“So… did you have Dickerson killed, Mr. Brettin?” asked Odelia softly.
He glanced up, then shook his head. “I’m not a killer, Odelia. Even though I’m glad someone took the law into their own hands, it wasn’t me.”
“But… the rose.”
“I’m not the first person Dickerson destroyed. There are countless others. And I’ll bet lots of people use the image of the rose to refer to a loved one. No, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Odelia—Detective. I may have wished Dickerson harm, but I didn’t act on it.”
Just then, the editor’s phone jangled and he picked it up from the table with a frown. “Yes, Mr. Paunch,” he said, much to Odelia’s surprise. She hadn’t heard from President Wilcox’s friend in quite a while, and had hoped he’d lost her number. “Is that a fact? No, I didn’t know the President was the youngest billionaire in history. That is news to me.” He rolled his eyes at Odelia. “So it’s official? President Wilcox is Sexiest President Alive? That’s quite an achievement. I didn’t even know such a category existed. Yes, I will mention it in the next issue of the Daily Inquirer, Mr. Paunch. And give my regards to the President.”
“Was that Otto Paunch?” asked Odelia.
“Oh, you know Mr. Paunch?”
“He’s been calling me non-stop with little tidbits about the President.”
“Did you know President Wilcox has been voted Sexiest President Alive three years in a row?”
“He also has the softest hair,” said Odelia. “Soft like a baby’s bottom, I’ve been told.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Brettin with a smile.
“I thought the President only worked with the National Star?”
“Oh, I think he works with any publication that will sing his praises.”
“But he was very chummy with Dick Dickerson, wasn’t he?”
“He used to be,” Brettin acknowledged.
Dua Lipa demanded Odelia’s attention by belting out her signature tune and she was surprised to see it was her uncle.
“Uncle Alec?”
“Hey, honey. Look, there’s some kind of fracas going on downtown.”
“Downtown? You’re back?”
“Just arrived. It’s your cats, Odelia. They’re trying to tell me something but you know I don’t speak feline. You better get down here ASAP. It looks serious.”
Chapter 45
Milo had just dozed off when Harriet came in, all atwitter. She motioned for me and Dooley to meet her in the backyard. The moment we set foot outside, convening amongst the mounds of dirt Grandma had dug up, she cried, “It’s Brutus! He’s gone!”
“Gone? Gone where?” I asked.
She gave us a pained look. “The pound!”
“Why would Brutus go to the pound?” asked Dooley. “Does he know cats there?”
“No, he doesn’t know cats there, Dooley! He just kept telling me the pound is paradise and how I should come with him—to escape Max’s reign of terror!”
“My reign of terror?” I asked. “I don’t have a reign—and definitely not one of terror.”
“He seems to think you’re some kind of dictator. And that we’re your slaves. He said the only way to escape this prison camp is to head down to the pound—where cats are cats and are free to live their lives untethered by the chains you bind us with.”
This was all news to me. I didn’t even know how to lay my paws on a pair of chains. “This all sounds very suspicious to me,” I told Harriet. “Where would I even get chains?”
“He’s gone completely bananas,” Harriet agreed, giving us an imploring look. She would probably have wrung her hands if she had hands. Instead, she merely screwed up her face into a pitiable expression. It was obvious she was in the throes of extreme emotion. “We have to save him, Max. If he sets paw inside that pound they’ll lock him up and throw away the key.”
“Why would they throw away the key?” asked Dooley, intrigued. “Wouldn’t they need it to open his cage so they can feed him?”
“Cage!” Harriet cried. “Can you imagine Brutus locked up in a small cage?!”
I could, and the thought frankly made my stomach turn. I’m not claustrophobic, per se, but I definitely don’t like small spaces. Or cages, which are a form of small space, I guess.
“What if they want to clean out his cage?” asked Dooley, still pursuing his own line of thought. “Wouldn’t they need a key to open it? Or do they install new locks each time? That just seems wasteful.”
“Please, Max,” Harriet said. “Let’s save Brutus. I know you two haven’t always seen eye to eye but you’re friends now, aren’t you? You don’t want him to languish in some cage?”
No, I certainly didn’t. What was more, I had a fairly good idea who was responsible for Brutus’s sudden wish to escape my so-called reign of terror. Only Milo could have planted such a ridiculous notion into his head. “Let’s go,” I said therefore. “Maybe we can catch him before it’s too late.”
And so our mission to save Brutus commenced. Dooley was still brooding on locks and keys, Harriet looked as if she was ready to call in SEAL Team Six to save her mate, and I wondered how we were ever going to get this Milo menace out of our lives before he did more harm. Yes, I know he was leaving in two weeks, but considering how much damage he’d done in just a few days, I could only imagine how much worse things could get.
It was quite a long walk to the pound, and Brutus had a nice head start, so we broke into a trot and put some haste into our mission. Once Brutus entered the pound it was game over for the black cat.
It was a testament to Harriet’s despair that it only took us twenty minutes to reach destination’s end, and the horrible building soon loomed up in our field of vision.
It wasn’t one of those places I enjoyed visiting. In fact the further away from the pound I stayed the better I felt. But our friend was in need, and so there we were.
“I don’t see him,” said Harriet nervously as we surveilled the squat gray-brick building from across the street. It looked like an army barracks, or a prison, or even a police precinct.
Dark, ominous, and absolutely evil, it didn’t look like no paradise to me.
“Let’s check the back,” I said. “Maybe we can look in through the windows.”
“If this place has windows,” said Dooley, and he had a point. The only windows I could see had either been bricked up or were covered with the kind of thick safety glass that is impossible to see through.
Still, we’d come this far, so we needed to see our mission through. So we crossed the street—after checking left then right then left again, like our mama taught us—then stealthily moved around the building. There was nothing but a strip of wasteland behind the pound, which neighbors had happily used to dump their rubbish: broken bicycles, old couches, mattresses, even a car wreck provided a backdrop to Hampton Cove’s scariest building.
“There!” Harriet cried suddenly. “It’s Brutus!”
I half expected her to be pointing at the mangled body of the former butch cat, but Brutus looked fit as a fiddle, staring into the only window that seemed to offer a glimpse of the pound’s innards. We quickly joined him but he barely looked up when we did.
“Brutus!” Harriet said. “What has gotten into you!”
He shrugged, still staring intently through the grimy window. “Milo told me that the pound was paradise,” he said in a low, dispirited voice. “Look at that. Does that look like paradise to you?”
We all looked where he was looking. And I knew I was looking at hell when the scene unfolded before my eyes: rows and rows of cages, with dogs of every variety locked up inside. Most of them looked absolutely listless, huddled up near the back of the cage, lying on the concrete floor. Some of the dogs were barking up a storm.
“Newcomers, I’ll bet,” said Brutus softly. “Listen to them.”