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.
Chapter 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 planet.”
“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.
“My son is chief of police,” Vesta explained. “And he’s asked us to look into the matter. With half the police force on vacation, and the other half otherwise engaged, he asked us to take a stab at the case.”
“Okay,” said Mr. Hodge, clearly not fully convinced. Then again, if you are a tax-paying citizen, you probably expect a real police person to show up when you need them, and not two old ladies and their cats.
When he caught sight of Harriet, though, Mr. Hodge’s eyes lit up with sheer delight. “Oh, what a gorgeous fur baby you are,” he said, and crouched down with a creaking of the knees, and tickled Harriet under the chin. He glanced up. “Are they yours?”
“Yeah, both of them,” said Vesta. “I like to take them along wherever I go.” She shrugged. “You never know what they’ll pick up. Cats are smart. A lot smarter than dogs, if you ask me.”
“Oh, I know,” said Mr. Hodge, getting up again with some effort. He gestured to a large painting in the hallway depicting a big orange cat with lively eyes and a wide grin. “I don’t know if you read my stuff, but I’m a cat person all the way.”
“Oh, you’re that Mort Hodge!” said Scarlett. “The creator of Mort’s Molly!”
“You’re Mort’s Molly’s Mort?” asked Vesta, surprised.
“Yeah, that’s me,” said Mr. Hodge with a light chuckle. “So you see, you can bring all the cats you like. The more, the merrier!”