“Ah!” said Mr. Bunny.
Mr. and Mrs. Bunny went inside and settled in front of the fire. Mr. Bunny picked up his article on things that explode, and Mrs. Bunny began lining a bonnet with rubber. She had a box of them she had brought home from the meeting and she hadn’t had time to get to any of them yet.
“Oh my goodness, I am tired,” she said. “Between the bonnet trimming and the detecting, I am quite done in, and I need to finish these before bed. I hope Mrs. Treaclebunny doesn’t show up at our door tonight. I would like to put on my jammies, have a quiet supper and go to bed without speaking to any other bunnies.”
“Excepting myself,” said Mr. Bunny.
“Always excepting yourself.”
“Ah, well, I have been thinking about that, Mrs. Bunny, and here is my idea. We put a pile of everything that Mrs. Treaclebunny could possibly ever want to borrow outside our door along with a plate of dinner and then we post a sign saying ‘Help yourself.’ She need never ring the bell and we can have a peaceful uninterrupted evening. And maybe then I can solve the rubber clue.”
“Mr. Bunny, sometimes I think you are a genius!” said Mrs. Bunny, clasping her paws over her heart.
“When do you not think I’m a genius?” asked Mr. Bunny in dismay.
And that is what they did. They piled lawn mowers, Kleenex, left-handed corkscrews, saltines, Ping-Pong balls, snow cones, DVDs, soy hot dogs, small bars of shell-shaped guest soaps and many more things outside the door in one glorious pile. Mrs Bunny put a foil-wrapped paper plate of carrot and onion loaf next to it. She worried that it wouldn’t stay warm, but Mr. Bunny suggested that Mrs. Treaclebunny probably had a microwave like everyone else. Mrs. Bunny said but what if she didn’t and worried and worried until finally she wrote a little Post-it that said, Place in 325 degree oven for half an hour. A tablespoon of water in the pan will keep it moist.
Then they settled back in their chairs and Mr. Bunny continued reading aloud:
“ ‘Many new exploding things can be found in common household materials, although some, such as the following, are for industrial, not common household exploding: industrial plastics, industrial fiberglasses, industrial laminates …’ ”
“They certainly like the word industrial,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“How else would you describe something from industry?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t help thinking they could find a less tiresome word.”
“ ‘… And industrial rubber.’ ” And here Mr. Bunny stopped. He put the magazine down. Mrs. Bunny looked up. He wasn’t moving. She stopped sewing and watched him interestedly to see if he was perhaps going to have a fit of some kind. His mouth was a perfect O.
Finally, when it became clear that he wasn’t going to do anything conclusively sensational, she sighed disappointedly and said, “Mr. Bunny, spit it out.”
“I had a thought, but now it’s gone. But never mind, because, oh, my ears and whiskers, what is that horrible smell exuding from your direction? Have you begun to rot, Mrs. Bunny?”
“Oh no, Mr. Bunny, I’m afraid it’s just the rubber lining I’ve brought home to put in these bonnets. You see, we were left with bolts of it by some anonymous donor. It was a generous if smelly gesture. It will keep everyone’s head dry if it rains. I wouldn’t bother with the linings myself, but our hat club president insists.”
“Well, it’s going to be a smelly parade, is all I can say. I hope the prince brought nose plugs.”
“Speaking of which, could you drive to the hat shoppe in the morning while I make breakfast and let Mrs. Ruskeebunny know that I will not be with them on one of the Greyhound buses? Could you take her the finished bonnets as well? Tell her we will meet the other bunnies there if we are able to find Flo and Mildred first.”
“Of course. In the meantime, let’s go to bed. I’m sure the Case of the Word Rubber will solve itself in my dreams.”
“In your dreams, is right,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“Mrs. Bunny, if I did not know you better, I would think you were being unkind.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Bunny, I’m so excited that you’re about to crack the case that I can hardly concentrate.”
“You can hardly concentrate anyway, Mrs. Bunny. Now let’s go to bed.”
But once in bed, Mr. Bunny was kept awake by Mrs. Bunny’s twitching feet.
“What in the world is the matter with you?” asked Mr. Bunny.
“I am worried about Mrs. Treaclebunny. She has not knocked on the door, and I am afraid she is sitting all alone in her hutch, unsuppered, unlended and unloved. She probably never has any real meals. Maybe she doesn’t even have a stove, just a few crackers by the bed.”
“She has an ocean view,” said Mr. Bunny, and promptly fell asleep.
PUSHING THE PANIC BUTTON
Mr. Bunny hopped out the door early.
“Where is he going?” asked Madeline.
“Um, he needs a furcut,” said Mrs. Bunny. “In the midst of detecting and other, um, important things, it is important to remember to stay well groomed.”
The Bunnys had agreed not to tell Madeline that Mrs. Bunny might miss her parade in order to find Flo and Mildred. Madeline had obviously forgotten that today was the graduation and the parade of bonnets in front of Prince Charles. The Bunnys felt it better not to mention that either.
“Let’s make pancakes outside on the barbecue!” said Mrs. Bunny, trying to distract her.
“But won’t they fall through the grill?” asked Madeline.
“That’s just what makes it so challenging!” said Mrs. Bunny, and went inside to whip up some batter.
Mr. Bunny sped down the road. He didn’t even bother to find parking but abandoned the car on Main Street and ran to the hat shoppe. He couldn’t wait to drop off the bonnets and go back to find Flo and Mildred. Today was sure to be the day, and afterward they could watch Madeline win her awards!
The shoppe was locked, and while he waited for Mrs. Ruskeebunny to come and open it, he peered in the window. All those rubber-lined bonnets. Something that had been niggling at the back of his brain suddenly came to the forefront. Rubber! The word from the file card that The Marmot remembered. Exploding rubber! The article! Little bunny heads exploding all over the place. Could this be the work of foxes? Perhaps the very foxes who had kidnapped Flo and Mildred? There was no time to puzzle this out. Action was called for! Mrs. Bunny never put two and two together, but she did not have his big detecting brain. Her own was the size of a kidney bean. Wasn’t this smelly rubber they were lining the bonnets with industrial? The same kind of rubber that The Scientific Bunny claimed exploded? Someone was going to have to save all these bunnies from unsuspected carnage. It was HE! No mere detective he, but SUPERbunny! How he wished he had time to put on a cape. But there was not a moment to lose!
Mr. Bunny found a rock and broke the glass in the front door, reached in and unlocked it from the inside. Once inside, he began ripping bonnets to pieces as quickly as he could. Sequins and ribbons flew everywhere. It was the only way! Those lovely lady bunnies wouldn’t become furry fireworks. Not on his watch!
Using scissors and his teeth and claws, he destroyed nearly every bonnet in the shoppe. It was necessary work at first, and then he discovered he rather liked it. Perhaps someday he would teach a course in it.
He was trying to rip them in time to a little salsa ditty he had running in his head when the door opened and Mrs. Ruskeebunny entered. She gave an ear-piercing scream and shouted, “What are you doing? What are you doing!”
“Ummm.” Mr. Bunny came to with a start and surveyed the mess about the shoppe. Well, maybe it wasn’t such a good sport after all. It would probably never catch on like, say, tennis. “I think I may have gotten a little carried away. A little swept up in the moment. Anyhow, unimportant, what I came to tell you was that I would be driving Mrs. Bunny up to the parade if we come at all, so don’t hold the bus for her.”
Mrs. Ruskeebunny looked at the torn-apart bonnets. “AAAAAA
!” she screamed again.
It was at that exciting moment that Mr. Bunny, who was trying to figure out how to explain the complicated plot twists to Mrs. Ruskeebunny, froze completely; he wasn’t quite sure he understood them himself—file cards and foxes and issues of The Scientific Bunny were jumbled in his head, not to mention the vision of himself standing on a podium receiving a large hero’s medal from some hazy but important figure. His mouth worked, but no sounds came out.
He noticed that Mrs. Ruskeebunny was herself wearing a wholly intact rubber-lined bonnet. It occurred to him that if the rubber was the exploding type, it had had plenty of opportunity to do so. They were probably safe with these bonnets after all. And yet, oddly, his fingers still itched to rip Mrs. Ruskeebunny’s bonnet off her head and stomp on it. Perhaps he would need to join a support group.
“Um, nice bonnet,” he said, pointing to it. “Is it new?”
Mrs. Ruskeebunny just glared. Her expression was quite fierce. Mr. Bunny decided not to explain himself. He was short of time. He would leave the explanations to Mrs. Bunny. She was better at it anyway.
“I may have made, a, um, little mistake,” he said, backing toward the door. “But let me ask you this. I know you ladies enjoy making bonnets, but have you ever tried ripping them apart? It’s strangely invigorating.”
“Little mistake?” Mrs. Ruskeebunny cried, advancing on him. “Look what you did to the parade bonnets! How do you suggest I repair them in time?”
“Krazy Glue?” asked Mr. Bunny, smiling nervously.
Then he decided it was time to go.
Mrs. Bunny was coming out of the hutch with some pancake batter when she spied a note on her door. Notes were never good. She was getting sick of notes. She took it down and opened it with trembling fingers.
Dear inhospitable bunnies,
I have borrowed many things in my time and eaten many other people’s suppers but never have I been treated so shabbily. Never has anyone left the food and borrowed items on the porch steps. You needn’t worry. I can take a hint.
Since when, thought Mrs. Bunny?
I shall not darken your door again. And if you put some curry powder in your carrot loaf it would taste less like dog food. I should know; before Mr. Treaclebunny and I bought our rubber factory, we had a dog food factory. We used old carrot loaf. Yours would have been very suitable.
Yours truly,
Isadora Treaclebunny
“Rubber factory?” said Mrs. Bunny, and hopped like the wind across to Mrs. Treaclebunny’s, where she banged on the door.
“Come in, come in,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “I’m just making myself some decent-tasting carrot loaf. Perhaps you’d like another cooking tip or two. Or a hospitality tip. Or a common decency tip. Or a good manners tip. Or …” She went on in this vein, calling out suggestions for tips over her shoulder as she hopped to her kitchen with Mrs. Bunny following.
No kitchen? Crackers by the bed? How Mrs. Bunny had been wrong!
Mrs. Treaclebunny had a kitchen larger than the Bunnys’ whole hutch and filled with every appliance known to rabbits. A pasta maker and a KitchenAid mixer sat on the counter. There was a fancy Sub-Zero fridge, a restaurant stove and walls and walls of cabinets. There was a kitchen island with all kinds of built-in devices. There were bowls of fresh exotic fruit everywhere, and loaves of homemade bread, and windows looking out over the ocean.
“Rubber factory?” began Mrs. Bunny, and then something caught her eye. “Where did you get that?” She pointed to the bolts of rubber lining stacked in a corner. “Were you lining bonnets?”
“Oh no, I’ve been trying to get rid of this stuff for ages. Stinks. My dead-as-a-doornail-husband’s company used to make it, and it’s been smelling up his factory basement forever. I sold the factory a few weeks ago on Craigslist. It couldn’t have been easier until I got the email from the buyers insisting I remove the rolls of rubber from the basement. What a bunch of fussbudgets. I took it home but afterwards had a terrible time getting rid of the stuff. Smells so bad even the dump wouldn’t take it. Then I heard the hat shoppe was calling for donations. Donations, I’ll give them donations, I said to myself. Yuk, yuk, yuk.”
“You left the rubber at the hat shoppe? You’re the anonymous donor?” asked Mrs. Bunny.
“Listen, take a few rolls with you. Can’t beat it for wallpaper,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny.
“No, thank you,” said Mrs. Bunny, a tad icily.
“Line your pet’s litter box?”
“Madeline doesn’t use a litter box! The idea!”
“I hear it makes excellent soup.”
“Oh, now you’re just being silly,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“It’s delicious when sautéed.”
“Never mind that, does it explode?” asked Mrs. Bunny. She suddenly remembered the article Mr. Bunny was reading. Mr. Bunny would never put two and two together like this. His brain was the size of a kidney bean.
“Do you want it to?” asked Mrs. Treaclebunny.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, I take that as a no. Never mind. Listen, you didn’t see the name of the new factory, did you?”
“Sure, it’s not printed on the outside yet, but inside it says ‘Something something rabbit products and by-products.’ Oddly, it’s written in Fox.”
Mrs. Bunny leapt into the air. “You silly bunny!” she shouted. “Didn’t you stop to think that you had sold your factory to a bunch of foxes who planned to TURN US INTO BYPRODUCTS? Wasn’t the fact that it was written in Fox a clue?”
Mrs. Treaclebunny quivered. “I thought rabbit products meant products made by rabbits. And who the heck knows what by-products are? I did think it was odd that it was written in Fox. But, oh my, so much of life is inexplicable, don’t you find? Oh dear.”
“Oh, you ridiculous bunny! Did you see a couple of humans tied up in the basement?”
“Like that wouldn’t have gotten my attention. What do you take me for?”
“Let’s not get into that now. There’s no time to lose. We must get Madeline and go to the Bunny Council and press the panic button! I’m sure the foxes have hidden Flo and Mildred at the rubber factory.”
Mrs. Treaclebunny had always wanted to push the panic button. “Wahoo! I’ll drive,” she cried.
“I didn’t know you had a car,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“A scooter,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny.
“Get it and meet me at my hutch!” yelled Mrs. Bunny over her shoulder as she sped off.
“Who are Flo and Mildred?” cried Mrs. Treaclebunny.
“I’ll explain later!”
Mrs. Bunny ran home and grabbed Madeline. “I know where the fox factory is! They’ve remade the old rubber factory. Your parents are sure to be there! Hurry!”
“Oh, Mrs. Bunny, if anyone were to find them, I was sure it would be you!” cried Madeline.
“Well, it wouldn’t be Mrs. Treaclebunny, that’s for darn tootin’! Now, let’s just write a quick note to Mr. Bunny telling him where we have gone. Mrs. Treaclebunny is going to take us on her scooter. There is no time to lose!”
Out the door they flew to the road, where Mrs. Treaclebunny was waiting. Mrs. Bunny climbed into the scooter basket, and Madeline got on behind Mrs. Treaclebunny, who kept saying, “Who the heck is this?”
“We’ll explain the whole thing on the way!” yelled Mrs. Bunny over the roar of the scooter. “There’s no time to lose.”
Madeline lifted her knees high and off they zipped. Mrs. Treaclebunny was an intrepid driver. Mrs. Bunny’s paws went right over her eyes. She and Madeline yelled the story to Mrs. Treaclebunny, who was very excited about her part in the rescue. She had visions of herself at a podium receiving a medal from some hazy but important figure.
When they got to the Bunny Council hall, all three of them leapt off the scooter. There was quite a skirmish over who would get to push the button first, but in the end they all pushed it, unwittingly setting off what was known in Bunny Emergency Preparedness as a Three-Push Alarm.
Suddenly rabbits began pouring out of the police station, all suited up in hound costumes and donning large hound heads. Two fire trucks roared out of the fire station, their horns blaring the barks and howls of hound dogs. They went racing down the road until they realized they didn’t know where they were going, so they turned around and headed back to find whoever had set off the alarm.
“Where are they? Where are they?” called the heroic bunny hound patrol to Mrs. Treaclebunny, Mrs. Bunny and Madeline.
“Follow me!” said Mrs. Treaclebunny, who was intent on leading the rescue.
“Just give us the address, ma’am. We’re professionals,” said the chief of the SWAT team.
“Turnips to you, mister,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “This is my case.”
“Technically this is my case,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“Will someone please just RESCUE MY PARENTS!” wailed Madeline.
“Wait a second,” said the chief. “We can’t use the emergency teams to rescue a human.”
“She’s my pet,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“And besides,” said Madeline, “the foxes are starting a rabbit products and by-products factory.”
“What’s a by-product?” asked a SWAT team member.
“NEVER MIND WHAT A BY-PRODUCT IS!” yelled Madeline. “CAN WE JUST GET GOING? THEY’RE AT THE RUBBER FACTORY!”
“TO THE RUBBER FACTORY!” shouted the chief, and off they all started again, hounds howling and barking from the loudspeakers and hound heads securely over bunny ears.
“Hey, you weren’t supposed to give the address! This was my rescue operation! I want to be in front,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny to Madeline as she zoomed down the road, passing police cars and fire trucks and driving between cars and on the shoulder of the road until finally she was once again leading the way.
“Oh my saints, oh my saints,” chanted Mrs. Bunny through gritted teeth. She had her paws over her eyes, but she kept peeking out to find herself between a truck and a speeding car coming from opposite directions. “Mrs. Treaclebunny, nobody should drive like this. Even Mr. Bunny wouldn’t drive like this.”
Mr. and Mrs. Bunny—Detectives Extraordinaire! Page 12