Mr. and Mrs. Bunny—Detectives Extraordinaire!

by Polly Horvath

  “Love to help you out, man, but I can’t remember the address. Can you, Mildred?” asked Flo, scratching his chest.

  “Well, now, let me think,” said Mildred. “You know I’m not good with directions.”

  The Grand Poobah put the card back in the file and snapped it shut.

  “So that’s the way it’s going to be, is it?”

  “What way?” asked Mildred.

  “Is there a way?” asked Flo, who was having a hard time keeping up.

  Neither one of them had the slightest idea what the Grand Poobah was talking about. They didn’t think it was a big deal to give Uncle Runyon’s address to a bunch of foxes who needed recipes decoded. They were all for helping forest animals. They just couldn’t remember where Uncle Runyon lived. Madeline always took care of details like that. And they were more than a little suspicious that they were hallucinating the whole thing anyway.

  “Pretending you don’t remember will get you nowhere. I’ll give you one last chance to talk and then we will take you someplace where we can be, shall we say, more persuasive.”

  “Talk about what?” asked Flo.

  “Do you really think I believe you can’t remember where your own relative lives?” said the Poobah, leaning in menacingly, his meat-eating breath hot on Mildred’s kneecap.

  “But I really don’t remember,” said Mildred. Why didn’t this fox believe her? People had accused her of many things before but never of insincerity. She found it very distressing. “Now, if you could wait until Madeline comes home …”

  “Oh yes, the daughter. Give up your young like that, would you? I have a better idea—let’s put a little leverage on the two of you and your daughter. Let’s take you and leave her behind to stew. Let’s see who cracks first.”

  “Cracks what, man?” asked Flo.

  “We’ll just write your little Madeline a note, shall we?” said the Grand Poobah.

  “Felix, blow the whistle.”

  One of the trench-coated foxes took a large whistle out of his pocket and blew it. Immediately seventeen foxes popped out of the trunk of the car and surrounded Flo and Mildred. They were all flak-jacketed and carrying truncheons. Within seconds they had Flo and Mildred trussed up and gagged and placed in the trunk. Then the Grand Poobah whipped out a fountain pen and paper and wrote a note.

  Dear Madeline,

  We have taken your parents in for questioning. If they do not tell us where the decoder, aka Uncle Runyon, lives, foul things await them. Beware, if they do not talk, you will be next.

  We will be in touch. Do not go to the police or we cannot answer for our actions. But let me give you one clue! Finger food! Mwa-haha.

  Cordially yours,

  The Enemy

  The Grand Poobah tacked the note to the fridge, where he knew all humans left notes of importance.

  One of his guard foxes rushed in.

  “Hurry, boss, Fidel has finally managed to get the car started, but it’s close quarters and the guys are beginning to nip at each other!”

  Fidel, the driver, had to wear stilts to work the pedals. It sometimes took an hour for him to get the thing running.

  “Can none of you behave with any dignity?” asked the Grand Poobah, and then, walking out in a stately, grand and poobahly manner, tripped over his tail and spilled recipe cards everywhere.

  “Pick those up, will you?” he said to Felix, and proceeded into the car as if nothing had happened.

  Felix scurried about, picking up the cards, then ran with them to the car, which was starting to pull away. Foxes were very bad about waiting for each other. He just had time to leap in before it headed off to the ferry.

  The Grand Poobah took the cards with silent dignity and replaced them in the box.

  “Change the radio channel, we shall listen to cool jazz,” the Grand Poobah said.

  “We want to hear easy listening!” whined the rest of the foxes.

  It was just such things that made being Grand Poobah such a trial.

  “Maybe we should ask the hoomans what they want to hear,” he joked.

  Everyone laughed uproariously, but they laughed at all his jokes or even when they thought he might be joking.

  I am a funny guy, he thought. Then the car sped down the driveway, swerving suddenly to avoid a girl just coming out of the woods.

  “Stupid hoomans, always underfoot,” said the Grand Poobah as Fidel floored the gas pedal and the car sped on down the road.

  “Hey!” shrieked Madeline, leaping out of the way. She had to sit down for a second to collect herself. This road was used so seldom, and certainly no one ever sped. She remained seated, panting for a moment. Who could that possibly have been? There appeared to be dozens of red eyes staring through blackened windows, and a fox driving. Before she could puzzle this out, a group of people in Luminara costumes arrived.

  “Hi, Madeline,” called another group who were standing on her front porch eating the cheese straws Mildred had left out. “Where’s your folks?”

  “I don’t know,” said Madeline. “Aren’t they here?”

  “I don’t see them.”

  “Oh, they probably went over to Zanky’s to help set up the marimbas.”

  “Well, happy Luminara.”

  Happy Luminara is right, thought Madeline, counting her money in the porch light. She had thirty-two dollars. She had shoes!

  Madeline went inside to get a drink. Immediately she saw the note on the fridge and read it twice, frowning. Was this a joke? she wondered. No, it couldn’t be a joke. It wasn’t her parents’ handwriting and no one else knew about Uncle Runyon. She sat down at the kitchen table to think.

  She’d have to go to Uncle Runyon’s.

  Someone knocked on the door. She peeked out the window. It was the Zetmans from the harbor. She’d never be able to think if people kept coming every three seconds to see the luminaries. Madeline tiptoed into the bathroom and waited until they gave up and left, and then she went outside and blew out all the candles quickly, before anyone else could arrive. Now there was only moonlight. She looked at her watch. It was late to be making the journey, but she had no choice. There was one hour before the last ferry. She decided she’d better be on it.

  Madeline changed into her blue jeans, put the note and her money in her back pocket and was starting down her driveway when she saw what looked like another note lying on the ground. She picked it up. It was a file card. At the top it said FANNY FOX’S CANNED RABBIT PRODUCTS AND BY-PRODUCTS FACTORY with a picture of a rabbit being shoved into a pressure cooker. It was such a dreadful picture that she flinched. Who would draw such a thing? Underneath were a series of squiggles and whirls. It was impossible to tell if it had anything to do with the note on the fridge, but it was an odd thing to find in her driveway so she put it in her sweater pocket just in case. Then she ran.

  Madeline took the last ferry off the island, which connected her to the last bus on Denman and the final last ferry, to Vancouver Island. This got her into Comox in time to catch a bus to Duncan in the Cowichan Valley, where she got a cab. The cabdriver kept looking at her oddly. She guessed he wasn’t used to driving little girls from bus stations in the middle of the night, but she had no time to worry about such things. He let her off at the bottom of Uncle Runyon’s driveway. There goes my shoe money, she thought glumly as she paid him.

  The driveway was lit by the remnants of a bonfire, its embers still smoking. Uncle Runyon’s manservant, Jeeves, stood moodily in the background, watching the coals. It was his job to burn all the papers after they had been decoded. Uncle Runyon had told Madeline once that Jeeves loved bonfires. He would stand and watch until the last light left the last ember. Uncle Runyon was happy to provide him with this small pleasure. Jeeves knew nothing about what Uncle Runyon did for a living. He had no idea he was burning code. He thought Uncle Runyon was just another rich eccentric. Uncle Runyon encouraged this idea by giving Jeeves odd things to burn occasionally besides code: old shoes and throw pillows and bathroom
mats. In fact, he kept the barn piled high with things to burn, including the daily files of decoded messages.

  Madeline didn’t stop to say hello; she had urgent business and she didn’t think Uncle Runyon would want Jeeves to know about the kidnapping. It would be too hard to explain without finally letting Jeeves in on Uncle Runyon’s line of work. She crept silently up the drive past him and then slithered up the stairs to the house. Once inside, she ran upstairs to find Uncle Runyon’s bedroom, prepared to wake him, but he was propped up on pillows, looking pale and ill. He was reading a magazine and seemed only mildly surprised to see her.

  “Madeline, dear,” he said when she burst in. “What are you doing here? Or am I imagining you? My fever keeps spiking. Still, why imagine you? Why not imagine a big piece of pie instead? I have nothing against you personally, but I have to say, I prefer pie.” He closed his eyes and tried to change her into pie, but he could not. She still stood before him, berryless and devoid of whipped cream.

  Madeline ignored this departure into pie and gave him an organized and coherent account of events before handing him the note.

  “Extraordinary,” he murmured. Then he sighed. “Still, I do think you’d make a better piece of pie. Banana cream, maybe. Or any pie of your choice. I’m willing to give you some latitude on that. You don’t suppose you could make more of an effort to be pie? Do something for a sick old uncle?”

  “Uncle, honestly.”

  “No cake, though. I’m not a fan.”

  “Please.”

  “It’s the texture, I think. Too dry.”

  “I am not interested in morphing into dessert, especially not now, with Flo and Mildred in trouble. In fact, even without their predicament. I am never going to be pie. Have you got that? NEVER PIE!”

  “No need to shout.”

  “I’m sorry you’re ill, but you ought to think about Flo and Mildred. If you want pie, tell Jeeves to bring you pie. That’s what he’s here for, isn’t he?”

  “You know, I’ve never been entirely sure what Jeeves is here for. Some people, well, most people just seem to show up in your life with no clear purpose. Have you noticed that? They’re like dust mites. You know they’re there, you just don’t know what to do about them.”

  “Maybe we can talk about this sometime when no one has been kidnapped. Could you read the note again? I can’t help feeling you didn’t quite take it in.”

  Uncle Runyon read the note once more and sighed. He stared at the ceiling, and Madeline thought he was finally on track and thinking of what must be done, when he suddenly said, “Do you think that’s a spider up there or an ant?”

  “UNCLE!”

  “Hmmm? Oh. Right.” He sighed again. “You know, all these years I have been living in a fool’s paradise. I really didn’t think anyone cared about me or what I did.”

  “Of course they do,” said Madeline reassuringly, even as she thought that surely now was no time to have to prop up his flagging ego. “I’m sure every enemy nation cares very much about what you do. You’re the only decoder scientist in Canada!”

  “Not the only one, dear, just the best,” corrected her uncle. “But even as the best, I ask myself, what difference have I made in the world? Sunday night on 60 Minutes there was the most fascinating show about a woman who has spent her life studying the language of elephants. She is ready to compile an elephant dictionary. You know, you hear more and more of these stories, scientists finding out that birds not only speak to each other but they use syntax. Of course, I have always suspected that animals had sophisticated languages, but most people just don’t notice these things. They think animals are grunting mindlessly. But more and more we find certain humans who can speak the language of the animal. Horse whisperers, dog whisperers.”

  “Oh yes,” said Madeline. “I’ve heard of those.”

  “And now scientists suspect there are certain humans who can speak all animal languages. Think of it! To understand Bird and Deer and Cat! Why, the questions we could ask! The things we could learn! Those scientists haven’t found the person who can do so yet, but it is clearly only a matter of time. They have found all kinds of language aptitude in the brains of the dog whisperers. And why not? Communication is all energy! Energy! Everything is energy!”

  “Calm down,” whispered Madeline hopefully.

  “How can I calm down? It’s fascinating! Now, those scientists have done something worthwhile with their lives. Einstein believed that an underlying reality existed in nature that was independent of our ability to observe or measure it.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s all very interesting,” said Madeline, who was torn. It was interesting. She would like to learn more about it. But not now. “But it’s not really the point, is it? Flo and Mildred have been kidnapped because someone wants to get to you.”

  “Yes, but why would anyone want me? Little old me?” Uncle Runyon assumed what he thought was a humble expression, but it only succeeded in making him look like a deranged basset hound.

  Madeline took two steps back in alarm and then rallied.

  “Who cares!” she wailed. “It doesn’t matter why they want you. Once they figure out that Flo and Mildred have brains the size of lima beans, they are going to come back to the island to ask me where you are and I am going to tell them. Otherwise they might hurt Flo and Mildred. I just came to warn you so, you know, you can hide or something. And I was silly enough to think that maybe you would come up with a plan to help me save Flo and Mildred.”

  “Oh, my dear, by the time they come for you they will have already disposed of Flo and Mildred, no matter what they tell you. Don’t you ever read thrillers?” asked Uncle Runyon.

  “WHAT?”

  “Not a fan? What do you like to read, dear?”

  “Pride and Prejudice and … what difference does it make?”

  “Well, to begin with, no one gets kidnapped in Pride and Prejudice. No help for you there.”

  “Uncle!”

  “Oh, no doubt you’ve learned how to negotiate hunky men who ignore their dates, but for practical advice I think we need a writer like … hmmmm, Lee Child, perhaps. Now, he could instruct you that as soon as the kidnappers figure out Flo and Mildred can’t help them, that’s it for the poor dears. Kidnappers rarely keep the victims around. You can’t blame them, really. All our houses are so uselessly cluttered, even without a bunch of bodies in the basement.”

  “Uncle!”

  “I burn things, but still, it’s hard to keep up with the clutter.”

  “Uncle!”

  “You’re safe here with me, but you mustn’t go home, Madeline. That’s the last place you should go. You can’t help Flo and Mildred there. Only by us piecing together where your parents might be and getting to them before the enemy gives up interrogating them can you save Flo and Mildred.”

  “Yes, that’s what we need to do. Let’s make a plan. Let’s think.”

  Uncle Runyon stared with great concentration at the ceiling. At last he said, “You know, I think I have it.”

  “YES?”

  “It took me the longest time to determine.”

  “That’s all right. Just spit it out.”

  “I think it is a spider!”

  “Oh, Uncle, that really is the last straw. I’m giving up on you. I’m getting Jeeves. Maybe he can help.”

  At this, Uncle Runyon seemed to come fully awake. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no! We mustn’t get Jeeves! We must never tell Jeeves!”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, my dear, it’s soooo hard to get good help. You really do have to coddle them, insulate them from any kidnappings or murders you might be engaged in. I mean, I don’t even tell him when the drains get clogged.”

  “Well, how are we ever going to find this enemy?” asked Madeline. “All you can find are spiders.”

  “Yes, but it’s a start. Stop frowning at me like that. Let me think,” said Uncle Runyon. “My brain is fuzzy. I’m not well, you know. Pneumonia. My doctor said I’m just a hea
rtbeat away from a coma.”

  “Oh, Uncle!” said Madeline. “That’s terrible. Not to mention very inconvenient.”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad. I’m just itching to have a coma, truth be told. I’ve heard they’re very refreshing.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, don’t have one now,” said Madeline. “There’s work to be done. Maybe we should start with the police.”

  “I really wish you had read at least one thriller. If the kidnappers say you can’t go to the police, you really can’t. I suppose I could call Ottawa, but that would take such time. Even getting requisition forms for paper clips takes weeks. I can’t imagine how long it would take for them to approve some actual human help. They might not even believe us. Of course, we might get a few extra paper clips out of it.”

  “Paper clips!” said Madeline.

  “Don’t say it like that. Paper clips hold things together. I’ve far more idea what they’re doing in my life than Jeeves. I mean, I know there are people who go in for staples, but in my estimation, you can’t beat a good paper clip. Now, what we need are clues. If we only had clues! I’m afraid we’re going to have to rely on you for those, since I wasn’t there. I was here busy working on my coma.”

  Clues, thought Madeline. What had she seen?

  “Oh!” she said suddenly. “This will sound ridiculous, but I was almost run over by a car when I was walking home. It had blackened windows but out of them seemed to be looking dozens of red eyes. And I could swear I saw a fox driving. I know that’s crazy.”

  “Oh no, fascinating. Wait a second! That could be my niche! Plenty of people studying the language of animals, but who is studying their driving skills? Eh? Eh?”

  Madeline stopped wringing her hands obsessively and took a closer look at her uncle. He seemed to be slipping over the edge. Perhaps he wasn’t just being eccentric. Perhaps he was delirious. It was one thing to be Einstein and believe in nature’s underlying reality. It was another to be her uncle and believe in nature’s driving skills.