by Nic Saint
They arrived at the principal’s office, led by Odelia, and entered, finding a teenager of around seventeen or eighteen, sitting with her mother, who’d clearly been crying.
“Mrs. Pack?” asked Chase.
Mrs. Pack looked up in alarm, and when she saw the Chief, in his police uniform, and Odelia and Chase, her eyes widened. “You’re not going to arrest my daughter, are you?”
“That depends,” said the Chief curtly as he walked behind the principal’s desk and lowered his sizable bulk into Mrs. Doubtfire’s chair, which complained under the sudden onslaught. “Now tell me, young lady—why would you start a fire in a classroom?”
Ellie Pack didn’t look like your typical troubled youth, Odelia thought. In fact she looked like any girl her age: ragged jeans, designer T-shirt, Converse sneakers. Her blond curly hair was carefully swept to one side with an abundant application of hairspray, though she’d overdone it a little on the black eyeliner. She shrugged. “I just thought it was a good idea,” she said a little sullenly.
“You thought it was a good idea,” Uncle Alec echoed. “And why is that?”
The girl looked off into space and frowned. “Mrs. Doubtfire threatened to hold me back. She wants me to redo my senior year. Just because she hates me.”
“And why do you think Mrs. Doubtfire hates you?” asked Chase.
“Why don’t you ask her? I just know she does.”
“She told us that you threw a water balloon at one of your teachers?”
“That was just a joke. A girl bet I couldn’t hit Mrs. Richards from thirty feet.”
“A bet?” asked Uncle Alec. “Who did you bet with?”
The girl shrugged. “I’m not a snitch.”
“Admirable,” the Chief grumbled, “but misguided.”
“Please don’t arrest my daughter,” said Mrs. Pack. “She’s a little rambunctious from time to time, but she means well.”
“She set fire to a classroom, Mrs. Pack,” Chase pointed out. “That’s more than being a little rambunctious, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It was just a small fire,” Ellie muttered. “I had it under control. If that stupid janitor hadn’t shown up I would have put it out and nobody would have been any the wiser.”
“You didn’t want to burn down the school?” asked Odelia.
“Of course not! Why would I want to burn down the school? I was just showing off—goofing around.” She shrugged. “I guess things got out of hand.”
“Oh, Ellie,” her mother said, and broke into tears.
The girl seemed unimpressed by her mother’s tears. Instead she was looking at Odelia with interest. “You’re Odelia Poole, aren’t you? The reporter?”
“Yep, that’s me,” Odelia confirmed.
The girl smiled for the first time since they’d arrived. It was a smile that lit up her face, and suddenly made her look a lot younger—and less hostile. “I’m a big fan of yours, Miss Poole. I read all your articles, you know. I want to be a reporter like you one day.”
“If you really want to be a reporter one day,” said Uncle Alec sternly, “you probably should stop causing trouble, young lady.”
“It’s not me that’s causing all the trouble,” said Ellie, turning sullen again. “It’s the teachers. They all hate me for some reason, and so does the principal.”
Uncle Alec cleared his throat. “Now look here, Ellie. Mrs. Doubtfire told me you’ll be suspended from school for the next week while they try to decide what they’re going to do with you.” He cut a quick glance in the direction of his niece. “In the meantime we have to find a way to keep you out of trouble, don’t we? So I was thinking that maybe you would like to spend that week of suspension making yourself useful for a change?”
“I’m not going to wash your car if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Ellie defiantly.
“I was thinking more along the lines of you spending some time with my niece. Help her with her interviews, maybe work on some stories together—see what it means to be a reporter.”
Ellie’s eyes had gone wide and her jaw had dropped. “Are you serious?”
“I am,” said Uncle Alec, a hint of a smile on his round face. “As long as it’s all right with Odelia, of course.” He cast a questioning look at his niece, who smiled and nodded. “Well, looks as if that’s settled then.”
“I’m going to be reporter?” asked Ellie, who clearly hadn’t expected this.
“Now, that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” said the Chief, wagging a finger in Ellie’s direction. “You will still have to face the consequences of your behavior. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said Ellie dutifully, but her eyes were sparkling, and she looked more alive.
“Do you know where the Gazette offices are located?” asked Odelia.
“Oh, absolutely,” said the girl excitedly.
“Meet you there tomorrow morning at nine?”
“You bet,” said Ellie, and jumped up from her chair to shake Odelia’s hand vigorously. “This is, like, the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Miss Poole. Like, ever!”
“Well, make sure you don’t blow it,” said Uncle Alec. “Miss Poole will report both to me and to Mrs. Doubtfire, and your behavior this next week will go a long way toward reestablishing your standing in this school.”
“Yes, sir!” said Ellie, and practically jumped to attention as she spoke these words.
11
After the eventful time we’d had at the golf links, then the Hampton Heisters’ latest endeavor and the youthful school arsonist, I was frankly happy to be home again, so I could have a bite to eat and a little nap. But first I wanted to check on our friends Harriet and Brutus and how they were faring with their new humans: Ted and Marcie Trapper.
So Dooley and I headed over to the Trappers’ backyard and were immediately greeted by a sight to remember: Ted Trapper was throwing a ball and seemed to expect Brutus and Harriet to run after this ball and return it to him for some reason. Now I’ve seen dogs perform this kind of trick, but frankly I’ve never seen a cat act this way.
And yet when we arrived Brutus had just picked up the ball between his jaws and was returning it to Ted, who rubbed our friend’s head and said, “Now there’s a good boy.” Then he proceeded to throw the ball again and said, “Fetch, Brutus! Get the ball, buddy!”
And lo and behold: Brutus hurried in the direction Ted had thrown the ball and moments later had found it and was retrieving it, as per his new human’s instructions.
I stared at our friend with growing concern.
“Has he been at this long?” I asked Harriet.
“Ted has been playing fetch with him for the past hour,” said Harriet, looking and sounding a little dispirited, I felt.
“You’re kidding,” I said. “Brutus? Playing fetch?”
“He seems to feel that he should give Ted the opportunity to create a bond, and playing fetch seems to be part and parcel of this whole bonding ritual Ted worked out.”
“But surely fetch is a game only practiced by dogs?”
“I know, but what can I do? If Brutus wants to be adopted by Ted and Marcie, playing fetch is part of the deal—as is going to the dog park, and going for daily walks.”
I watched with openmouthed horror how Brutus dutifully returned the ball for the umpteenth time, not looking very happy as he did. Contrary to dogs, cats don’t get all excited at the prospect of returning an item thrown at some speed in a certain direction. I mean, what’s the point? They throw the ball, you return the ball, only for them to throw it again! Like golf, it all seems pointless and a complete waste of our valuable time.
“I wish he’d stop throwing the ball for Brutus and start throwing the ball for me,” said Rufus, who was lying next to Harriet and looking at the spectacle with dismay.
“This just isn’t right,” I said.
“Oh, I know,” said Rufus. “And I keep telling Brutus it ain’t right, but he keeps ignoring me. He says a cat can be the best dog
man has ever known, and he’s going to prove it.”
“But why?” I asked. “I don’t understand!”
“Because Brutus wants to be adopted by a normal family,” said Harriet sadly.
“What’s wrong with his own family?”
“Just that: they’re not normal. They always get into all kinds of trouble.”
“So weird.”
“Max?” asked Dooley.
“Mh?”
“Why is Brutus running after that ball? And why does Ted keep throwing the ball even after Brutus has returned the ball?”
“It’s some kind of game,” I explained. “Brutus hopes it will establish a bond with Ted.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Brutus wants to become like me,” said Rufus. “He doesn’t want to be a cat anymore.”
“But why?”
“I think he’s suffering from what is commonly termed an identity crisis,” I said. “Though if you really want to know what brought this on you’ll have to ask a shrink.”
“Maybe we have to take him to Vena?” Dooley suggested.
“Vena is not a shrink,” I said. “She’s a vet.”
“I tried to reason with him,” said Harriet. “And so did Rufus, but he insists he knows what he’s doing, and doesn’t want to listen to anything I say.”
“Or anything I say,” Rufus added.
“Fetch, Brutus!” Ted called out again, and threw the ball as hard as he could in the direction of the fence. Unfortunately it got stuck there, but instead of ceasing and desisting and telling Ted to fetch his own damn ball, Brutus jumped to the task, and tried to retrieve the ball from where it was lodged, about five feet high.
“Catch, Brutus!” Ted said encouragingly. “Catch the ball, little buddy!”
But of course there was no way Brutus would ever be able to catch this particular ball. But still our friend wasn’t giving up: he was jumping high, going for the win!
“Oh, Brutus, give it up already!” Harriet yelled.
“Never!” Brutus yelled back. “I’m going to get this ball if it kills me!”
“I can’t watch this, Max,” said Dooley.
“Frankly, neither can I,” I confessed.
“I’ll get that ball for you, Ted,” said Rufus, who’s a lot bigger than Brutus, and started trundling over in the direction of the fence. For him it would be a cinch.
“No, Rufus!” said Ted sharply. “That’s Brutus’s ball, and he’s the one who has to get it back to me!”
“What’s with all the yapping!” suddenly a familiar voice rang out from across the fence, and when we looked over, we saw that Gran’s head had appeared. She was craning her neck and trying to figure out what was going on.
“Ted is training Brutus to be a dog,” I told her. “But he threw the ball so high and hard it got stuck and now Brutus can’t reach it but Ted is still insisting he get it for him.”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” said Gran, and glanced down to where Brutus was trying his darndest to be a ‘good boy.’ She grabbed the ball. “Is this what all the fuss is about?”
“Hey, that’s my ball, Vesta,” said Ted.
“If this is your ball, then why are you making my cat try to catch it?” she asked.
“A reasonable question,” Dooley said, nodding.
“He’s not your cat anymore,” said Ted with a touch of belligerence. “Brutus is mine now.”
“Oh, you idiot,” said Vesta, and I wondered if she was referring to Ted or to Brutus. Maybe to both. “Catch, Ted,” she said, then brought her arm back like a pro pitcher, and threw that ball straight onto the roof of Ted’s house!
“Hey!” said Ted. “You did that on purpose!”
“Of course I did that on purpose, you silly man,” said Gran. “And if you catch the ball for me I’ll give you a pat on the head and tell you that you’re a good boy. Now fetch!”
And with these words, she broke out into raucous laughter and was gone.
12
Odelia was just relaxing on the couch—it was Chase’s turn to cook dinner—and going over her notes for the story about the Hampton Heisters’ break-in at Katrina MacKney’s house, when her phone suddenly attracted her attention. When she picked it from the coffee table, she saw she’d received a message from an unknown number. Much to her surprise the message read, ‘Hi Odelia. This is Carl Strauss. We met today at the links. I’ve been giving what you told me some more thought and I would like to meet and discuss a possible solution. How about tonight at my place? Ten o’clock too late for you?’
“Oh, this is great,” she said.
“What is it, babe?” Chase called from the kitchen.
“A message from Carl Strauss!” she said. “He wants to meet tonight. I think he just might be coming around on the whole divorce thing after all!”
Chase came walking out of the kitchen, an apron tied to his muscular torso and wearing a frown on his face. “Are you sure this is such a good idea? Carl Strauss is as famous for his golf swing as he is for being a playboy. What if he just wants you to drop by so he can put the moves on you?”
“No way. You should have seen him this afternoon. The guy doesn’t even like me. No, I’m pretty sure all he wants is to talk about the divorce.”
“Maybe I should tag along.”
“No, I better go by myself. This is my chance to convince him a divorce is the best thing for everyone. And if you suddenly show up he just might change his mind again.”
Chase didn’t look convinced, but since he basically trusted Odelia’s judgment, he nodded and returned to the kitchen.
“What are you cooking?” asked Odelia.
“Spaghetti bolognese,” said Chase.
Odelia grinned. Chase was probably the best husband any woman could hope to find, but unfortunately when it came to his cooking skills, the man was a one-hit wonder.
Just then, Gran walked in, looking like a cat who caught a mouse.
“What are you looking so pleased about?” asked Odelia.
“I just told Ted off,” said Gran. “He’s trying to turn Brutus into a dog, so I gave him a taste of his own medicine.”
“What did you do?”
“I threw his ball on the roof. See if he can catch that!”
“Gran, you shouldn’t antagonize the Trappers. You never know when you might need them.”
“Need them! I’m never going to have any need for Ted Trapper as long as I live. And if I ever do, you better shoot me!”
And with this sentiment clearly expressed, she ducked into the kitchen and asked, “What are you cooking? God, not spaghetti bolognese again!”
“It’s my specialty!” said Chase.
“We had spaghetti yesterday! And the day before!”
“So? Italians eat pasta every day for their entire life. And the oldest Italian just turned a hundred-and-eleven.”
“I don’t want to be a hundred-and-eleven! I just want to eat some decent food!”
“Pasta is good for you, Grandma.”
“Don’t call me Grandma. I’m not your grandmother, Chase Kingsley.”
“You became my grandma when I married your granddaughter. Have a taste of this.”
Slurping sounds emanated from the kitchen, and for a moment silence reigned, then Gran said, “Pretty good. What did you put in this? Cannabis?”
“It’s my secret sauce.”
“So what’s in it?”
“That’s just it. It’s a secret.”
“No, but what’s in it?”
“If I told you it wouldn’t be a secret, Grandma!”
“Stop calling me grandma and tell me what’s in it!”
“Okay, but only if you promise not to tell anyone.”
“I promise, now just tell me before I smack you over the head with this spoon.” The conversation was carried on in whispered tones, and then Gran said, “You son of a gun! Okay, you can call me Grandma from now on.”
“What’s going on here?” asked Mom as she entered
through the front door.
“Chase is cooking dinner. Gran has just thrown Ted’s ball on the roof where he can’t get it. And I just got a message from Carl Strauss for a late-night meeting about his divorce. Oh, and Chase revealed the secret ingredient of his spaghetti sauce to Gran, earning himself brownie points.”
“Secret ingredient?” asked Mom as she hung her purse from a chair and lowered herself onto the couch next to her daughter. “What’s the secret ingredient?”
“I just told you Carl Strauss wants to meet and all you care about is Chase’s secret ingredient?”
“I like his sauce, and I’ve always wondered how he does it.”
“Oregano, that’s the secret. But don’t tell him I told you.”
“Oregano? Doesn’t everybody put oregano in their bolognese?”
“They do, but Chase doesn’t know that. He thinks he invented it. Now tell me what I should wear tonight.” It wasn’t every night that one gets invited for an exclusive one-on-one with the world’s most famous and best pro golfer, after all.
“Nothing too revealing if I were you,” said Mom. “Maybe a turtleneck sweater? Or better yet, one of those big fleece sweaters that people can’t see if you’re a boy or a girl. The important thing, honey, is not to give him any reason to jump your bones.”
“He’s not going to jump my bones, Mom. This is a business meeting.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come? This man has the worst reputation.”
“I’m sure.”
The door opened again and Dad walked in. “Mh, something smells good,” he said, sniffing the air expectantly.
“Chase is cooking his famous spaghetti bolognese,” Mom said as she switched on the television and channel-surfed until she found one of the cooking channels that were all the rage. She had a theory that watching people cook and eat caused the stomach to produce those enzymes and juices that give the digestive process a real boost. Or maybe she simply liked to watch people cook and eat, that was also possible, of course.
“I’m starving,” said Dad, dropping down onto the couch next to his wife and daughter. “Ida Baumgartner was in today. Again, I should add.”