country, okay? So why wouldn’t I know what you and Dan Goory are up to?”

  Odelia was surprised this Paunch person would know her editor. Then again, he seemed to know everyone else. “Okay, I’ll try to squeeze it in. I’ll have to fact-check it first, though.”

  “No need. I already took care of that for you. Consider it fact-checked. Tallest President in history. Oh, and he’s also the President with the most hair.”

  “Most hair?”

  “Most hair. I counted them myself. Also the softest hair.”

  “Softest hair?”

  “That’s right. Touched it myself. Soft as a baby’s bottom.”

  And with this startling revelation, he disconnected.

  Odelia stared at her phone. Otto Paunch was her own personal Deep Throat, only the information he imparted wasn’t exactly groundbreaking or earth-shattering. Still, it was something. Like her own personal line to the President.

  Chapter 24

  The nocturnal blanket of darkness swept down on Hampton Cove, covering the picturesque Hamptons community in a cloak of peacefulness, most of its human inhabitants now fast asleep, while its cat population moved out of their houses in droves, led by that ancient hunting instinct and the desire to protect their domain from other felines.

  And so it was that Odelia hopped into her car, watched her small cat menagerie gracefully jump into the backseat, and launched us on what she hoped would be a very fruitful night of snooping around on someone else’s property. For where humans fear to tread, cats have absolutely no compunction to trespass with absolute impunity.

  Our destination? Geary Potbelly’s duck farm.

  Our mission? Elicit the descriptions and possibly the names of the miscreants who had so dastardly stolen Mr. Potbelly’s equipment to carry out their murderous scheme.

  Five cats rode in the backseat in relative silence. Relative, I say, because wherever there is more than one cat present, banter inevitably enters the picture. Cats hate those uncomfortable silences even more than humans do and are quick to fill them with chatter.

  “Is duck poop smelly?” asked Dooley now.

  “All poop is smelly,” I said.

  “No, but I mean is it more smelly than cat poop—or even human poop?”

  Harriet wasn’t in a chatting mood. “Didn’t you hear what Max said? All poop is smelly.”

  “I know. But what I want to find out is how smelly duck poop is in comparison with our own poop and human poop. On a scale of smelliness, where would you place duck poop?”

  Brutus was grunting something. He was keeping a close eye on Milo, who he suspected of having secretly developed a crush on Harriet. Why else would he have gone to such lengths to try and break up this love affair he and the feisty white Persian enjoyed? “Who cares how smelly duck poop is?” the black cat said now. “It’s a nonissue, Dooley.”

  Dooley seemed to beg to disagree. He was also begging for a smack on the snoot if he kept this up.

  “I think duck poop probably rates a five on the Richter Poop Scale,” said Milo, throwing his two cents in. “Human poop rates a six, and cat poop a solid seven.”

  “Richter scale?” I said with a frown. “I thought the Richter scale was for earthquakes?”

  “Oh, Dr. Richter worked on a lot of scales,” said Milo. “The earthquake thing was only one of them. For a long time he was actually more famous for his Poop Scale than for the Earthquake Scale. Of course he didn’t call it the Poop Scale. Scientists dislike simple names. He called it the Defecation Magnitude Scale. Worked very hard on it. Involved a powerful olfactory machine of his own design called The Sniffer. Now mainly used in the perfume industry.”

  Dooley was interested. “So if cat poop is a seven on the Richter scale, what’s an eight or a nine or even a ten?”

  “Elephant poop, obviously, is an eight. Mice poop a nine. And it will surprise you to know that fly poop is a ten. But because fly poop is so tiny it is very hard for us to detect its odor. Richter set up this massive experiment where he collected fresh fly poop in large Mason jars then subjected its contents to The Sniffer. It registered as a ten.”

  “Wow,” said Dooley, wide-eyed. “That’s amazing, Milo. Fly poop. A ten!”

  “Yes. It is said even The Sniffer was impressed. And out of commission for a while.”

  “Out of commission?”

  “A smell that registers as a ten on the Richter scale is lethal for humans and very disruptive even to machines.”

  I have to say that I took this Richter story with a sniff of salt. Then again, stranger things have been examined by the leading scientists of our time so why not fly poop?

  “We’re almost there, you guys,” said Odelia. “I’m going to drop you off at the fence, all right? From there it’s not that far to the duck houses.”

  “We’ll just follow our noses,” Milo suggested mildly.

  Odelia parked the car and opened the door. “Good luck,” she said. “I’ll wait here, okay? And watch out for those dogs.”

  “We’ll be fine,” I said. “We’ve handled dogs before.”

  “Yes,” said Brutus. “I still have to meet the first dog who can best us.”

  Odelia smiled. “I’m so happy you invited Milo onto the team. This is what friendship is all about.” And with these words of encouragement, she sent us off on our secret mission.

  The fence was designed to keep deer out, and therefore presented no obstacle for five clever cats. For one thing, we’re a lot smaller than deer, and for another, we can climb trees that are located right next to the Potbelly fence, with a nice overhanging branch that drops us right on the other side.

  “I’m worried about the smell,” said Dooley as we deftly landed on all fours.

  “Oh, will you shut up about the smell,” said Harriet irritably.

  “If fly poop is deadly for humans, duck poop might be deadly for cats!” Dooley said.

  “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I said. “Now keep your eyes peeled, you guys. And remember: we’re on a fact-finding mission. So first let’s see if we can’t talk to one of those guard dogs. If anyone knows what went down here last night, it will be them.”

  “Maybe we should spread out,” said Brutus. “Isn’t that what Bruce would do?”

  Brutus was right. When on a dangerous mission, always ask yourself what Bruce would do. And right now Bruce would probably tell his team to spread out. And since I seemed to have assumed the role of team leader, I now said, “Brutus and Harriet, head up to the farm and talk to those ducks. Dooley and I will look for the dogs.”

  “What about me?” asked Milo. “What important task do you have in store for me, Max?”

  He was giving me a slightly mocking look, as if on the verge of challenging my authority.

  “You better go with Brutus and Harriet,” I said, as there was no way I was going to have Milo cramp my style.

  But Brutus and Harriet weren’t all that eager either. Still, they relented, and I watched the trio stalk off in the direction of the stables—or the duck houses, as Odelia had called them.

  And then it was just Dooley and me. Just like old times. And I suddenly felt almost cheerful. Dooley might not be the brightest bulb in God’s big bulb shop, but he’s my buddy, and I was glad we’d ironed out those Milo-made differences. Or at least I thought we had.

  “Max, if Brutus is my father, and you’re Brutus’s brother, is Harriet my mother?”

  “Milo made all that up, Dooley,” I said. “Brutus is not your father and I’m not his brother. My guess is that his human loves her daily dose of Days
of Our Lives as much as Gran does and watching all of that stuff for years has somehow turned Milo into a mythomaniac as a consequence. Either that or a psychopath. The jury is still out.”

  “A mythomaniac, is that like a nymphomaniac, Max?”

  “Not… exactly.”

  “Do you think Milo is evil?”

  “Like I said, the jury is still out on that one. He does seem to enjoy wreaking havoc in other cats’ lives.”

  We’d been traipsing around the duck farm without a single sighting of a dog, duck or other living creature and no hope of catching Odelia’s thieving killers—or killing thieves—when suddenly I caught sight of two large ears sticking out of a hole in the ground. They were twitching anxiously, as if aware of our presence.

  I hunkered down behind a tractor tire someone had conveniently discarded.

  “Dooley!” I hissed. “Over here!”

  “What is it?” he asked, excited. “Do you see something?”

  Instead of replying, I pointed in the direction of the ears. And then he saw it, too. A face had surfaced, like a snail from its shell. It was a white, furry face with twitchy nose.

  It was a rabbit. A big, white rabbit.

  Chapter 25

  “What is that, Max?” asked Dooley, both intrigued and terrified.

  “That, my friend, is a rabbit,” I said, and emerged from our hiding place.

  “Watch out, Max!” Dooley cried. “It could be dangerous!”

  “It’s just a rabbit,” I said. “Rabbits aren’t dangerous.”

  “It could be a rabid rabbit!” he said.

  The fluffy bunny didn’t look rabid, though. So I approached it in the spirit of friendship. “Hey, there, buddy,” I said by way of greeting. “My name is Max and I come in peace.”

  “What do you want, cat?” asked the rabbit in a gravelly voice. Almost as if it had been smoking a pack of cigarettes a day for its entire life. It could have been a pipe, too.

  “My friend and I are trying to ascertain whether intruders burgled this farm last night,” I said. “They would have stolen both a tractor and a tanker filled with duck poop?”

  The rabbit stared at me—insolently, I would have thought. Impossible, of course. Rabbits are fun and cuddly creatures. Lovable and full of joy and love and good cheer.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, cat,” said this rabbit, with distinct lack of good cheer. “What I do know is that you’re trespassing, and if you and that other cat don’t get out of my face in ten seconds I’m siccing the dogs on you.”

  “Hey! I said I’ve come in peace!”

  “I don’t care. We don’t like strangers around these parts. So you better buzz off.”

  “I’m not a stranger. I live in Hampton Cove!”

  “You’re a stranger to me, stranger. Plus, you’re a cat.”

  “So?”

  “Didn’t you get the memo? Nobody likes cats.”

  “Everybody likes cats! In fact people love cats!”

  “Now, see, that’s where you’re wrong. People love rabbits. They hate cats.”

  This was one weird rabbit, I thought. Dooley, who’d also emerged from behind the tire, seemed to think so, too, for he said, “I never met a cat-hating rabbit before.”

  “And I’m not the only one. All rabbits hate cats—and so do humans.”

  “No, they don’t. Our humans love cats,” said Dooley.

  “Huh,” said the rabbit. “Your humans must be weirdos.”

  “No, they’re not. They’re perfectly normal humans,” I said.

  “If they like cats there must be something wrong with them.”

  “They’re normal humans!” I cried. “And like all normal humans they love cats!”

  “Look, I’m not having this conversation,” said the rabbit. “You better clear out now before I call in the dogs.”

  “What has happened to you that you hate cats so much?” asked Dooley.

  The rabbit frowned. “I don’t understand the question. The whole world hates cats.”

  “No, it doesn’t!” I said.

  “You’re obviously delusional, cat. Of course it does. All life on this planet agrees on only one thing: that cats are the most loathsome creatures ever brought into this world.”

  “Who are you talking to, Alfie?” asked a muffled voice.

  “Stay where you are, Victorine,” said the rabbit. “It’s not safe out here.”

  A second rabbit rose up from the hole. Like its cat-hating friend, it was white and fluffy and looked harmless. When it caught sight of us, it even smiled. “Oh, hi, there, cats.”

  “Don’t talk to them, Victorine!” said Alfie. “You know we don’t talk to cats.”

  “Oh, don’t be rude, Alfie.” She gave us a look of apology. “Don’t mind Alfie, cats. Ever since he was attacked by a pack of wild cats he hasn’t been the same.” She turned to Alfie. “These are two perfectly nice cats, Alfie. Gentlecats. They’re not going to hurt you.”

  “Yeah, we’re nice cats, Alfie,” I echoed Victorine. “All we want from you is some information.”

  Dooley was eyeing the two rabbits with trepidation. “Did you say that a pack of wild cats attacked you?”

  “Yeah, there were at least a dozen of them,” said Victorine. “Vicious creatures. Not you, of course,” she quickly added. “You’re nice. Now what was it you wanted to know?”

  I repeated my request, and I could see this set the rabbits thinking. Alfie probably about calling in the dogs, but Victorine was actually contemplating my question.

  “I did see two men last night. They cut a hole in the fence. Before driving off.”

  “Don’t help them, Victorine!” her cat-hating mate implored. “We don’t help cats!”

  “Oh, shush,” she said kindly. “Um, one was short and one was tall. And the tall one had a little mustache and the short one had a very big nose. Like one of them strawberry noses. He also had a purple spot on his upper lip. I thought maybe he got stung by a bee.”

  “Or attacked by a cat,” Alfie growled.

  Now we were getting somewhere. “That’s great, Victorine,” I said. “Did you ever see these men before?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “And I haven’t seen them since, either. Did you see them before, Alfie?”

  But Alfie was now engaged in a silent protest.

  “Oh, don’t be like that, Alfie. Not all cats are bad. These are two perfectly nice cats.”

  “I don’t like cats,” Alfie insisted, his fluffy tail twitching defiantly. “Any cats.”

  Victorine shook her head. “I’m afraid he’s become one of them whatchamacallits, um…” She thought for a moment, thumping her paw, then her face cleared. “A racist!”

  I’d never met an anti-cat racist rabbit before, so this was definitely a first. “Well, if it’s any consolation, there are some very nasty cats out there,” I said.

  “Darn tootin’ there are,” said Alfie.

  Victorine pursed her lips. “Still. No sense in tarring all cats with the same brush, is there? I’m sure there are more nice cats than nasty ones. And the same goes for rabbits.”

  “Hey!” said Alfie. “Don’t you go talking smack about your own kind!”

  “Oh, Alfie, you have got to admit that your mother can be quite a handful. Like when I brought her that perfectly good carrot yesterday and she told me it had mildew. Mildew!”

  “Okay, fine. My mother is a handful. But that doesn’t mean all rabbits are like her.”

  “And what about your seven million sisters? They’re always perfectly mean to me.”

  “All right. I’ll give you that. My sisters are absolute pests.”

  “Or your fifteen million brothers.”

  “I get it! You’ve made your point!”

  “And there was that time when your father called me a stuck-up little—”

  “Fine! I get it! Rabbits can be horrible meanies, too.”

  “And don’t get me started on your five million aunts.”

&n
bsp; “Hey, your family hasn’t exactly rolled out the red carpet for me, either!”

  “Don’t you say a bad thing about my family, Alfie!”

  Dooley and I kinda drifted off after that, feeling we didn’t need to be there for this domestic scene of spousal discord. We had the information we’d come here to find, and that was good enough for me.

  “I didn’t know rabbits could be racist, Max,” said Dooley as we walked away, the sounds of Victorine and Alfie arguing now growing distant.

  “I guess all animals can be racist,” I said.

  “Do you think flies are racist? Against bees, for instance?”

  “Probably so.”

  “And fleas against lice? Rats against mice? Cats against bats?”

  “You bet. I don’t even like bats. I think they’re creepy.”

  We were both silent for a moment while we contemplated this. Then Dooley said, “It’s a strange world out there, Max.”

  Truer words have never been spoken.

  Chapter 26

  Harriet wasn’t as keen to venture into the duck’s lair as she should have been. The truth of the matter was that this detective stuff was more Max’s thing. Creeping into duck farms at night, talking to ducks and dogs, sniffing out secrets and mysterious clues. It wasn’t really her bag. But since they’d already agreed to do this, she couldn’t back out now. Besides, Brutus liked a bit of action, and she didn’t want to let her hunky sweetums down.

  The part of the farm where the ducks were kept were these long, white clapboard one-story buildings. She could hear the quacking even as they approached, and had a hard time adjusting to the smell and the muck that was spread all around the ducks’ homes.

  She tried to put her paws down where no mud or—worse—duck poo covered the ground, but it was hard going. As a prissy and fastidious Persian, she hated getting her flawless white fur soiled, and this trip to the duck farm was proving a real challenge.