The Mysteries of Max: Books 31-33

by Nic Saint

  “Look, like I said, I don’t expect you to actually date my sister. I’m not crazy. I know you’re married. That you have a family. And that’s exactly why I chose you. You’re probably the only man left on this planet that my sister trusts and respects, except maybe for our dad.”

  “Okay, suppose I say yes.”

  “Oh, please!”

  “Just supposing, I’m not saying I will do it. But what happens when after the third date I tell your sister I don’t want to see her anymore? How do you think that’s going to affect her? Another blow, so soon after the first one might very well be the final nail in the coffin of her faith in mankind.”

  “By that time I’ll have arranged for her to go on a long vacation with me—far away from here. The only problem is that our cruise isn’t sailing until next month, and thirty days is too long for her to be left alone, wallowing in heartache.”

  “So you want to use me as a kind of stopgap until your sister can go on a cruise?”

  Emma Bezel smiled shyly. “I wouldn’t exactly put it in those terms, Doctor Poole, but yes, I want you to take her mind off things for a while. Until I can get her away from here—away from the place where everything reminds her of her failed affair with Bob Rector.”

  For some reason the name seemed familiar to Tex, but then he discarded the notion.

  “Look, I’m not asking you to engage in some kind of torrid love affair with my sister. Just go out with her a couple of times. Distract her. Make her smile again. Make her feel that the world isn’t all dark and gloomy. That there still are decent people living in it.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head and idly fingering his wedding band.

  “Simply be a friend to her. A doctor and a gentleman.”

  “All I’d have to do is take her to dinner?”

  “Or lunch. No romance involved whatsoever.” Mrs. Bezel took a deep breath, and looked willing to stake it all on one final plea. “My sister doesn’t need your medicine right now, doctor. She doesn’t need your pills. What she does need is your kindness. Your humanity. Your friendship and your compassion. And right now you’re the only person I can think of who fits the bill.” She directed another one of those pleading glances in his direction that did so much to weaken his resolve. “Please?” she added in a small voice.

  Chapter 11

  “So what do you think?”

  “What do I think of what?” said Vesta as she took a tentative sip from her chamomile tea. She preferred hot chocolate, but her doctor, who also happened to be her son-in-law as well as her boss, had recently advised her not to consume so much sugar as it was bad for her. Also, all that chocolate made her hyperactive, which apparently was a bad thing, too. She made a face. “This stuff is probably going to kill me even faster than my regular hot chocolate.” She raised her hand. “Waiter! Hey, waiter!”

  Dutifully the young man whose task it was to keep the customers frequenting the Hampton Cove Star’s outside dining room happy, eagerly came hopping over.

  “Please dump this in the nearest toilet where it belongs,” she said, handing him the terrible brew, “and give me my usual.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the kid, who had yet to outgrow his pimple-faced phase, and quickly hurried to fulfill this treasured customer’s order.

  Scarlett, who’d ordered her usual high-caffeinated drink, was grinning throughout the scene. “I don’t understand why you insist on torturing yourself with those herbal concoctions, Vesta. You know you hate them, and still you insist on trying them all out.”

  “It’s my son-in-law,” she lamented. “He says chocolate isn’t good for me. The sugar does something to my liver, the caffeine does something to my heart and the rest isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be either. Though if I listened to him I wouldn’t be allowed to eat anything I like. He frowns at meat, cheese, coffee, chocolate, cake…”

  “That’s doctors for you. Their only joy in life is to make life for the rest of us miserable. That’s why I never go to them.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that. You go to them all the time. In fact you’re probably Tex’s most loyal patient.”

  “I humor him. He likes to prescribe me stuff, and I like to throw away his prescriptions. That way we’re both happy.”

  “You’re crazy,” Vesta said. “Now what were we talking about?”

  “Bob Rector,” said Scarlett as she took a nibble from one of those miniature pastries that Tex had told Vesta were pretty bad, too. “Also known as Mr. Potato Man.”

  “Look, I talked to my son and he says he’s got the thing well in hand. In other words, he told me to stay out of it.”

  “And when have you ever allowed yourself to be told off by your own son?”

  “You’ve got a point,” Vesta admitted as she watched the pimpled kid return, carrying a tray with an extremely delicious-looking hot chocolate.

  “Extra-large hot chocolate, with extra cream and marshmallows,” the kid announced in a high-pitched voice, then placed the order on the table and blinked a couple of times in quick rapidity before asking, “Is it true that you’re Chief Alec’s mom, ma’am?” His pimpled face had taken on a dark hue. It made his pimples practically light up like so many little Christmas lights.

  “That’s right,” said Vesta as she licked her lips at so much gooey goodness standing at attention at arm’s length. “Why do you want to know?”

  “The thing is, ma’am,” said the kid, gulping a little, and in the process giving his Adam’s apple a thorough workout, “that currently we have a VIP guest staying with us. At the hotel,” he added to make his meaning perfectly clear, “not the dining room.”

  “Is that so?” said Vesta, taking an extra-large sip from her extra-large drink and savoring the extra-delicious taste as it flooded her taste buds. Whatever Tex said, something that tasted so absolutely divine couldn’t possibly be all bad, now could it?

  “The thing is, this VIP guest has expressed a desire to invite a guest to his suite—and he did. Last night. I know it’s not really allowed, but sometimes when guests ask, we provide, you know. Even though we might, um, like, frown upon the practice?”

  Vesta rolled her eyes. “Just spit it out, buddy. What are you trying to tell us?”

  “I think what our hot cocoa-pushing friend here wants to say,” said Scarlett, “is that this VIP guest invited a lady of the night to accompany him in his room, and even though the hotel officially doesn’t allow that kind of thing, they supplied him with just such a lady. Isn’t that right, son?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the kid, visibly relieved at Scarlett’s assistance.

  “So?” said Vesta, who still didn’t see what Dr. Pimple Popper’s next victim was driving at.

  “Well, the young lady never seems to have left the gentleman’s room,” said the kid as he rubbed his nose nervously, polishing it to a shine. “The night clerk never saw her leave, and neither did the day guy, and the cleaner who went in just now to do the room saw no sign of her either. The thing is—we don’t want to call the manager otherwise he’ll call the cops, and my colleagues will probably get fired for breaking hotel policy.”

  “So you don’t want to call the cops and you don’t want to tell management,” Vesta summed up the affair succinctly. “But the girl is missing and you worry that your VIP guest did—what, exactly?”

  “I think he may have d-d-done something to h-h-her?” the kid stammered.

  “You mean like, killed her?” asked Scarlett.

  “Yeah?”

  “Who is this VIP guest, exactly?” asked Vesta.

  “Oh, don’t you know, Vesta?” said Scarlett. “There’s only one VIP guest staying here at the moment and that’s some English lord or something. Lord… Hillbilly?”

  “Lord Hilbourne,” said the kid, once again much relieved by Scarlett’s perspicacity. “The thing is… I know this girl, ma’am. She’s not usually into this kind of thing, but I guess she needed the money, and so…”

  “Wha
t’s the name of this girl?” asked Vesta.

  “Cody. Cody Sorbet. So I thought maybe you could make some discreet inquiries? I know you run the neighborhood watch? And you’re probably used to this kind of thing?”

  “Sure, I’ll ask around,” said Vesta, gratified that her reputation was slowly spreading.

  “And you won’t tell your son? At least not in an—in an… “ His Adam’s apple did some more somersaults. “In an official capacity?”

  Vesta smiled. “I get it. You want me to tell Alec, but you don’t want him to get involved—not officially at least.”

  “Exactly, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” And with these words, he suddenly turned on his heel and was gone, hurrying back inside as if his rear end was on fire.

  “See?” said Scarlett. “The neighborhood watch is becoming a force to be reckoned with.”

  “You know what? I don’t think I’ll tell Alec. I think we’ll handle this ourselves.”

  “But if this Lord Whatshisface really hurt this girl Cody…”

  “Then we’ll tell the cops. But first we need to find out what happened. For all we know the night clerk fell asleep at the job and Cody is safe and sound at home.”

  “So now we have two cases to work on,” said Scarlett, as she held up her coffee cup.

  Vesta raised her own cup and they clinked. “To the neighborhood watch. May the sleuthing forces be with us.”

  Chapter 12

  “I’m sorry, you guys,” said Odelia as we walked out of the police precinct, “but before I can go and interview Evelina Pytel I have an interview with Lord Hilbourne scheduled.”

  “That’s all right,” I said cheerfully. “We’ll join you. I’ve never met an English lord before.”

  “Me neither!” said Dooley. “I wonder what he looks like. Probably very distinguished. Like those people in Downton Abbey.”

  Recently the Pooles had been on a Downton Abbey kick. Well, more Odelia and her mother and grandmother, actually, with Chase, Tex and Uncle Alec reluctant bystanders.

  “Do you think he has a butler and maids and all that?” asked Dooley.

  “I’m sure he doesn’t,” said Odelia. “And I’m going to have to disappoint you again, I’m afraid, as I can’t take you along on my interview. Lord Hilbourne’s rider specifically states he doesn’t want any pets present at the interview. He must have heard about you.”

  “A rider? You mean he brought along his horse all the way from England?” asked Dooley.

  “No, a rider is a list of stipulations for interviews,” Odelia explained, “and the rider I got from Lord Hilbourne’s people clearly stated I should leave my pets at home.”

  “Too bad,” I said. “I would have loved to meet the guy.”

  “I don’t,” said Dooley. “If he doesn’t like cats, I don’t want to meet him.”

  Odelia smiled and crouched down to pat us both on the head. “While I go and talk to Lord Hilbourne, why don’t you ask around to see if anyone has heard something about what happened to Bob Rector? And while you’re at it, maybe you can ask about Evelina Pytel, too. A woman who loses seventy-five thousand dollars in a botched handover and doesn’t call the police just may have something to hide.”

  So Odelia went one way, while Dooley and I went the other. “Do you think Evelina had something to do with the death of her boyfriend, Max?” asked Dooley.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Dooley. Though it’s entirely possible, of course. At this point we don’t know very much, do we?”

  “No, we don’t,” he said. “All we really know is that Lord Hilbourne doesn’t like cats.”

  “Pets,” I corrected him. “He doesn’t like pets.”

  “So weird. I thought all those English lords loved pets. Like that guy in Downton Abbey. You practically never see him without his dog. As if they’re attached at the hip.”

  “He probably left his dog at home,” I said, “and now he doesn’t want to see any other dog because he misses his own dog so much and other dogs remind him of his own sweet mutt.”

  Dooley sighed an exaggerated sigh. “Max, you always think the best of people, don’t you?”

  Soon we’d arrived at our destination, which was the General Store, where our friend Kingman resides. He belongs to the General Store’s owner and proprietor Wilbur Vickery. The impressive piebald was sitting in his usual place: out in front of the store, greeting passing pets and people, and generally being true to his reputation as Hampton Cove’s unofficial feline mayor.

  “Max! Dooley!” he cried when he caught sight of us. “I was just thinking about you guys!”

  “You were?” I said, greatly surprised. Kingman isn’t all that fond of male cats. He’s more into the female of the species. In fact whenever he sees a female feline he gets all giddy and starts putting the moves on her—rarely though his seduction techniques bear fruit. In that sense he’s very much his owner’s pet. Wilbur is crazy about the ladies, too, but only very rarely—or ever—succeeds in dragging one back to his cave for some much-desired nookie.

  “Shanille was here just now, and she told me you’ve made friends with a snail? I told her that couldn’t possibly be true. No friends of mine would ever lower themselves to the level of the slimiest of bottom-dwellers, the creepiest of crawlies.”

  “Well, for your information Shanille was correct,” I said. “We have indeed made friends with a snail, and he’s told us a lot of very interesting stuff, too.”

  “Impossible,” Kingman sneered. “Look, you guys, I don’t know if anyone has ever told you this, but there’s a strict order in this world we live in. At the top of the food chain, of course, there’s our humans, then just below there’s cats and dogs—and maybe horses, too. And then you get the lesser mammals like cows and goats and sheep and the like. Even lower you have your chickens and your birds, which serve only one purpose and that is to be eaten by us. And at the bottom you’ll find such slithery creatures as worms and… snails.” He laughed a deprecating laugh. “Now you’re not seriously going to lower yourselves by getting chummy with the scum of the earth, are you? Seriously!”

  “But aren’t we all creatures of God, Kingman?” asked Dooley. “The fishes in the sea, and the crickets in the field, and the birds in the trees? We’re all part of this same beautiful world, aren’t we?”

  “Oh, Dooley, Dooley, Dooley,” said Kingman, shaking his head at so much naiveté. “You really have a lot to learn about the way the world works. Look, let me give you this one piece of advice: don’t talk to this snail again, and if anyone asks you, simply tell them it’s just a load of filthy gossip. No truth to the rumor whatsoever. You never saw this snail, you never talked to this snail, you never laid eyes on the foul creature!”

  “But we did lay eyes on Mr. Ed,” said Dooley. “And we did talk to him. And he hired us to find out what happened to his human’s boyfriend Bob.”

  Kingman gave Dooley an appalled look, and swallowed. “A snail, being kept as a pet by a human. But that’s an abomination!”

  “Still,” I said, satisfied to see Kingman’s belief system being jerked around like this. “Evelina Pytel has a snail for a pet.”

  “And Mr. Ed is a very clever snail, too,” said Dooley. “He immediately saw that Max and I are the perfect cats to solve this case. Isn’t that right, Max?”

  “Yeah, he hired us—I mean, no money exchanged paws, obviously, but it’s clear that he heard great things about us and wanted to retain our services.”

  “He’s going to spread the word,” Dooley pointed out. “So when we manage to pull this off I’m sure other pets—whether vertebrate or invertebrate—will soon come crawling out of the woodwork, or from under a flat stone, to ask us to do what we do best: play detective.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” said Kingman, closing his eyes and looking absolutely horrified. “This is too much for me. My best friends. Getting involved with a snail.” And with these words, he slunk back inside the General Store and out of sight, a broken cat.

  We
watched him leave, and Dooley turned to me with a questioning look on his face. “I didn’t know Kingman was a snail hater, Max,” he said.

  “It’s news to me, too, Dooley.”

  “I just hope he’ll still want to talk to us.”

  “I’m sure that once he gets over his initial shock, he’ll be fine,” I assured my friend.

  The whole thing brought home to me the fact that some species are clearly better positioned than others, as far as reputations are concerned. And as Dooley and I walked on, he said, “Do you think Kingman hates spiders, too? Spiders are very useful creatures, Max. And they don’t deserve the bad reputation they have.”

  “I know, Dooley. Spiders are great. And so are snails. No matter what Kingman says.”

  “And birds aren’t there just to be eaten by cats, are they, Max?”

  “Of course not. Birds have every reason to inhabit this world. Just like the rest of us.”

  We’d arrived at the barbershop and traipsed inside. Buster, Fido Siniawski’s Main Coon, can usually be relied upon to supply those precious few nuggets of gossip straight from the horse’s mouth—though in this case those horses are in fact Fido’s customers, who like to gossip to their heart’s content while Fido works on perfecting their hairdo.

  Buster wasn’t anywhere to be found, though, and so we walked through to the private part of the barbershop, where Fido lives, and where Buster likes to pretend he is in charge. Cats often suffer from that delusion, though not as much as dogs, of course.

  We passed through the living room, where a TV stood blaring in a corner, even though there was no one around, then took a peek in the kitchen, where a second TV stood spreading its festival of noise and colorful images, and finally, after Dooley took a sniff from Buster’s kibble bowl and resisted the powerful urge to take a sampling, we passed through the backdoor and into the backyard.

  “Buster?” I called out when I couldn’t see a sign of our friend. “Buster, are you here?”