As I drew closer, he pulled himself up to his full height and proclaimed dramatically, “A beet. A … drained … white … beet!”
“Oh, great,” Howie said. “Before you know it, the whole neighborhood’ll be full of dead beets.”
Chester announced, “Bunnicula has been here!”
“Get it, Uncle Harold? Get it, Pop?” Howie’s tail was wagging furiously. “ ‘Dead beets.’ Get it, huh, get it?”
“Yes, Howie, very amusing,” Chester said. “However, you seem to be missing the point. Bunnicula has been here. And he’s left a vampire beet in his wake.”
“Are you sure it’s not a minion onion?” I asked cynically.
Howie began to shake again. “Does that mean … could it be … will it … oh, how am I going to sleep tonight?”
“Harold!” Chester snapped. “Grab that beet and run to the front of the house. We’ve got to warn the Monroes before they leave. Hurry!”
Being a born follower, and hoping to get this nonsense over with so I could get on to more important things, like sleep, I did as Chester bade me. As I rounded the corner of the house, Mr. Monroe was pulling the station wagon out of the driveway.
“Get their attention!” Chester cried. “Do something!”
“I can’t, my mouth’s full,” I tried to say, but it came out sounding like, “Uk kn, mummummphoo.”
“Howie!”
Howie reared back his head and let out a fearsome howl. “Aaah-ooooooooo!”
Chester’s hair went up. “It really gives me the creeps when he does that,” he said. But we saw the Monroes turn and look back through the car windows at us, so it must have done the trick.
They waved. “Goodbye, boys,” they cried.
Mr. Monroe called out, “That’s a good boy, Harold, you play with that old tennis ball. See you later!”
“Goodbye!”
“Goodbye!”
“Goodbye!”
“Ooo-oy!” I called out around the sides of the beet, which I quickly spat out. “Now what?” I asked. My mouth felt funny.
Howie and I regarded Chester, who seemed lost in thought.
After a moment, he turned to us.
“All right,” he declared, his eyes getting that glaze I know means trouble ahead, “it’s up to us. It’s a big job that has to be done, but no job is too big for us, right, men?”
“Well …” I said.
“Right on, Pop!” shouted Howie gleefully. “Let’s go. Let’s do it. Let’s … by the way, what is it we’re going to do?”
“You’ll see,” Chester replied. “Wait here.” And he disappeared around the corner of the house.
Chapter 3
Destiny Calls!
MOMENTS LATER, Chester reappeared from behind the house carrying a small box in his mouth. He trotted toward us and deposited the box at our feet.
Howie poked at it with his nose. “What’s this?” he asked.
“Well, as you undoubtedly know,” Chester explained, “in order to destroy a vampire, you have to drive a stake through its heart.”
I groaned. “Not again! Don’t you remember the last time you tried that?”
Chester immediately began bathing his tail, which is a cat’s way of covering his humiliation.
“What happened?” asked Howie.
“Well,” I said, “it seems Chester decided to drive a stake through Bunnicula’s heart—”
“Oh, no!” Howie cried. “How could he?”
“That’s a good question. With the kind of ‘stake’ Chester selected for the job, it was a little difficult. You see, he thought—”
“All right, all right,” Chester spat out. “I made a little mistake. Everybody’s entitled to one mistake in the course of a lifetime. But don’t worry, Harold, I know what type of stake to use now. I’ve got just the thing.”
I glanced at the box lying in the grass. “Toothpicks?” I asked.
“What better way to spear vegetables through the heart?”
“Toothpicks?” I asked again.
Chester glared at me. “Yes, toothpicks!” he snapped. “What’s wrong with toothpicks?”
“Oh, nothing,” I replied with a shrug. “If you want to make little white party hors d’oeuvres out of Bunnicula’s victims …”
“We’re not making little white party anythings,” he shot back. “We’re destroying killer vegetables.”
“You tell him, Pop,” Howie put in. I gave him a look. “Sorry, Uncle Harold,” he said.
“And we’re going to find Bunnicula, bring him back home where he belongs and save the people in this town from his evil ways.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. I agreed to go along, not because I was convinced that the townspeople were really in danger, but because I was worried about poor Bunnicula, out there all alone in the world. If anyone needed saving, it was he.
“Can I carry the toothpicks, Pop?” Howie asked.
“Sure, kid,” Chester said agreeably. “But first …”
He selected a toothpick from the box and, with a sudden lunge that made Howie and me jump, neatly speared the white beet lying at our feet.
We gazed for a moment at Chester’s handiwork.
“Whew, I’ll bet that hurt,” Howie said, shaking his head.
“Looks like an hors d’oeuvre to me,” I commented.
“Well, now that the critics have been heard from,” Chester said, “perhaps we can move on.” He lifted his head and, with an air of great importance, began to swagger down the street. “Howie,” he called back over his shoulder, “the toothpicks.”
“Right, Pop,” Howie replied, picking up the box with his teeth. I fell into step behind them, and off we went.
We walked for blocks. Cautiously, we peered into every driveway, every front porch, every open garage door we passed. Nowhere did we see anything out of the ordinary. Indeed, all over town people seemed to be going about their lives as usual. When, at length, I suggested to Chester that we do the same, he drew up short and looked me straight in the eye.
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “This is not a day for the ordinary, Harold. We can’t turn back now. Destiny calls.”
“Harold!” a far-off voice called out suddenly.
I jumped and looked in amazement at Chester.
“Did you hear that?” I gasped. Chester nodded.
“Chester!” the voice cried.
Chester’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, as he looked wildly about him.
“Could it be …?” I asked. “Is … is destiny really calling?”
“I d-don’t know,” Chester stammered.
“Harold! Chester!” the voice called again. This time it seemed nearer.
I could feel my knees start to quiver. Howie ran over and took refuge between my legs. He looked out sheepishly.
It was then that I turned and saw the familiar figure jogging up the sidewalk.
“Chester,” I said with a sigh of relief, “look who’s coming.”
“Oh, no,” he groaned in recognition.
“Hello, Max,” I said to the approaching bulldog. I noticed that he was wearing the same white turtleneck sweater I’d last seen him in. Chester and I had met Max at Chateau Bow-Wow, the kennel where we’d been boarded when the Monroes went on vacation.
“Hello, chaps,” he said jovially. “I’ve been calling you and calling you. How’ve you been? Out for a little exercise?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“Want to jog?” he asked.
“Uh, no thanks. Do you live around here?”
“Just moved in a while ago,” he replied. “My family used to live on the other side of town. That’s our house over there.” He nodded over his shoulder.
“How do you like it?”
“Well, it’s bully except for …” and he mumbled something that sounded like “next door” and pawed at the ground.
“Well, Max, it’s been great chewing the fat with you,” Chester said abruptly, “but we’re on an important mission. No time to waste.”
“Oh, really, Chester? And what may I ask are you up to?”