by Nic Saint
But Dooley was right—we could spend all night wandering around and accomplish nothing.
So we set paw for the cemetery entrance when suddenly I became aware of voices where no voices should have been.
“It’s them, Max!” Dooley whispered as we both hid behind a tombstone in a reflex action.
“Aliens?” I guessed.
“No, zombies. Or yeah, maybe aliens.”
“Make up your mind, Dooley. Is it aliens or zombies?”
“Maybe it’s alien zombies?”
“It’s kids,” I said after a moment’s pause.
And indeed it was. We approached stealthily, and saw how a couple of kids were standing around what looked like an open grave, and one of them had jumped down into the grave and now said, “Looks like a fresh one, boys. Har har har.”
“Let’s dig her up,” said one of his buddies with marked glee.
All in all I counted no less than six of them. They were drinking from open containers of beer, sipping from liquor bottles, and looked drunk and getting drunker by the second.
“You see, Dooley?” I said. “No zombies and no aliens. Just stupid kids.”
A wheelbarrow stood nearby, and the kids now dragged something up out of the grave, and placed it on the wheelbarrow.
“Giddy-up!” said the kid who’d dug the grave. He crawled out and dumped the shovel.
And then they were off, maneuvering the wheelbarrow with its precious load, singing a merry tune all the while. They were zigzagging, but that was probably the alcohol.
“Grave robbers,” I said.
I found myself wondering if these were the same kids who were responsible for the skeleton in Blake Carrington’s field, especially since I now remembered the empty cans of beer lying around that area, and the remnants of a fire.
“Let’s follow them,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I want to know what they’re up to.”
And so we followed them at a safe distance, and soon we’d left the graveyard, and watched as they placed the remains of what must have been a human in the back of a car, then slammed the trunk shut and were off, the car swerving violently before it raced away at a very respectable rate of speed, the kids howling like timberwolves. A beer can came whizzing from the car window, hit Dooley’s tinfoil hat off his head, and rolled to a stop.
“Hooligans, Max!” said Dooley as he retrieved his little hat.
I gave the beer can a good sniff, and memorized the scent for later use.
What? If dogs can do it, so can we!
“And now let’s go and get Fifi and Rufus out here,” I said. “We have a murder to solve, Dooley, and the sooner we do it, the better!”
“All right, Max,” said my friend. So he straightened his hat, and then we were off.
28
“Chase?”
“Yeah, babe?”
They were in bed, and instead of reading a book, Odelia was studying some of the information her uncle had sent over about the girl whose skeleton had been found nearby.
“That girl—Serena Kahl?”
“Mh-mh?”
“She was exactly the same age as Angel.”
“Is that so?”
Chase looked up from the hard-boiled crime novel he’d been reading.
“Yeah, and there are other similarities. Listen to this. Serena Kahl was nineteen, same as Angel, she went to a Catholic school, her father was a pastor and her mother the school principal. She disappeared after a night out with her friends and she was never found. And also, when she disappeared there was a full moon.”
“There was a full moon last night?”
“Yep, there was.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Chase. “So you think…”
“Like you said, we could be dealing with a serial killer, Chase.”
Chase frowned thoughtfully. “We better dig a little deeper, and see if there haven’t been more of these mysterious disappearances.”
“You know what this means, though, right?”
“That Angel might be dead already.”
It was a sobering thought, and one Odelia didn’t like to dwell on, but it certainly was a thought that seemed all too plausible.
So we finally arrived home, and when we did, and proceeded straight into Marge and Tex’s backyard, hoping to find Rufus out and about, we came upon Gran instead, who was seated on the porch swing reading a book. The sight was so incongruous that we both sat and stared for a moment, before making our presence known.
“Gran, you’re reading a book,” said Dooley.
“Oh, hey, you guys,” said Gran. “And full marks for being so observant, Dooley. You’re right. I am reading a book. And not just any book—a great little tome.”
“But… you never read.”
It was true. I’d never seen Gran read a book before. Usually all she did was watch television: Jeopardy, reality shows, soap operas, movies—she was up for almost anything.
“Like I said, this is a great book.” She held it up so we could see the cover.
“My life in Tahiti,” I read. “By Malcolm Philan.”
“Who’s Malcolm Philan, Gran?” asked Dooley.
“Scarlett’s uncle. He lived in Tahiti for over seventy years and he’s written a book about his life. Very entertaining, I must say.” She adjusted her glasses and frowned. “Why are you wearing a tinfoil hat?”
“Dooley is afraid he’s going to be abducted by aliens,” I explained.
“They abducted Angel Church,” said Dooley. “And Big Mac says they’re also abducting pets now, especially pets that are either healthy or smart or both, and since I’m healthy I have to make sure they won’t catch me.”
“Okay, I see,” said Gran with a grin of amusement. “I actually wanted to ask you something.”
“Sure, shoot,” I said.
“Well, you know how Tex is worried about losing his hair, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So he asked me to ask you what your secret is—why cats don’t lose their hair, like humans do.”
“Oh, gee, Gran,” said Dooley, “that’s easy. Because we’re much smaller than humans, see?”
“And how do you explain that?”
“Well, gravity pulls at you, and when you’re big, it pulls at you hard, but when you’re small, like us, it pulls at you much less.”
“So?”
“So gravity pulls at humans very hard, and especially at the tops of their heads, where their hair grows? And when it has a hard time getting a good grip, the hair tends to come loose, and that’s when humans lose their hair—especially the ones with big heads.”
Gran had to laugh at this. “Dooley, gravity pulls you down, not up!”
“Oh,” said Dooley, seeing the flaw in his reasoning.
“But it’s a nice theory, and I’ll definitely tell Tex to watch out for that nasty gravity pulling his hair!”
“Okay, so maybe it’s the sun?” Dooley tried again. “Because humans are so tall, they’re much closer to the sun than we are, so when it burns the tops of their heads, it makes their hair fall out. It’s also why you have to make sure to water your lawn in the summer.”
“So what do you suggest? That Tex waters his hair?”
“Um…” But then Dooley’s eyes lit up. “I got it! He should always wear a hat!”
“Boom! Problem solved,” said Gran. “Thank you, Dooley.”
“All joking aside, I think the actual secret is in our saliva,” I told Gran. “Us cats are big at grooming ourselves. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we don’t take baths—we lick ourselves. So the big secret must be in our saliva. That’s why we have such amazing fur.”
Gran frowned. “I’d tell Tex to lick his head, but I don’t think he’d go for it. After all, his tongue is only so long.”
“We can’t lick the tops of our heads either, but we lick our paws, then rub our heads.”
Gran smiled. “I would love to see Tex lick his h
ands then rub them over his head.”
“That wouldn’t work,” I explained patiently. “Like I said, the secret is in our saliva.”
I could see a light had come into her eyes. Clearly inspiration had struck. Now whether that was a good thing or a bad thing remained to be seen. But since we had more important things to deal with, I said, “And now if you’ll excuse us, we have a body to find.”
“Of course you do,” said Gran with a chuckle, as she returned to Malcolm Philan’s Tahitian adventures. Judging from the picture on the cover he’d spent most of his seventy years entertaining Tahitian belly dancers.
And so we proceeded into Ted and Marcie’s backyard, and called out quietly for Rufus.
“Hey, fellas,” the sheepdog immediately replied, and moved out of the darkness and into the light from the moon. “You’re up late.”
“We want to ask you a favor,” said Dooley.
“Don’t tell me. You want me to sniff out more dead people?”
Dooley stared at the dog. “How did you know!”
“I was kidding, you guys. You’re not serious, are you?”
But when he saw the serious expressions on our faces, he knew exactly how serious we were: dead serious!
“I think Father Reilly accidentally killed his own daughter,” I explained, “and buried her in an unmarked grave at the cemetery. And now we want you to sniff out where she’s buried. Do you think you can do that?”
“Oh, sure,” said Rufus. “At least if she’s there.”
“She’s there, all right,” I said. “It’s the most plausible solution to this mystery.”
“Can Fifi come, too? It’s always more fun when we can work together. And besides, her nose is more developed than mine.”
“Odd, isn’t it?” said Dooley.
“What is?” asked the large sheepdog, as he followed us into the next backyard.
“Well, your nose is bigger than Fifi’s so you should be able to smell better than she does.”
“Yeah, Dooley, that is odd,” said Rufus with a smile.
We wandered into the other backyard, and softly called out Fifi’s name. Moments later, the Yorkie came tripping over, quickly squeezed herself through the hole she had dug under the fence, and Rufus proceeded to explain to her the mission we’d laid out for her, should she choose to accept it. And we were just about to leave when suddenly Harriet and Brutus came hurrying in from the field behind the house.
“You guys!” said Harriet excitedly. “Something is going down back there—come quick!”
And so we followed her and Brutus, and they led us straight to where Fifi had discovered that skeleton earlier that day.
“Hey, I recognize this place,” said Fifi.
“Of course you do,” I said. “This is where you found that skeleton, remember?”
And then we saw, much to our surprise, that the same kids who’d been digging up that body in the graveyard, had built a fire, and were now busy dancing around that fire, still consuming copious amounts of alcohol, and howling like wolves.
Nearby, the dead body lay, and Harriet said excitedly, “I think that’s a dead body. And I think these could be the same kids who put that skeleton here!”
“We saw them dig up the body at the graveyard,” I said.
“You were at the graveyard?” asked Brutus.
“Yeah, Max has this theory,” Dooley announced. “He thinks that Father Reilly killed his daughter and buried her, and now he wants Fifi and Rufus to help find her.”
“Don’t be silly, Max,” said Harriet. “Father Reilly wouldn’t hurt a fly, much less his own daughter. For once I think you’re way off base.”
“Yeah, Maxie baby,” said Brutus. “You’ve struck out this time, buddy boy.”
But of course I stuck to my guns. “It’s the only theory that fits with all the facts,” I insisted.
“Look, they’re up to something!” said Harriet.
“Oh, boy,” said Rufus. “What a bunch of clowns.”
And indeed they were a bunch of clowns, as they now had shoved one of the kids into the fire, and he’d only barely been able to jump over it without getting badly burned. Unfortunately for him, his pants leg had caught fire, and he had to pour his beer on the flames to douse them. He didn’t look happy that he had to waste precious alcohol on such an ignoble cause and was cursing freely, then throwing the empty beer can at his buds.
Two of the kids now busied themselves by taking selfies with the dead person.
“I can’t watch this, Max,” said Dooley.
“Yeah, this is just super gross,” said Harriet, but she still watched with glittering eyes.
“I think I’m going to get Gran to call the cops,” I announced, as it was obvious now that these kids were engaging in plenty of illegal activities and that this had to stop.
And so I volunteered to hurry back to the house, and apprise Gran of the facts. The old lady was still engrossed in her book, but when I told her about the kids and the dead person, she immediately agreed to call it in, and moments later the police had been notified. By the time I rejoined my friends, the first police car already came driving up, its lights out, and when a second car rolled to a stop, the first officers had already intervened, and were asking the kids for their ID, and making the first arrests.
Half an hour later the entire group of youthful vandals had been collared and tucked into squad cars and driven off to the station. The dead person, unfortunately, was another matter, since even the officers apparently didn’t know what the correct procedure was in a case like this. But since a good cop is never stumped for long, soon an ambulance came driving up, loaded up the remains and soon peace returned.
And so the six of us decided we hadn’t seen enough dead people for one night, and headed down to the graveyard for a nightcap.
29
I don’t know if you’ve ever had to find a freshly dug grave in the middle of a very large graveyard? I can assure you it’s not an easy task—tedious, too. Unfortunately for us, Rufus and Fifi’s noses, formidable though they may be, disappointed us in the sense that they had no trouble finding plenty of freshly dug graves—looked like a lot of people had recently met their maker—but none of them contained the person we were looking for. And so after three hours of traversing the graveyard from north to south and east to west and back, we all gathered at the entrance, weary and more than a little disappointed.
“Nothing,” said Fifi, summing up the situation with admirable succinctness.
“Wherever Angel Church is, it certainly isn’t here,” Rufus agreed.
“But she has to be here,” I said. “My theory is perfect!”
“Well, your theory may be perfect, Max,” said Harriet, “but clearly it’s just that: a theory.”
“Did we really miss cat choir for this nonsense?” Brutus grumbled, massaging his weary paws.
“What are you guys doing here?” suddenly a voice rang out from the darkness. But then I saw that it was Shanille, and I decided she’d been sent by heaven.
“Shanille, you have to help us,” I said. “I happen to know for a fact that Father Reilly killed Angel, and that he buried her out here, but the question is: where?”
“Max, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I’ve solved Angel’s murder, but all that’s missing is the proof!”
Shanille stared at me, then, with dignity and poise, said, “Max, you’re an idiot.”
“See, Max?” said Brutus. “Even Shanille thinks you’re way off base this time.”
“But…”
“No, Max,” said Shanille. “Not another word. Father Reilly is a saint, and he would never harm another living soul—let alone his daughter.”
“But he—”
“No means no, Max! Forget about it. It didn’t happen.”
I must confess I deflated to some extent, like a balloon at the end of a kids birthday party. Shanille, of course, is Father Reilly’s cat, so it’s safe to say she’s highly pr
ejudiced in her human’s favor. But that’s just the thing: she is Father Reilly’s cat, and so if something untoward had happened, surely she would have noticed? Unless of course the priest had managed to hide the truth even from his own exquisitely inquisitive feline?
My mind was spinning. Could I have been so wrong?
“Oh, by the way, congratulations on the upcoming wedding,” said Dooley.
“What wedding?” asked Shanille, still regarding me unhappily.
“Why, Father Reilly and Marigold, of course. He told us all about it this afternoon, when we interviewed him.”
“Father Reilly said that he’ll marry Marigold?”
“Oh, absolutely. He said he’s given his life to his church, and now it’s time to give the rest of it to the woman he loves. He’s going to announce it next Sunday during mass—he’s writing a whole sermon and everything.”
“Oh, Dooley,” said Shanille, and even though it was hard to know for sure, I think that her eyes were actually glittering with unshed tears!
“Don’t cry, Shanille,” said Dooley. “It’s good news, isn’t it?”
“It is, Dooley, it absolutely is,” said our choir director, and then burst into tears in earnest. We all rallied round to pat her the back and such, and it was obvious that the news had struck a chord with the feisty choral leader.
Brutus and I stood back to give Shanille some much-needed space, and my butch black friend said, “Don’t feel bad, Max.”
“Bad about what?”
“About getting it wrong. You got a great track record, buddy. And even the best of us have an off day, you know.”
“But it all fits,” I said.
“I know it does, buddy. I know it does.”
“He’s her father, Brutus—her father.”
“Of course. I hear you.”
“So he must be the one who…”
“Oh, for sure—only he isn’t. So it’s back to the drawing board for you.” And he gave me a vigorous pat on the back. A little too vigorous, I thought, but then I hardly noticed, as I was thinking hard about where I’d gone wrong. And so while Shanille was still shedding hot tears of joy for her human’s future bliss, I went over the entire case again, as far as I could see it, and tried to make the pieces of the puzzle fit. Brutus was right. I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. We all make mistakes, and clearly I had made one now.