“Oh, just scouting the place,” said Milo. “Looking around, you know.”
“Great.”
“So, Max. Is it true that you’re the only one who’s allowed to sleep at Odelia’s feet? And that you won’t let anyone else even get near her when she’s asleep?”
I stared at Milo. “What are you talking about? Who said that?”
“Dooley. He told me you’re very possessive when it comes to your human.” He shrugged. “Can’t blame you, though. She is a great human. If I had a human like that I’d make sure no other cat came anywhere near her either.”
I stared at Dooley, who was licking his fur, now basking in the sun. “Dooley said that? He actually told you I’m…” I swallowed away a lump of annoyance. “Possessive?”
“Obsessive is the word he used, actually. But hey, like I said, with a human like Odelia what cat wouldn’t go a little nuts, right? She’s only like the perfect human ever.”
“Nuts,” I said between gritted teeth. “Obsessive.”
“Yeah. So why don’t I sleep on the couch? I don’t want to get on your bad side again, Max. I know now why you didn’t take to me when I first arrived. Because I was too nice to Odelia and you felt threatened.” He held up his paws. “I can dig that, brother. Respect. And I can assure you it won’t happen again. She’s your human. Paws off. I get it.”
“I’m not like that!” I cried, aghast. “I’m not possessive or obsessive or… nuts!”
“Right-o, brother,” said Milo, taking a step back. “Whatever you say.”
“I’m just not! Whatever Dooley told you was a bunch of lies!”
Milo laughed. “Like that thing he told me about you being madly in love with Harriet? And how you and Brutus used to come to blows over her?”
“I’m not—” I paused, trying to keep calm. “I’m not in love with Harriet! Dooley is! He’s the one who’s always been nuts about her. And obscenely jealous of Brutus.”
“Look, Dooley’s just looking out for you, Max. Like any friend would. He knows you’re sensitive about this whole Harriet thing and who can blame you? Being in love like that for years and years and years without having the guts to tell her? That takes a lot of self-control, brother. And I get it. If you love them, set them free, right? More power to you.”
“I’m. Not. In. Love. With. Harriet,” I said, parsing out the words between puffs of smoke now pouring from my nose. “I never was. Never will. She’s just a friend, all right?”
“Sure,” said Milo, but it was obvious he didn’t believe me. “Look, I know it’s tough, buddy. Especially with the kind of cat Brutus is. And the things he’s been saying about you.”
I gawked at the cat. This was getting better and better. “What’s Brutus been saying about me?”
“Oh, just that you’re the dumbest cat he’s ever met,” said Milo, suddenly having developed a powerful interest in his nails.
“Dumbest cat he’s ever met!”
“Look, I know you consider Brutus a friend,” said Milo. “And the last thing I want is to cause trouble. But with the stuff he says about you, I’d reconsider that friendship, bro.”
“What else has he been saying about me?” I demanded hotly.
“Only that you’re so ugly no cat in Hampton Cove wants to be your girl. And so dumb you’ve never realized this before. And so deadly dull and boring nobody wants to be your friend. And that the only reason he and Harriet hang out with you is because your humans are related.” He shrugged. “It’s that old saying all over again, isn’t it? You can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family? It’s a blessing and a curse. And in Harriet’s case it’s definitely a curse, as she’s forced to spend time with you—time she could spend with her real friends downtown.”
I had developed a tremor in my paw now, and a twitch in my whisker. “Thank you very much, Milo,” I said hoarsely, in as calm and collected a way as I could muster. “Thank you for telling me the truth about my so-called friends.”
Milo did the palms-up thing. “Hey. What are friends for, right?”
Friends were there so they could backstab other friends, I thought as I walked away. And as I directed a nasty glance at Dooley, now licking his butt as if he didn’t have a care in the world, I vowed that from then on they were dead to me. Dooley, Harriet, and Brutus. They were dead to me and if I never saw or heard from them again that was fine by me!
“Where are you going?” asked Dooley as I slipped right past him.
“Out!” I snapped.
“Want me to tag along?” he asked.
I directed as cold a look at him as I could muster. Then I turned my back on him and stalked off. You’re dead to me, that look said, and judging from Dooley’s expression of surprise, he caught it right in the ribs.
Chapter 9
Chase rode his pickup to the farm where Geary Potbelly did his business. The rutted road led them to a farmhouse, long clapboard structures located right behind it, and huge silos where presumably Geary stored the food for the ducks or—and Odelia didn’t even want to contemplate this—the poop the animals produced.
“So… I don’t see no ducks,” she said as Chase parked the rig next to the farmhouse.
“They moved them all indoors a decade ago,” said Chase. “They used to roam free, but then environmental laws tightened and allowing the duck poop to drain into the ground and pollute the groundwater with nitrates became strictly prohibited. So now the ducks are all in those long white buildings over there, where they can poop through the mesh wire so it can be flushed into big holding tanks and then procured for processing.”
“What do they use it for?”
“It ends up on huge compost heaps, where it’s mixed with mulch and yard waste which binds the nitrogen in the manure and prevents it from leaking into the ground and leaching into the groundwater. Then it’s sold to garden centers and Home Depot and such.”
“How come you know so much about duck poop, Chase?”
He laughed. “Before you start thinking this is my latest hobby, let me assure you it’s not. No, I talked to Geary on the phone to figure out how his poop ended up killing Dickerson and he explained to me a little about the process they have out here.”
As they walked up to the house, the same guy in coveralls they met out at the Dickerson place, held up his hand in greeting. He was shoveling straw onto a wheelbarrow.
“Bert! Have you seen Geary around?” Chase yelled at him.
“Come on in!” Bert yelled back. “He’s inside.” He was pointing to the stable.
“I guess we’re going to meet some of those famous Long Island ducks up close and personal,” Chase quipped.
They strode into a large space, surprisingly light and airy, and immediately Odelia saw thousands upon thousands of ducks lounging around, buckets of feed attached to wooden poles, light fixtures dangling from the ceiling, and the ducks not in cages as she’d feared, but free to roam the large space, straw under their feet and happily quacking away.
“Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many ducks in one place,” she said.
“Me neither,” Chase chimed in.
A man dressed in blue coveralls was crouched down over what looked like feeding troughs, and they walked up to him, the ducks scuttling away as they did.
“Mr. Potbelly!” Chase said as they joined the duck farmer.
Contrary to the name, he was a tall, reedy man with a tan, weather-beaten face and a ball cap with the name ‘Potbelly Farm’ lodged firmly on his head.
“Hey there, Detective,” said Geary. “Nice to put a name to the face.”
“Likewise,” said Chase. “This is Odelia Poole. Odelia is a reporter for the Hampton Cove Gazette, but she also frequently helps us out in our investigations.”
“Your daddy is Tex Poole, right?” asked Geary, nodding. “He’s my doctor.”