The Mysteries of Max Box Sets 3

by Nic Saint

  Oh, how she wished she were home right now, blissfully resting her front paws on her human’s lap. Marge was the finest human a cat could wish for. Odelia wasn’t bad either, but she was too much of an amateur detective in Harriet’s view. Marge, who worked at the local library, was a real homebody, which was perfect for Harriet, for she was just the same.

  “Hey, you guys,” said Brutus now. “I think this is it. Do you smell that?”

  Harriet wrinkled her nose. “I’ve been smelling nothing else for the past half hour.”

  “Duck poop,” said Milo, who was proving himself to be somewhat of a poop specialist.

  “We better head on inside,” said Brutus. “And talk to those birds.”

  “Is a duck a bird?” asked Milo. “I’m not so sure.”

  “Of course they’re birds,” said Harriet, who’d grown to detest Milo. She hadn’t forgotten how he convinced her Dooley’s poop-smearing antics were a seduction technique.

  “There’s a growing consensus in the scientific community that ducks are actually small humans with wings.”

  Oh, this was rich. “Humans! Are you crazy? Ducks aren’t mammals!”

  “Actually, they are. They’re an ancient peoples, who lived on a small and sheltered island paradise, where they had developed a very sophisticated and technologically advanced society. They lived in peace and harmony for thousands of years, until a great cataclysm destroyed the island and forced them to evacuate. The creatures we now know as ducks are the descendants of that original society. Very sophisticated. Highly intelligent.”

  They were staring out across the stable, where thousands upon thousands of ducks were resting on a bed of straw. Softly quacking, they spread a distinct and musty odor.

  “They don’t look so sophisticated to me,” Brutus grunted skeptically.

  “They’re so intelligent our own intellect is too weak to grasp the message they’re trying to purvey,” said Milo. “These gentle creatures are way ahead of us. Way ahead.” He then directed a kindly glance at his compatriots. “Though you guys are the most intelligent felines I’ve ever encountered. Definitely a lot more intelligent than Max or Dooley.”

  “Well, that’s not so hard,” said Brutus with a grin.

  Harriet gave her mate a critical look. Had he already forgotten who they were dealing with? Milo’s modus operandi seemed to be to turn cats against each other.

  “Especially you, Brutus,” said Milo now, placing a paw on the black cat’s shoulder. “You’re probably the smartest one of the bunch. Handsome, intelligent, kind, with a big heart and a noble character. A real leader, in fact.”

  “I’m glad someone finally noticed,” Brutus grunted.

  “And I’m surprised Max doesn’t appreciate you more.”

  “Well, Max is… Max, I guess,” said Brutus. “He’s been here longer than me.”

  “That’s no excuse. You’re clearly leadership material, Brutus. You should be the one in charge.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” said Brutus. “Max is a great friend. But he probably shouldn’t try to do everything himself. I’ve told him over and over again he should delegate more.”

  “Not delegate. Acknowledge your strength and relinquish the crown he’s taken.”

  “Brutus,” said Harriet crossly. “Can I have a word with you in private?”

  “Later, petal. Milo is saying some very interesting things here.”

  “Brutus. Now!” she snapped, and stalked off to a corner of the stable.

  Brutus followed reluctantly. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “He’s doing it again!” she loud-whispered. “He’s setting you up against Max!”

  “No, he’s not. He’s just pointing out a few facts. Facts I happen to agree with.”

  “He’s sucking up to you!”

  “Hey, he’s telling the truth.”

  “Oh, Brutus,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  Then she saw how Milo had stalked over to a small group of ducks and was now holding forth on something, the ducks all listening intently.

  “What is he doing?” she asked.

  “How should I know? Probably speaking in ancient duck.”

  “That duck story sounded a lot like the Wonder Woman story,” said Harriet.

  “I didn’t like that movie. It had no cats in it.”

  They snuck closer and listened in.

  “Thank you so much, dear ones,” Milo was saying. “I owe you a debt of gratitude. Now remember what I told you about Farmer Potbelly.”

  “Yeah, he can’t keep us locked up in here,” said one of the ducks.

  “He’s a dictator and a tyrant and we’re not going to take this anymore!” said another duck, who seemed like a very excitable one.

  “Rise up!” said a squat duck. “Rise up, brethren and sistren! The revolution is here!”

  “Spread the word!” an elderly duck croaked. “Spread the word far and wide.”

  And spread the word, they did. Before long, the stable was abuzz with revolutionary chatter.

  “Looks like Potbelly is in big trouble,” said Brutus.

  “You see?” said Harriet. “This is what he does. He’s a hate speaker.”

  Brutus stared at her. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “He incites hatred! Stirs up all kinds of trouble just for the heck of it.”

  Brutus scratched himself behind the ear. He looked sheepish. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right. Don’t listen to him, Brutus. From now on we stick to Max’s plan.”

  “Max’s plan,” scoffed Brutus, who seemed to have been infected by Milo’s talk.

  “Our plan,” said Harriet, placing a kindly paw on Brutus’s shoulder.

  He nodded reluctantly. “Fine. We stick to the plan.”

  It was obvious Harriet would have to keep an eye on her mate. He seemed very susceptible to Milo’s brand of nonsense. More so than any other cat in their coterie.

  Chapter 27

  “So? What have you found out?” asked Odelia the moment the cats were back. When she saw them coming she’d opened the door and they immediately hopped in.

  “That the farm was robbed by two guys, one short with a strawberry nose and a purple spot on his lip, the other tall with a little mustache,” said Max, who was the first to speak.

  A pervasive smell of duck permeated the car and Odelia wrinkled her nose. “That’s great! Did the ducks tell you that?”

  “No, the wife of a cat-hating racist rabbit,” said Dooley.

  “And we discovered that Wonder Woman is a duck,” said Harriet.

  “And that Max is a great leader,” said Brutus, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Odelia decided not to go down that particular rabbit hole. “Uh-huh. Interesting.”

  Milo was uncharacteristically quiet, and in the silence Odelia thought she could hear furious quacking. And when she squinted in the darkness, she thought she could see lights flash on all around the Potbelly farm. “What’s going on down there?” she asked.

  “I think we better get out of here,” said Harriet, shuffling uneasily.

  “Why? What happened? Did they find out you were in there?”

  “They might have,” said Harriet.

  There was a lot of commotion on the farm, Odelia now saw. People moving about and plenty of ducks, too. They seemed to be flocking together, moving as one flock of ducks away from their stable and in the direction of the houses the Potbellies had erected.

  “Looks like the ducks are moving towards their owners’ houses,” said Odelia, surprised.

  “Rise up,” Milo muttered softly. “Oh, rise up, ye mighty race.”

  Odelia directed an odd look at Milo, then figured she’d better heed Harriet’s advice and return home. Whatever was going on at that farm, it was probably better if she wasn’t discovered lurking around.

  During the ride home, the silence that had descended upon the car stretched on. She didn’t mind. She had some thinking to do about
the murder case, and she figured her cats were probably tired from all that traipsing around on the Potbelly farm.

  Soon enough they were home and she let them out of the car again. They walked in a straight line, still cloaked in silence, then into the house and to their respective perches. All of them except for Max and Dooley, who were off to choir practice as usual.

  And as she was about to close the door, the tall figure of a man walked up to her. When he stepped into the light cast by the streetlamp in front of her door, she saw it was Chase. He watched as Milo walked into the house, tail up, followed by Brutus and Harriet.

  “Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” said Chase as he casually leaned against the doorframe. “I always thought cats didn’t need to be taken for a walk, only dogs.”

  “My cats are special,” she blurted out.

  “That, they are,” he said with a slight grin.

  “How long have you been out here?” she asked, noticing his parked pickup.

  “Not that long. Half an hour, maybe. I tried calling but got your voicemail.”

  Shoot. She’d turned off her phone when she set out for the farm. “I must have forgotten to switch it on again.”

  He leaned in and took a sniff at her hair. “Smells familiar. In fact there’s only one place I can think of that ships out this particular scent in bulk.” He fixed her with a curious look. “Any particular reason you decided to go snooping around a duck farm at night?”

  “I… just wanted to have another look at the farm—spend some time thinking.”

  “So you didn’t go inside?”

  “The cats might have. I just let them out of the car and let them wander about.”

  “You’re such a terrible liar, Poole.”

  “I’m not lying! I sat there, in my car, thinking about the case, and I figured since I was driving anyway, I might as well bring the cats along. For company. And because they like it.”

  “And how would you know what your cats like and don’t like? Do you speak cat?”

  It was such a direct question she almost replied in the affirmative. But then her sense of self-preservation kicked in and she laughed lightly. “Speak cat? Very funny, Chase.”

  He gave her that cop look again, as if trying to figure out if she was telling the truth. She projected as innocent and careless a look as she could manage, which was a little hard as he was a very good cop, and he could look in a very piercing way when he wanted to. Finally, he relaxed. “So what do you think? Any bright ideas?”

  “I think we should talk to some more people tomorrow.”

  “Very clever, Poole. Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “And while I was out there I met a source who gave me a description of the two men who burgled that farm. One was short with a strawberry nose and a purple spot on his upper lip, the other tall with a small mustache. That ring a bell, Kingsley?”

  The moment she’d said it, she regretted it.

  “Source? What source?”

  “You know I can’t disclose my sources, Chase.”

  He gave her a withering look. “I disclose mine, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t disclose yours.”

  “I’m a reporter. My sources trust me to keep their identity confidential.”

  “And I shouldn’t even be dragging you along on my interviews!”

  They squared off for a moment, staring each other down.

  “You look pretty sexy when you’re angry, Poole.”

  “You look pretty hot yourself, Kingsley.”

  “Your grandmother home?”

  “Watching a movie.”

  “Dammit.”

  “How about a quickie in your car?”

  A wolfish grin spread across his features. “Now you’re talking.”

  Chapter 28

  To be absolutely honest, I was glad to be out of that car. Harriet and Brutus and Milo had really gone all out on the duck smell. In fact I was afraid I now smelled of duck dung myself. Dooley must have thought the same thing, for he said, “Do you think duck dung is as deadly as fly dung, Max?”

  “Oh, don’t listen to Milo. He’s full of dung.”

  “Brutus was acting weird, though, wasn’t he? Do you think the dung got to him?”

  “Could be,” I admitted, though it was far more likely Milo had gotten to him.

  The silence in the car had been deafening, and I blamed it all on the intruder. Before Milo things had been fine, and now there was this constant tension. It was starting to affect me adversely. As in, my digestion wasn’t as robust as it usually is. Could also be the fact that Dooley had eaten all my Cat Snax to get rid of his make-believe worms and Milo had eaten all of my Fancy Feast Seafood and now all that was left was my usual kibble and some milk.

  Bummer.

  “You know, Max? I’m glad we finally got to go out with Odelia again. I missed it.”

  “Me, too, buddy.”

  “And I’m glad we were able to help her. Do you think she’ll catch those killers?”

  “I’m sure she will. How many men with a strawberry nose are out there?”

  “Not many, I’ll bet.”

  “Nope.”

  Dooley gave me a sideways glance. “Max?”

  “Mh?”

  “I’m glad we’re friends again.”

  “Me, too, Dooley.”

  “I don’t like it when we fight.”

  “I love you, buddy.”

  “I love you, too.”

  And it was with a lighter heart that I pranced along the sidewalk, on our way to cat choir. The choir convenes every night, though not all members show up each time. Cat choir is not so much an expression of our artistic sensibilities as an excuse to hang out and shoot the breeze. Cats used to hang out on rooftops and such, but the park is a much better place. Plenty of trees to climb—us cats love climbing trees—and plenty of critters in the undergrowth—us cats love catching critters even more than climbing trees—so it’s all good.

  We arrived at the park and saw that it was already humming with activity. Not musical activity, even though some cats were already warming up those vocal cords by performing deep-breathing exercises and singing scales.

  “Ooh, eee, aah,” they were screeching.

  A sporadic boot was already tumbling down from the windows of the houses overlooking the park, but it was clear the boot-throwers’ hearts weren’t in it, as these boots were old and worn-out. The real nice boots only came later, when choir practice really kicked in and stupefied humans picked up any footwear they could lay their hands on.

  “Hey, you guys,” said Shanille, who was cat choir’s conductor. She’s a gray cat with white stripes and belongs to Father Reilly. She sniffed the air. “What’s that terrible smell?”

  “Duck dung,” said Dooley before I could intervene.

  Shanille looked thoughtful. “I don’t know if I shouldn’t dismiss you. There’s a hygiene rule in the cat choir rulebook about making sure you’re properly bathed and washed before you arrive. Some of our members are very sensitive to pervasive odors, you know.”

  “We are washed and bathed,” I said. “This is not our smell. It’s Brutus and Harriet’s. They’re the ones who mingled with the ducks.”

  “We only mingled with the rabbits,” Dooley explained helpfully. “One was racist and the other wasn’t.”

  Shanille blinked as she took this all in. “I’ll have to consult the other members. We are a democratic organization, after all. I’ll put it to a vote.”

  And before I had a chance to file a motion to stay, she’d stalked off.

  “Oh, darn ducks,” I muttered.

  “Now don’t be a racist, Max,” said Dooley. “Those ducks can’t help how they smell.”

  “I’m not racist! I just don’t want to be kicked out of cat choir because of a trifling thing like duck dung.”

  “It’s not a trifling thing. Remember, duck dung registers a five on the Richter scale. That’s not something to tak
e lightly.”

  “How many times have I told you not to believe a word Milo says?”

  “He wouldn’t be lying about something like that. The Richter scale is real. I’ve heard about it on your Discovery Channel.”

  “Oh, Dooley,” I muttered.

  Moments later, Shanille returned. “Well, I’ve put it to a vote,” she said. “And I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

  Oh, crap. “What’s the good news?”

  “A majority of the members feel that a slight odor is acceptable.”

  “Yay,” said Dooley.

  “And what’s the bad news?”

  “A new member has joined cat choir and you know how new members are granted a veto during their very first cat choir practice?”

  “So?”

  “So this new member has vetoed your and Dooley’s presence here tonight.”

  I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly who this new member was. “Don’t tell me. Is his name Milo?”

  Shanille looked surprised. “How did you know?”

  “Milo? But how did he get here so fast?” said Dooley.

  “He must have run like the wind to get here first,” I said bitterly.

  “Or maybe he apparated like Harry Potter!” Dooley said excitedly.

  We’d sat through a Harry Potter marathon the other day and my head was still hurting. Dooley had enjoyed it, though. “Cats don’t apparate, Dooley,” I said.

  “Professor McGonagall does. And she’s at least half cat.”

  “Milo is not Professor McGonagall.”

  “Maybe he is. Maybe Milo is a wizard!”

  “Milo is a pain in the butt,” I said, turning away. At least soon he’d be ancient history.

  “Hey, Max,” Milo’s voice sounded behind me. “Dooley. So weird to see you here.”

  “Nothing weird about it,” I said, turning sharply. “We’re out here every night. Isn’t that right, Dooley?”

  But Dooley was studying Milo intently. “Are you a wizard, Milo?”

  Any other cat would have laughed off the silly notion, but not Milo. “How did you guess?” he said seriously.

  “Oh, please,” I said. “Don’t fill Dooley’s head with more nonsense, will you?”