by Nic Saint
“There’s nothing worth stealing, Max,” said Odelia, hunched over the wheel and steering the car through mild mid-morning traffic. “Apart from the television, which is old, and the stereo, which is even older, I don’t see why burglars would even bother.”
“They might take Chase’s fitness equipment,” Dooley said.
Odelia laughed. “I’d like to see them try. They’ll be in the hospital with a hernia before they manage to get it down the stairs. That stuff weighs a ton—literally.”
“Why does Chase spend so much time pulling all of those weights, Odelia?” asked Dooley, deciding now was the time to voice a question he’d been asking himself for ages. “And why does he make all those weird noises when he does?”
Odelia grinned. “I’ll be sure to ask him, Dooley. I’m not really sure myself.”
“It just seems as if he likes to torture himself,” Dooley continued, not afraid to offer the theory he himself had conjured up. “There was a documentary on the Discovery Channel the other night, about people who call themselves mosaicists.”
“Masochists,” I corrected him.
“These people like to suffer,” Dooley said. “In fact the more pain they suffer the more they like it. Do you think Chase is a masochist?”
This time Odelia laughed so hard the car swerved across the white line in the center of the road, earning herself loud honks from a panel van heading in our direction in the other lane. “Chase a masochist,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “You know what, Dooley? I think you might be onto something there.”
“See, Max?” said Dooley. “And you told me my theory couldn’t possibly be right.”
“All I said was that Chase wants to have bigger muscles, and the only way to have bigger muscles is to subject those muscles to a lot of strenuous activity, like lifting weights. The heavier the weights, the more the muscles are taxed, and the bigger they grow in response. It’s simply biology.”
Dooley frowned and directed a curious look at my belly, which was neatly placed between my paws, and spread out a little beyond the boundaries of what is usually termed fashionable or beautiful.
“Is that why you have so many muscles on your belly, Max?” he asked. “Because you make it work so hard lifting all of that kibble?”
“Yes, Dooley,” I said dryly. “That’s exactly why.”
Of course Odelia had another laughing fit, which caused the car to swerve once more into the wrong lane. Lucky for us she’s an excellent driver, and managed to get back where the car belonged before colliding with other occupants of the road.
Before long, we arrived at the home of Ida Baumgartner, one of Odelia’s dad’s most fervent patients. In fact it isn’t too much to say she’s probably Tex’s biggest fan, seeing as how she’s in his office all the time, always discovering some new disease to suffer from.
“Best to be on your best behavior, Dooley,” I said. “Ida Baumgartner is a very sick woman. And we don’t want to send her to the hospital just by our mere presence in her home.” I directed a worried look at Odelia. “Are you sure she’s not allergic to cats?”
“I’m sure Ida is allergic to everything,” said Odelia, “but don’t let that stop you from poking around her place and gathering clues.”
And with these words, she got out of the car and Dooley and I followed suit.
I won’t conceal I was feeling a little jolt of excitement. It had been a while since we’d tackled a case together, and even though burglary isn’t exactly high on the list of high crimes, it was still a case, and therefore something to dig our teeth into.
Whoever had burgled Ida was now in our crosshairs. The game was officially afoot!
12
Ida Baumgartner’s apartment was the picture of cleanliness and hygiene. From the moment we walked in, I couldn’t detect a single dust particle, or a germ, for that matter. Of course, the moment we did walk in she gave both me and Dooley the evil eye.
“Cats!” she cried, utterly dismayed. “Why are you bringing cats into my home?”
“I like to think they bring me luck, Mrs. Baumgartner,” said Odelia. “Also, they seem to have a knack for sniffing out clues. Just like dogs.”
Ida sniffed loudly. “Cats sniffing out clues. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” She sneezed and looked even more dismayed. “My allergies. Those beasts of yours are triggering my allergies.”
“Just let them take one look at the place where it happened,” Odelia suggested. “You won’t be disappointed.”
Ida looked unconvinced. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. And why did your uncle send you? Why didn’t he come himself? Or is he too busy cavorting with Mayor Butterwick to bother about the crime wave that’s sweeping our town?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” said Odelia, who’s never been one for idle gossip. “So my father told me you owned a genuine Picasso?”
“Come on, Dooley,” I said. “Let’s take a quick look around, before Mrs. Baumgartner’s allergies really kick in and she kicks us out.”
“She doesn’t seem to like us very much, does she, Max?” asked my friend as we started our tour of the apartment.
“Some people are like that,” I said. “They don’t like cats.”
“I don’t understand. How can anyone not like cats?”
“I know, Dooley. I find it hard to understand, too, but there you have it.”
I couldn’t help checking underneath cabinets and couches as we traversed what I assumed was the living room, and much to my surprise I didn’t find any evidence of dust there either.
“Amazing,” I muttered.
“Did you find a clue already, Max?” asked Dooley.
“Will you look at how clean this place this? Not a dust bunny in sight. How does she do it?”
“Maybe whoever stole her Picasso also stole her dust bunnies?” Dooley suggested.
“I doubt it,” I said. “Dusty bunnies don’t sell for millions at Sotheby’s, as far as I can tell.”
“Millions? Did Mrs. Baumgartner own a painting worth millions?”
“According to her she did. Or at least that’s what she told Tex this morning.”
Odelia had been briefed by her dad before she set out on her trip to Mrs. Baumgartner. As a connoisseur on all things Ida Baumgartner, he was the best source of information where she was concerned, and Tex hadn’t disappointed, with his sensational story about the stolen Picasso.
We checked the living room and poked around in the kitchen, mainly to ascertain whether our reluctant host didn’t own a pet and kept a nice spread of pet food in the kitchen. Unfortunately she did not. So we soon doubled back and joined the conversation, which was in full force in an office off the hallway.
“This was my husband’s office,” Mrs. Baumgartner was explaining to her captious audience. “He was a self-made man, and this is where he conducted his business affairs and ran his empire.”
I glanced around. The walls were bedecked with portraits of a stern-faced man with a weak chin and a pronounced nose. His beady little eyes seemed to stare out at the world in perpetual wonder.
“What business was he in?” asked Odelia.
“Burt sold crockpots, but in his heart of hearts he was an inventor,” said Mrs. Baumgartner proudly. “He invented a new type of vacuum cleaner, then sold his invention to Hoover, only for them to bury his design, deeming it too revolutionary for their taste.”
“Vacuum cleaners again,” Dooley whispered.
“Yeah, they keep popping up,” I intimated with a sense of alarm.
“What was so revolutionary about his invention?” asked Odelia.
“Well, the Burt 1000 didn’t merely suck up the dust as much as obliterate it with laser beams. It zapped the dust particles into oblivion. Only problem was that the first prototype Hoover built mistook its CEO for a dust particle and zapped his nice new Brooks Brothers suit into oblivion, too. He ended up looking very silly dressed in his pink unicorn boxer shorts in front of his entire
staff.” Ida shook her head. “Every great inventor suffers these minor setbacks. Just ask Thomas Edison. Or Alexander Graham Bell. But of course Burt was labeled a crackpot and his prototype was destroyed.”
“Too bad,” said Odelia. “A vacuum cleaner that zaps dust sounds like a great idea.”
“Sounds like a terrible idea to me,” said Dooley, looking panicked at the thought of being zapped by a vacuum cleaner.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near the thing either,” I agreed.
“So is this where the painting hung?” asked Odelia, getting down to business.
An empty spot on the wall was a sad reminder of the theft. Ida nodded. “I know I probably shouldn’t have kept it in the apartment. But what’s the point of buying a Picasso and then putting it in a vault at the bank, never to be seen again? Burt always said art should be enjoyed, not tucked away. And I wholeheartedly agree.”
“Can you tell me what happened, exactly?” asked Odelia, taking out her notebook.
“Well, it was right here yesterday. I know because I dusted it and adjusted one of the lights.” She gestured to the LED lamp that was placed to provide the Picasso with favorable lighting. “And then when I got up this morning it was gone.”
“And you didn’t hear anything?”
“Nothing! Though I have to say I’m a sound sleeper. I take ZzleepIt every night before going to bed, and of course I sleep with noise-canceling headphones, a sleeping mask and a sleep apnea device. So even if the burglars made a lot of noise, I wouldn’t have heard them.” She shivered. “But just imagine—they could have been in my room—looked at me while I was sleeping. And I didn’t even know!”
“And nothing else was stolen?” asked Odelia. “Apart from your… Picasso?”
The slight pause indicated she wasn’t convinced Mrs. Baumgartner’s Picasso was an actual Picasso. Ida had picked up on the pause, too, for her brow furrowed and her expression darkened. “You don’t believe me, do you? Nobody does. They all think Burt was hoodwinked when he got his Picasso. Well, I’ll have you know that when he was still with us he had an expert come in to look at the painting, and the expert—an actual professor from Italy—ascertained that it was genuine. And worth a small fortune.”
Odelia nodded and frowned as she glanced around. “Who knew about your Picasso, Mrs. Baumgartner?”
“Oh, plenty of people. Over the years I must have told all of my friends, and of course the Picasso was the pride of Burt’s collection, so whenever we entertained he always made sure he showed it off to our guests.”
“His collection? You mean you have more paintings?”
“Oh, yes, I do. Though nothing comes close to Burt’s Picasso, of course.”
“Where are your other paintings?”
“Unfortunately I had to sell them off. Burt was a great success in life—he was top Crockpot salesman of the year three years in a row, so that will tell you something. But after he died I unfortunately discovered my dear husband possessed a flaw in the form of a gambling addiction. Turns out he left me nothing but a pile of debts. So I had to sell off the entire collection to pay off those debts.” She gazed lovingly at the portrait of Burt. “I don’t blame him, though. The man was a genius. And as we all know, with a brain that size something has to give, and with Burt it was the ponies, unfortunately.”
As we left the house, and returned to the car, Dooley made an interesting suggestion. “I think I know what happened, Max.”
“Oh?” I said, intrigued.
“I think Burt Baumgartner kept a prototype of his revolutionary vacuum cleaner, and last night it malfunctioned and zapped his Picasso into oblivion, mistaking it for a dust bunny.”
I smiled. “You just might be right, Dooley,” I said. “In fact you may just have cracked the case.”
His excited smile was my reward.
13
Harriet wasn’t too sure she’d bet on the right horse when being picked by Gran to form a sleuthing alliance. Then again, it wasn’t as if she’d had a choice in the matter. Gran had been the one to pick which cats she wanted, and not the other way around.
The reason Harriet thought Odelia would have been the better choice was that Grandma Muffin had a tendency to let her temper get the better of her, and when it came to sleuthing, it was always the cool intellect that won out over raw emotions.
She herself was an excellent sleuth, of course, exactly for that reason: she never let her emotions get the better of her, and always allowed the cold facts to prevail.
They were in Gran’s little red Peugeot, with the old lady behind the wheel, and Brutus and Harriet ensconced on the backseat.
“Wait here,” Gran suddenly ordered as she stomped on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt in front of a modest apartment building, causing Harriet and Brutus to tumble forward and straight into the footwell.
As Gran got out and slammed the door, Harriet and Brutus shared a look of concern. “I thought we were supposed to join the investigation, and now she wants us to stay in the car,” said Brutus, neatly summing up the state of affairs.
“Oh, I think I know what’s going on,” said Harriet, as recognition dawned. “Isn’t this where Scarlett Canyon lives?”
They stared out at the apartment building, which seemed to have been built two decades before, and was nice enough, as apartment buildings go, but not as nice as the house they themselves occupied.
Brutus frowned. “Am I glad that we don’t have to live in a place like this,” he said. “I was an apartment cat for far too long. You wouldn’t believe how much nicer it is to have a backyard to strut your stuff in, to breathe fresh air when you want, or let grass blades tickle your belly.” He sighed. “If there is a God, he sure must like me, to have placed me with the Pooles.” He directed a loving smile at Harriet. “And with you, twinkle toes.”
Harriet simpered a little. She never got tired of listening to her mate pour such sweet nothings into her ear. “Aww, Brutus,” she murmured, well pleased. “Yeah, I wouldn’t like to live in an apartment either.” Though truth be told she wouldn’t know the difference, as she’d lived with the Poole family from the moment she was a little kitten.
The door swung open and Gran and Scarlett walked out, talking animatedly.
“See?” said Harriet with a note of triumph in her voice. “I knew I was right.”
“You’re a great detective, princess,” said Brutus, nodding. “I’ll bet you’ll crack this burglary in no time.”
“Of course I will,” said Harriet. “Have no fear, honey lips. I’ll be onto those nasty burglars before you can say ‘Gotcha!’”
Scarlet dropped into the passenger seat, and Gran took up her position behind the wheel again, then stomped on the gas and the car shot forward, Brutus and Harriet tumbling back. Harriet thought ruefully that not only was Odelia probably the better sleuth, she was also the better driver.
It only took them another ten minutes or so to arrive at a very nice villa in a quiet neighborhood not all that far from where they themselves lived. And as the car skidded to a halt and hit the curb with a thud, they all filed out, Harriet feeling a little queasy after the wild ride they’d had.
“You really should learn how to drive, Vesta,” said Scarlett reproachfully as she checked if all of her body parts were still attached. She was dressed in an extremely tight leopard-print dress that showed off a lot of leg, a lot of cleavage, and made Scarlett look like a lady of the night more than a respectable sleuth. She’d put on bright red lipstick, expanding beyond the boundaries of her mouth, which gave her a clownish look.
“You should talk. You don’t even have a driver’s license,” said Vesta.
“Because I don’t believe in cars,” said Scarlett. “Cars kill hedgehogs, and I happen to like hedgehogs.”
“You like any animal whose sole claim to fame is an erect quill,” Vesta grunted.
“Why didn’t we simply walk here? We should all avoid driving as much as humanly possible and save the plane
t.”
“I don’t like to walk,” said Vesta. “Walking makes my feet hurt. Besides, with the kind of shoes you like to wear you should be grateful one of us can drive a car.”
They all stared at the nine-inch heels Scarlett had opted to wear, and Scarlett frowned. At least Harriet thought she was frowning. It was hard to see with all the Botox injections Vesta’s friend liked to apply to her suspiciously wrinkle-free brow.
“Let’s just go and talk to this guy Mort Hodge,” said Scarlet with a little toss of her head. “Before I accidentally stab you with something hard and erect.”
They walked up the short garden path to the front door and Vesta pressed the bell, applying so much pressure Harriet wondered if she was trying to push it through the panel.
“Please be on your best behavior, Vesta,” said Scarlett as the sound of the bell echoed through the house.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, be less like yourself.”
“And be more like you? Fat chance.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!”
“It means what you want it to mean.”
But before Scarlett could launch a sharp retort, the door swung open and an older man appeared. He was bald on top, with a fringe of white hair around the sides, had a round, friendly face, and a pronounced stoop. “Police?” he asked.
“Neighborhood watch,” Vesta said, conjuring up her best smile for the occasion.
The man frowned a little uncertainly. “I called the police, and they said they’d send someone to take our statements.”
“Well, they sent us,” said Scarlett sweetly, and walked right past the man, who blinked when he caught sight of her jiggling décolletage, visibly suffering from a slight sense of vertigo.