Purrfect Cover (The Mysteries of Max Book 25)

by Nic Saint

  “Oh, Dooley,” I said, and rolled my eyes.

  29

  Johnny Carew had been brooding—thinking hard. And since thinking hard was not his usual line of work, he was feeling tired. Sweat droplets glistened on his noble brow, and he was frowning before him like he’d never frowned before. He usually wasn’t the kind of crook who believed in escaping from prison, but since this was the first time he’d been imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit, he felt justified in putting his weight behind Jerry’s idea of getting out of there.

  Unfortunately, try as he might, no plan of escape seemed forthcoming. Of course he readily admitted to not possessing his associate’s formidable brain, being more the brawn of the criminal twosome. Still, he’d hoped to at least make some contribution. The only thing he could come up with, though, was a simple plan, and he was sure that Jerry would dismiss it out of hand.

  Nevertheless he felt it incumbent upon himself to enlighten his partner with the fruits of his intellectual labor, ridiculous as they might seem to a genius like Jer.

  “All I can think of is to knock out the guards,” he said. “You pretend to be sick, foaming at the mouth, and I knock ‘em out cold and grab their keys. And then I knock out everyone that tries to stop us. Dumb plan, I know,” he added with an apologetic shrug.

  But Jerry’s eyes lit up. “Don’t sell yourself short, Johnny. I think it’s brilliant. Knock out everyone that stands in our way. That’s the way to do it. And you’re the man for the job.”

  “I am?” asked Johnny, well pleased with this rare compliment from one who rarely paid him any compliments at all.

  “Sure, sure. I’ll froth at the mouth, and thrash around a bit, and you knock ‘em all out. Let’s do it. I’m sick and tired of this place—and the lousy food.”

  Jerry was right. The least they could do was to feed them their proper three square meals a day. They might be crooks, but they were also human beings. And besides, they were innocent, though probably the chef and his kitchen crew didn’t know that.

  “I’ll call the guard and you start foaming, Jer,” said Johnny, happy by this endorsement from his critical partner. “Heeeeelp!” he screamed. “Heeeeelp! Come and help us!”

  Unfortunately, no matter how loud he yelled, no one came.

  “What’s taking them so long?” grunted Jerry, lying on the cold floor and getting ready to do some serious frothing and thrashing.

  “Maybe they’re on their break,” Johnny suggested. “I’ll give it another shot.” And so he repeated the procedure, this time adding some foot stomping to the mix.

  A guard finally came shuffling up, looking bored and munching a chocolate sprinkle donut. “What’s all the fuss?” he asked.

  “My partner is sick and dying!” Johnny cried, and gestured to Jerry, now properly thrashing and convincingly frothing. In fact he put so much heart into his performance that even Johnny was getting nervous. “Do something!” he told the guard. “Call a doctor!”

  “We’re understaffed,” said the cop. “In fact I’m the only one here.”

  Even better, thought Johnny. Even though he didn’t mind knocking out the odd cop here and there, in general he liked people, even cops, and preferred not having to knock them around too much if he could help it.

  “Open the door, please, sir,” he said now. “I think he’s dying!”

  The guard didn’t look excited by the idea of having to bend over Jerry, whose face was now awash with his own saliva. “Yuck,” he muttered as he glanced over to the thrashing man and shoved the last piece of donut into his mouth, then wiped his hands on his trousers. “Um, I’ll call a doctor, shall I? Don’t go anywhere.”

  Cop humor, Johnny thought. “Just open the door and check on him. Don’t they teach you CPR at the police academy? He’ll be dead soon and it’ll be on you. There will be an investigation and they’ll blame his death on you, sir.”

  “Christ,” said the cop, rubbing his face with indecision. He then took out a key, inserted it into the lock and turned. The moment he entered the cell, Johnny heaved one of his meaty fists over the man’s head, and let it come down with considerable force.

  The cop said, “Ick,” and went down like a ton of bricks.

  Jerry, however, was so caught up in his performance that he hadn’t even noticed the work was already done, and the road to freedom wide open. Instead, he kept on foaming and thrashing like there was no tomorrow. Johnny, now seriously concerned, shook his partner by the shoulder. “Jerry. Jerry! Oh, God. He’s really dying!”

  So he did the only thing he could think of, which was to take the bucket of water located in the corner of their holding cell, and chuck its contents into the cop’s face, waking the man up again.

  “Do something, sir!” he cried. “My partner is dying!”

  The cop took a moment to get his wits together, then got up, glared at Johnny, walked out of the cell and slammed the door shut and stalked off.

  “Sir? Sir!” Johnny cried. “My friend—”

  “You moron!” Jerry suddenly bellowed.

  Johnny wheeled around and was relieved to see his friend back in his usual form. “Jerry! You’re all right!”

  “Of course I’m all right! But you won’t be all right if I get my hands on you!”

  And with these words he sprang up from his position on the floor, making a miraculous recovery the likes of which humanity hasn’t witnessed since Lazarus walked out of his cave, and started chasing Johnny around the cell.

  Five minutes later, when Tex Poole finally arrived, doctor’s bag in hand, he took one look at Johnny and Jerry in the midst of their morning jog, shook his head and muttered, “Did you have to make me skip my breakfast for this?” and walked off again.

  30

  I was so happy that Fifi was fine that it was with a spring in my step that I passed through the little gate and back into my own backyard, Dooley in my wake.

  Fifi may be a dog, and cats and dogs don’t usually mix, but Fifi is a special kind of dog, very sweet and very cuddly, and I wish her nothing but the best, and most definitely not a piece of poisoned meat!

  “If these are the same people that are responsible for the other burglaries, then we have to consider the fact that you arrested the wrong guys,” said Odelia as Chase stared at the piece of poisoned meat through the clear plastic baggie he liked to use for exactly this kind of purpose.

  “Yeah, probably,” he said. “Though until we find these other guys you’ll never convince your uncle to let Vale and Carew walk. And definitely not after the stunt they pulled yesterday.”

  “No, I guess trying to escape wasn’t the best course of action,” Odelia admitted. She and Chase walked into the house while Dooley and I stayed out and enjoyed the pleasant sensation of the morning sun on our fur for a few moments more.

  Harriet and Brutus had joined us from next door, and it was with a light heart that I explained to them what had transpired in their absence.

  “Fifi poisoned,” said Harriet, looking shocked and dismayed. “You do realize this could have happened to any of us, right?”

  “I’d never eat a piece of poisoned meat, though,” said Brutus. “I’d know immediately that it was poisoned and I’d tell Odelia.”

  “You’re right, hubby wubby,” said Harriet. “Only dogs can be so dumb to eat a piece of poisoned meat.”

  I bridled a little at this. I mean, dogs will never be my favorite pets in the world, but coming on the heels of this near-tragedy, Harriet’s words stung, and I told her in no uncertain terms what I thought of them.

  She seemed chastened after my reprimand, and said, “I guess I was being a little too harsh. Dogs aren’t dumb. They’re simply… undiscerning, shall we say?”

  “All right,” I conceded. “I’ll give you that. Dogs can be a little undiscerning, that’s true. Which is exactly why Fifi ate that piece of meat.”

  “I actually ate that piece of meat because it tasted good,” said Fifi, now joining us.

  “Oh, F
ifi!” said Harriet. “I’m so glad you’re all right!”

  “Not only did it taste really, really good, but it also smelled fantastic,” said Fifi ruefully. “If only I’d known…”

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it,” I said. “It could have happened to anyone.”

  “Only to a dumb dog like me, though,” said Fifi.

  “Oh, Fifi, please don’t say that,” said Harriet, horrified that the doggie had heard her words. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re not dumb. In fact you’re probably the smartest dog I know.”

  “Yeah, not like that dummy Rufus,” Brutus scoffed.

  A dog throat being cleared could be heard, and suddenly Rufus was there, giving Brutus a funny look. “I may be a dummy,” the big sheepdog said, “but my hearing is excellent.”

  Brutus had the decency to blush under his fur, and muttered, “Sorry about that. I, I… I don’t know why I said that.”

  “Probably because you think I’m dumb?” Rufus suggested.

  “I’m sorry, Rufus,” Brutus repeated, thoroughly eating crow now. “I shouldn’t have said that. I really shouldn’t.”

  “It’s all right,” said Rufus. “I know some cats talk before they think. But what’s all this about Fifi and poisoned meat?”

  And since Rufus hadn’t yet been apprised of the facts pertaining to the case, Fifi proceeded to enlighten him. Soon the story would do the rounds of Hampton Cove, and every pet would be talking about what happened. In that sense pets are probably even worse than humans: we’re big on gossip. And I mean really big. In fact gossiping is pretty much all we do all day. When we’re not sleeping, eating or going to the litter box, that is.

  And since one thing leads to another, soon Harriet was telling Fifi and Rufus all about my recent encounter with the Roomba, and much to both dogs’ delight, describing in graphic detail how I jumped on top of the thing, riding it like a cowboy riding a bronco, and managed to wear the thing down and bring home a smashing victory for Team Cats.

  I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we were feeling much better when we finally returned indoors.

  My happiness wasn’t to last, though, for the moment I stepped through the pet flap I became aware of a new challenge having infiltrated our home in the form of a dumpy woman, her black hair in a bob, giving us the evil eye the moment we entered the house.

  “Max, Dooley,” said Odelia. “Meet Blanche. Blanche is our new cleaner. She’ll come in three mornings a week to keep our house spic and span. Isn’t that right, Blanche?”

  “Are you sure it’s a good idea to allow cats into your home?” asked Blanche in a raspy voice I immediately recognized as belonging to a heavy smoker.

  “Oh, but Max and Dooley are very clean,” Odelia assured the cleaner.

  “Mh,” said Blanche, clearly not a cat person. “Where I come from cats are strictly forbidden to enter the house. They are, after all, creatures of the night, and are out and about catching mice, and when they’re not out and about catching mice they’re sleeping on the porch.”

  “In the winter, too?” asked Odelia, horrified by the prospect of her cats freezing their tushies off.

  “Cats are tough and hardened creatures,” said Blanche. “They’re used to the cold. That’s why they got fur. Now where do you want me to start?”

  And as Odelia explained to Blanche the ins and outs of the house, and where she could find the necessary cleaning supplies, Dooley and I exchanged a horrified look.

  “I don’t like this, Max,” said Dooley, indicating we were on the same page where Blanche was concerned.

  And when I glanced over into the living room and saw a huge vacuum cleaner—the industrial kind that can suck an entire star system into its belly without batting an eye—I shivered and said, “I don’t like it either, Dooley.”

  I mean, that vacuum cleaner was all gleaming chrome and HUGE!

  And as I studied this new enemy, it almost seemed to be grinning at me, and daring me to jump on top of it and ride it like a bucking bronco.

  I had the impression it would sooner ride me than me it!

  31

  “My Picasso still hasn’t been returned. I’m starting to think I should file a complaint against your brother-in-law for gross negligence. Only problem is: where do you file a complaint against the police? With the Mayor? But I want to file a complaint against her, too!”

  And it was with this predicament that Ida Baumgartner left Tex, once the latter had assured her that the purple spot on her inner thigh wasn’t skin cancer but an innocent spot and absolutely not life-threatening at all.

  Once she was gone, he tapped his upper lip for a moment. Ida’s words had rung a bell. He, too, was the proud owner of a very expensive painting, and just before Ida had walked in, Marge had phoned him and told him all about the break-in Kurt Mayfield had suffered. His Jackson Pollock had been stolen, with Vale and Carew in prison.

  It was obvious, therefore, that a second gang was active in Hampton Cove, or even a first gang, in which case Vale and Carew were innocent after all, as they kept claiming.

  Then again, innocent men don’t try to escape from prison.

  He picked up his cell and dialed the number on the card from the information packet he’d taken into the office to give another read-through.

  “Iris Johnson,” said a pleasant voice on the other end of the call. “Johnson and Johnson Insurance. How can I help you?”

  “Hi, Miss Johnson,” he said. “This is Tex Poole. You paid me a visit last night in regards to my painting? I wanted to give you an update, just like you asked.”

  Miss Johnson’s voice turned unctuous. “Of course, Dr. Poole, what is it?”

  “Well, I’ve moved my painting to a safe place, which the contract probably should reflect.”

  “Excellent decision, Dr. Poole. I would like to reiterate that the safest place for a valuable painting like yours is in a safety deposit box, either at the bank or at home. Though the bank would add another layer of protection that your home can’t provide. They have alarm systems in place, security guards, steel-enforced doors—the works.”

  “No, I want to keep it at home,” he said.

  “In a safe?”

  “Oh, no, I don’t need a safe,” he assured the insurance broker. “I’ve got something a lot safer than a safe.”

  “Safer than a safe?” asked the woman. “And where would that possibly be, Dr. Poole?”

  “In my garden shed,” he said proudly. He’d given the matter some thought and had decided that Marge was right. The bedroom, though ideal for admiring an exquisite work of art like Big Gnome #21, was not all that safe after all. Just look at what happened to Kurt. No, a garden shed was the best place for his painting. “No one in their right mind would look inside a garden shed, Miss Johnson.”

  “Well, it’s your business, of course, Dr. Poole, but I would still advise you to acquire a safe and then preferably a built-in model so no one can pick it up and run off with it.”

  “I think I’ll stick to my garden shed,” he insisted.

  “That’s fine, but that means your premium will go up. More risk for us, you see.”

  He wavered for a moment, then said, “That’s all right. I’ll happily pay extra.”

  The conversation concluded, Tex settled back in his chair. He glanced at the wall, where now a calendar issued by the American Medical Association hung, depicting a 3D rendering of the large intestine, and sighed wistfully when he thought he could have been looking at Big Gnome #21 instead, if not for the burglars and thieves of this world.

  Oh, the joys robbed from law-abiding citizens just because some people couldn’t distinguish between mine and thine.

  Just then, his phone chimed and he saw that his mother-in-law desired speech.

  “Vesta?” he said. “When are you coming in?”

  “I’m not coming in,” said Vesta. “The neighborhood watch is demanding my full attention. Did you hear about Kurt Mayfield?”

  “Yea
h, Marge just told me. Terrible thing. Absolutely terrible. Then again, he probably shouldn’t have kept his Jackson Pollock in his bedroom. Worst possible place to keep a valuable painting like that. Everybody knows that.”

  “I’m just calling to tell you to watch out, Tex. Marge told me you foolishly squandered her money on some ridiculous daubing of a troll, and you’ll want to be on the lookout for the same thieves that hit Mayfield.”

  He was going to argue that the ‘daubing’ of the ‘troll’ was in fact a precious work of art, but didn’t see the point. There’s no arguing with these cultural barbarians, after all.

  “Buy a safe, Tex, or put the painting in the bank. Just a free PSA from your neighborhood watch. And don’t come crying to me when your troll gets nabbed. See you later.” And with these words, she ended the conversation.

  Tex shook his head. He loved his wife dearly, but if there was one fault she had, it was that she’d had a mother when she was born.

  “Those two crooks tried to escape again,” Vesta grunted as she placed her phone on the table. “Got a call from Dolores and she told me they knocked out the guard and tried to make a run for it. Lucky for us they were too dumb to follow through on their plan.”

  “They’ll keep trying,” said Scarlett. “They’ll keep trying until they succeed, and then they’ll come after us, Vesta. Have you thought about that? They’ll come after us and they won’t come bearing gifts.”

  “I know,” said Vesta.

  They were seated in the outside dining area of the Hampton Cove Star, sipping lattes and eating cake. It was a great spot to discuss neighborhood watch business. The only drawback was that Wilbur Vickery couldn’t join them, as he had to be at the store, and that Father Reilly was absent, too, as he had to be at his church.

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Vesta now. “You know how those two claim to have found religion, right?”