“We must stay vigilant about scanning the crowd,” Madeleine instructed the others. “The burglar is probably watching Mrs. Wellington just like we are… although there is a chance he doesn’t recognize her in light of the current… situation.”
Even in the dim candlelight, Mrs. Wellington’s fashion eccentricity was wholly visible. Half of her tutu had been ripped off and fastened onto Macaroni as a skirt. In addition, Mrs. Wellington had given the bulldog her brown bob wig to wear and had placed Macaroni’s collar around her own head like a sweatband. But perhaps most ghastly were the large gobs of Vaseline falling out of both their mouths. Mrs. Wellington believed that a beauty queen should coat his or her teeth with Vaseline for a shiny smile.
While the other English bulldogs onstage were dressed in tutus and tights, none of them were wearing a wig. And though Mrs. Wellington was the only owner onstage without a dog costume on, she still managed to look the craziest by at least a mile. Judging by her behavior, one couldn’t quite be sure if Mrs. Wellington knew that this was a dog pageant.
Across the stage, Schmidty’s cheeks blushed bright red. The elderly man was terribly concerned about what such an outfit could do to Macaroni’s self-esteem and sense of masculinity. Sure, Macaroni wore pajamas and enjoyed the odd pedicure, but this was too much. Schmidty patted his comb-over nervously as he looked for the stairs to the stage. Something simply had to be done.
“I think Schmidty’s going to try to lure Mrs. Wellington down,” Theo whispered to the others. But before Schmidty was able to locate the stairs, a couple in matching yellow sweaters, droopy brown ears, and black snouts waltzed onto the stage. As the couple approached Finca, it became clear that the woman was carrying a poodle in a baby carrier on her chest.
“Finca, we are sorry to interrupt,” the man said in a chipper tone, “but this is a dog emergency. A dog’s life is literally hanging in the balance here tonight.”
“It better be, since you interrupted my most important show of the night.” Finca grunted angrily at the couple, who she hoped would not try to pass their poodle off as a bulldog.
“Please, you have to believe us. That poor bulldog over there in the wig is in terrible trouble!” the woman with the poodle shrieked, “and that old woman in half a tutu, Mrs. Wellington, is to blame!”
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Wellington said, suddenly snapping to attention. “You are ruining our moment. Could we not discuss this after Macaroni and I win? Perhaps over tea and trophies?”
“No, we most certainly cannot postpone this conversation. Macaroni is being mistreated, and we expect you to answer for it in front of your dog-loving peers,” the man said tensely from under his large black snout.
“So you’re the sticky-fingered twits who broke into Summerstone and stole all my wigs!” Mrs. Wellington responded, shaking her head judgmentally at the couple.
“No, we’re the Knapps,” they chimed in unison before removing their ears and snouts.
“Have you any idea what life is like for a beauty queen with only one wig? It’s absolute torture!” claimed Mrs. Wellington.
“Torture is what you are doing to that dog,” Mr. Knapp announced confidently, “and we are here to stop you.”
“What?” Mrs. Wellington asked in genuine confusion. “You mean the wig and tutu?”
“No. We actually think dogs enjoy dressing up,” Mrs. Knapp responded. “It helps get them in touch with their creativity.”
“Well, at least we agree on that.”
“OK, so it’s not the tutu,” Finca interjected. “Let’s get on with this; we’ve got a pageant happening here.”
“Mrs. Wellington does not have a doggy seat belt for Macaroni!” Mr. Knapp blurted out.
“Would you allow your babies to ride without a seat belt?” Mrs. Knapp dramatically asked the crowd. “Any sudden braking, and boom—baby through the windshield!”
“It’s true that I do not have a seat belt for Macaroni,” Mrs. Wellington admitted to the Knapps, Finca, and the crowd, “but that is only because I don’t have a car, you nitwits!”
“On top of that, you refuse to get him braces or acupuncture, and you haven’t even enrolled him in yoga! Dogs need yoga to unwind!” Mrs. Knapp screeched, her emotion apparent.
“Yoga? Macaroni doesn’t even like to stretch, let alone do yoga. He is a bulldog, and everyone knows they lack the mental and physical capacity for yoga. As dog people, I thought you would have known that, but clearly I was wrong. Then again, what can I expect from wig thieves!”
“What about the way you make him work? Polishing furniture with his tongue?” Mrs. Knapp continued fiercely.
“I would never make Macaroni do any such thing. I save all demeaning jobs for my manservant, Schmidty.”
At that moment Schmidty attempted to pull himself onto the stage, but as he was rather thick and mountainlike at his waist, he couldn’t quite manage it.
“Oh, there’s Schmidty now! See him? The one with the comb-over and very large belly. You can ask him yourself!” Mrs. Wellington shot back victoriously. “He is most definitely the only one being mistreated in my care, and that is only because he enjoys it so much.”
Finca, feeling sorry for the floundering Schmidty, used her long arms to aid the rotund man as he clambered onto the stage.
“Thank you so much, Miss Finca. I haven’t been able to get to the gym lately,” Schmidty mumbled with embarrassment as he stood up.
“It’s true, Mr. and Mrs. Knapp, it is I, not Macaroni, who on occasion has cleaned the furniture with my own saliva and tongue. I worked the hardest on Grace’s shell, which you cruelly stole from Summerstone and from me. So before you continue with Madame, you must explain your dastardly theft to me.”
“We were trying to rescue Macaroni,” Mr. Knapp expounded in a discombobulated manner, “but Macaroni never left your side or Mrs. Wellington’s side for a second, so we started taking random items to throw you off. We even bribed that unusual man in the forest to distract you. We will happily return all that stuff—we just want Macaroni!”
“Well, you can’t have him,” Schmidty said firmly.
“You don’t deserve him!” Mrs. Knapp shot back.
“I most certainly do! I brush this dog’s teeth twice a day!”
“Yes, you may brush his teeth, but what about the horrible and dangerous manner in which you feed him?” Mr. Knapp said while trying to maintain a smile.
“Of all the cockamamie nonsense I have heard in my life, this is the absolute worst,” Mrs. Wellington chimed in. “The dog eats at the table, on a chair, from a sterling silver bowl, in the formal dining room at my mansion. What could be more civilized than that? And don’t say dressing him in a tuxedo, because we tried that, and he simply won’t have it.”
“How about placing each piece of kibble delicately on Macaroni’s tongue to make sure he doesn’t eat too quickly and choke?” Mrs. Knapp said tensely.
“Why stop there? Perhaps you should prechew the food for your dog too?” Mrs. Wellington shot back sarcastically.
“We tried that. Jeffrey didn’t like it. His pet therapist said it made him feel too much like a bird,” Mrs. Knapp responded, causing the crowd to gasp in disgust.
“Stop!” Finca screamed. “As master of ceremonies, I am putting an end to this insanity!”
“Thank you,” Mr. and Mrs. Knapp said in unison. “This is exactly why we came here. We knew you would understand.”
“Understand?” Finca said before maniacally laughing. “The only thing I understand is that you have ruined my favorite part of the Pooch Pageant, and for that you will pay.”
“What?” Mr. and Mrs. Knapp gasped, in shock.
“I am blacklisting you from every specialty pet store in the Northeast region. That means no doggy sweaters, no doggy shoes, no doggy massages, and definitely no doggy yoga. You’ll be lucky if Petco lets you in the door.”
Mrs. Knapp immediately collapsed into hysterics, forcing her husband to carry her and Jeffrey offstage.
“
Well done, Finca,” Mrs. Wellington said victoriously. “Well done.”
“Oh, I’m not done, Wellington,” Finca responded devilishly.
“Oh dear. I doubt those two can take any more,” Mrs. Wellington said truthfully.
“Are you enjoying the pageant, Mrs. Wellington?”
“This is the happiest day of my life! I never knew that two of my great passions, pageantry and dogs, could be combined. It’s the most marvelous, spectacular place on earth!”
“It is, isn’t it?” Finca said as she stared Mrs. Wellington straight in the eye. “Unfortunately, this is the first and only time you will ever be allowed in a pooch pageant. For your act of disorderly conduct I am banishing you from all pooch pageants worldwide for the remainder of your life!”
“No!” Mrs. Wellington wailed as she dropped to her knees. “Please, I will do anything! Don’t take this away from me! From us! What has Macaroni done to deserve this?”
“I am afraid the damage is done,” Finca said unemotionally.
“Mrs. Wellington,” Hyacinth screamed as she hoisted herself onto the stage with Celery on her shoulder, “where are those rotten boys? Celery wants to punish them!”
“All of you, out!!!!!!!!!!!” Finca roared angrily. “Out! Out this second, or I’ll ban you from buying canine clothes!”
CHAPTER 19
EVERYONE’S AFRAID OF SOMETHING:
Atychiphobia is the fear of failure.
Franklin Park was aglow with the last remnants of the day’s sun when Mrs. Wellington stepped dejectedly out of the red-and-white-striped tent. The soft breeze on her scalp reminded the old woman dressed in half a pink tutu that Macaroni still had her wig on. While she would never admit it to Schmidty or even the children, she was a tad disappointed that the Knapps had turned out to be the burglars. It was a great deal more soothing to her ego to believe that a former rival still feared her beauty.
Ever the attentive manservant, Schmidty placed the wig back on Mrs. Wellington’s head after removing Macaroni’s collar. He then moved on to Macaroni, removing the tutu. Schmidty simply could not bear to see the dog dressed in pink tulle for one more second.
Mrs. Wellington and Schmidty led the pack back to the van, keeping a fairly brisk pace considering their advanced years. A few steps behind Mrs. Wellington and Schmidty, Lulu, Garrison, and Madeleine walked in silence. Madeleine’s arms were flailing about as usual in a lame effort to dissuade bugs or insects from approaching. “Would it be a terrible bother to ask you both to wave your arms around as well? If there are six arms instead of two, I have a higher chance of surviving the walk to the van without a run-in.”
“Sure,” Garrison agreed, too tired to put up a fuss over Madeleine’s irrational request.
“Great. In addition to walking behind an old woman in half a tutu and a man with pants pulled up to his neck, the three of us are waving our arms around like a bunch of wackos,” Lulu grumbled. “No wonder we got kicked out of a dog pageant for being too weird.”
Quite a way behind the arm-wavers were Theo, Hyacinth, and Macaroni. Theo was exhausted from all the pageantry hoopla and moving at an exceptionally slow pace.
“Thee Thee, snap to it! Celery thinks you need to pick up the pace big-time!”
“I haven’t had a bite of food in hours. Do you have any idea what that does to a growing man?”
Hyacinth attempted to pull Theo along, but the boy refused to increase his speed. Macaroni then passed Hyacinth and Theo, much to the girl’s aggravation. The fact that a bulldog could waddle faster than Theo seemed an insult to the natural order. Normally, Hyacinth wouldn’t have cared in the slightest, but she was still more than a bit peeved about having been abandoned in the tent.
“Stop pulling my arm. I have very sensitive joints,” Theo protested.
“Celery would like to know if a doctor gave you that diagnosis.”
“Kind of… I diagnosed myself after watching an actor pretending to be a doctor on television.”
“Celery says that there is nothing wrong with your arm. She says the only problem you have is that you’re out of shape! Big-time!”
“Tell your ferret that I don’t do very well with negative reinforcement. If you really want to help the situation, you could sing something from High School Musical to get my enthusiasm back up.”
“Hyacinth,” Lulu hollered back from up ahead.
“Hyhy,” Hyacinth corrected.
“Really? You’re still correcting us,” Lulu said as she stopped and turned to look at Hyacinth. “Clearly that nickname isn’t sticking; I think it’s time to let it go. Oh, and if you start singing, I can’t be held responsible for what I’ll do.”
“Lulu, you shouldn’t threaten her—she is only a child. A highly bothersome one, but a child nonetheless,” Madeleine added in a rather stern voice.
“Thank you, Mad Mad!” Hyacinth said, with a little too much enthusiasm.
“Oh, enough with the Mad Mad! It’s time you plainly accept that you are not very good at coming up with nicknames, Hyacinth. In truth, neither am I. That’s why I simply call everyone by their proper name.”
“Celery thinks you secretly like being called Mad Mad and that I should keep doing it no matter what you say!”
“Tell Celery that in some parts of England, people eat ferrets,” Madeleine said harshly.
Tired, irritated, and hungry, the students walked the remainder of the way back to the van in silence. Other than Macaroni’s heavy panting and the grasshoppers chirping, there was nary a sound to be heard.
Without a pageant start time to make, everyone expected Mrs. Wellington to obey basic traffic laws, look at the road, and generally make an effort to get them home alive. However, as soon as the old woman turned the key, she stomped on the gas pedal and took her eyes off the road.
“Madame, as pleasurable as almost dying and being arrested was on the drive here, we are not in any rush to get home, so perhaps you could slow to within ten miles of the speed limit,” Schmidty said as the van’s tires squealed loudly while rounding a corner.
“Yes, I suppose that is true. It’s not as if anyone is waiting for us at home.”
“Actually, the cats are home, but they’re definitely not waiting for us, since they probably haven’t noticed we’re gone because they sleep all day,” Theo expounded, shaking his head. “Talk about lazy.”
“Excuse me, but have you all forgotten that there are hundreds of spiders and beetles roaming the house, just waiting for us to get home? Oh, no! Simply thinking about it makes me ill,” Madeleine wailed.
“Then stop thinking about it,” Garrison said firmly, “because I really don’t want you to get sick in the car. And I say this both as a friend and as the boy sitting next to you.”
The students nodded in and out of consciousness, waking only for the sound of cars honking or tires screeching. By the time Mrs. Wellington turned onto Main Street, everyone was wide awake and salivating over the thought of a warm meal before bed.
Much to Mrs. Wellington’s and Schmidty’s surprise, the sheriff was standing outside the station. Even in the long shadow cast by the brim of the sheriff’s hat, Schmidty could see that something was horribly wrong. The sheriff wasn’t a man who blanched easily, but he was downright pale. Oblivious to the sheriff’s expression, Mrs. Wellington exited the van while Schmidty remained seated to prepare himself for what was to come.
“Hello, Sheriff. How civilized of you to greet us at the curb,” Mrs. Wellington said with a smile. “I am loath to disappoint you, but I did not come home with a trophy, nor did Macaroni, but only because those silly Knapps got us thrown out of the doggy pageant! Honestly, those two are such a nuisance, and their fashion sense is absolutely catastrophic. I think we ought to lobby Congress to pass a law about married couples dressing in matching outfits.”
“Mrs. Wellington, I think you’d better come inside. I’ve got some troubling news to share with you, and I think you may need to be seated.”
“Oh, no!”
Mrs. Wellington gasped loudly, not moving an inch, “Don’t tell me Schmidty has died!”
“What? No. He’s right there,” the sheriff said as Schmidty joined the two on the sidewalk, leaving Macaroni and the children in the van.
“Oh, thank heavens! For a second I thought you were dead,” Mrs. Wellington said as she turned to Schmidty.
“Thought or hoped?” the old man spat back. “Sheriff, I sense from your worried expression that something fairly dire has transpired. Might I suppose that Munchauser has stolen another racehorse? Or lost his cat in a poker game?”
“I wish I could say yes, but this isn’t about Munchauser. It’s about someone named Sylvie Montgomery.”
“Sylvie who?” Mrs. Wellington asked, perplexed.
“I don’t recall Madame ever having had a student named Sylvie.”
“Sylvie isn’t a former student. She’s a reporter, and she arrived in town about an hour ago. Mrs. Wellington, she knows about the school. And from what she was describing to me, her interpretations of your methods are pretty horrible. I’m sure you both can imagine how awful things sound when taken out of context by someone who hasn’t been to the school.”
“But how,” Schmidty whispered, “how could she know so much about us?”
“Apparently, someone gave her the inside scoop at the dog beauty pageant.”
“Oh, dear,” Schmidty mumbled.
“And that’s not the worst of it,” the sheriff continued.
“This woman is on the verge of exposing my school, a place I have raised as if it were my very own child, and yet there is something worse? How is that even possible? And don’t say she killed Schmidty. I don’t think I could handle it…”
“Again, Madame, I am right here, utterly alive.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” Mrs. Wellington said dramatically, her hand pressed to her forehead.
“Sylvie knows about Abernathy. Her angle is that your unorthodox tactics drove him to live in the woods, alone and cut off from society. It’s pretty sensational stuff.”
“How long do we have?” Mrs. Wellington muttered.
Class Is Not Dismissed! Page 11