Mrs. Food sat in the chair closest to her, and Madison half sat on the arm.
“So, now, I’d like to start, if I could,” Bob said, sitting down and leaning forward on his knees like he was some kind of coach. “Now, first off, I want to say that we have no direct evidence implicating Madison in this crime.”
“Thank you,” Madison said.
“But we don’t have any evidence implicating anyone else, either. And we don’t have any evidence that it WASN’T Madison.”
“But I told you—” Madison started.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve heard enough,” Mrs. Food said, standing up. “Madison’s word is good enough for me. I think this meeting is over.”
“Mrs. Fudeker, please—”
“Butterbean! You’re on!” Oscar squawked. Things were moving faster than they’d expected.
Everything depended on Butterbean. Everything.
Taking huge strides, Butterbean raced across the floor and lunged up at the coffee table.
“Control your ANIMAL!” Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six screeched, reeling back in her seat.
Butterbean ignored her. She knew what she had to do. With one last lunge, Butterbean slammed her foot onto the Television remote.
And the Television came on.
— 18 —
AND IMMEDIATELY CHANGED TO THE Home Shopping Channel.
“Butterbean, no!” Mrs. Food leaned forward to grab her. “I apologize for my dog.”
Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six had shrunk back so far against the couch cushions that it looked like she was going to climb on top of them.
“I’ll get her,” Madison said, getting up to come around the coffee table.
“That’s the wrong channel!” Oscar screeched. “Hit the down button! Or the up button! Change it back to the surveillance camera!”
Butterbean hit the remote again. It changed to the Hallmark Channel.
“NOOOO!” Butterbean wailed as she smacked the channel changer again. A show with a car chase came on. “I’m sorry!” She smacked at it again. The volume went up. “I should’ve practiced!”
“Control that dog!” Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six said, raising her feet off the floor, like she thought Butterbean was going to go for her toes.
“I’ve got her,” Madison said, scrambling to pick Butterbean up. “She’s not usually like this. She’s going to be a therapy dog.”
“That dog? I doubt it,” Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six sniffed.
“I am SO!” Butterbean lunged so she was half dangling from Madison’s arms and flailed her front paws, smacking at the remote repeatedly. The channel flicked back and forth quickly, and finally landed on a black-and-white-camera shot. The surveillance camera in the basement.
“That’s the one! Stop!” Walt yowled. “STOP!”
“I’m sorry, Oscar!’ Butterbean moaned as Madison carried her into the kitchen.
Oscar didn’t answer. His focus was on the camera footage of the storage area. Theempty storage area. He looked at Walt, his eyes wide.
There were no raccoons anywhere.
The white cat hurried down the row of raccoons, fluffing whiskers and smoothing down wispy tufts of hair. Then she clapped her paws.
“Okay, you know what to do! Raccoons, center stage. Band, stage right. Singers, stage left. We’re going to knock their socks off!”
Wallace nudged her and pointed to a group of rats standing awkwardly to the side.“Where should the rats go?” They were dressed in sailor suits, pinafores, and tiny nightgowns. One of them was wearing a bonnet.
The white cat hesitated and then waved her paw vaguely in the direction of the stage.“Rats, um, upstage.”
She turned to Reginald, who was standing to the side, wearing an oversized, fringy leather vest and a cowboy hat.“Are you ready?”
“Let’s do this,” Reginald said, adjusting his hat.
The white cat looked up at Chad, who was hanging from the surveillance camera. He looked like he was asleep.“Chad! Curtain up!”
Chad opened one eye and adjusted the surveillance camera.“Voil?. Curtain up.”
The white cat clapped her paws.“Places, everyone! You’re on!”
Walt glanced at Oscar uneasily and then turned back to the empty storage area onscreen.“Where are they? That’s the right channel.”
“I don’t know,” Oscar said. Butterbean had hit the wrong button at first, but they’d fixed it. It had only been a few minutes. Surely they hadn’t missed it?
Mrs. Food picked up the Television remote.“I apologize again. I’ll just turn this off.”
“NOOOOO!” Walt’s voice was a low growl.
Mrs. Food pointed the remote at the Television. Then she hesitated.
Something had appeared on the screen.
Mrs. Food’s jaw dropped.
Everyone in the room stared in silence for a few long minutes. Then Mrs. Food leaned forward.“Is that?” She got up and took a few steps closer. “I’m sorry, is that…”
Oscar held his breath.
“WHAT ARE THOSE?” Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six shrieked. “Are those BEARS?”
“BEARS?” Butterbean barked from the kitchen. “Where?”
Mrs. Food put down the remote and squinted at the television.“No, I think they’re…”
“BEARS OR DOGS. That’s disgusting!” Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six turned on Bob. “There are BEARS in the storage area!”
Madison hurried back in, bouncing Butterbean up and down like a baby.“What’s going on? What bears?”
Mrs. Food walked closer to the Television and peered at the screen closely.“I think those are… I’m not sure…”
“RACCOONS,” Bob growled, staring at the screen. “Those are RACCOONS.” Bob sounded like raccoons were his mortal enemy.
“But are those COSTUMES?” Mrs. Food frowned in disbelief.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six sputtered. “Those are… Bob, what are those?”
“Walt, can you turn up the sound?” Oscar said in a low voice. “I can’t hear anything.”
Walt nodded and slunk over to the coffee table on her stomach.
Onscreen, the raccoons were doing an admirable cancan, with lots of high kicks and jazz hands. The white cat had done something with the lighting in the storage area, and although Oscar almost hated to admit it, she’d been right. Those raccoons really popped onscreen.
Suddenly Reginald, wearing his cowboy outfit, leaped into the center of the stage, mugging for the camera as he sang an obviously heartfelt rendition of… something. The problem was that there was no sound.
Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six gasped.“THAT BEAR IS WEARING MY HAT!” she shrieked, pointing at the screen.
Walt pounced on the remote and hit the volume button. But nothing happened. She turned to Oscar, her eyes wide.“There’s no sound. THIS CHANNEL HAS NO SOUND!”
They turned back and stared at the silent television in dismay.
All that rehearsal had been for nothing.
“Reginald, catch!” The white cat tossed a ukulele to Reginald, who caught it and immediately started a heartbreaking rendition of a traditional raccoon cowboy song. The white cat nudged Wallace, who was watching with tears in his eyes. (He’d always been a sucker for sad songs.) “Here, take this.” She handed him a small camera phone.
“What’s this?” Wallace said, struggling to hold it up. It was about the same size he was.
“Don’t ask questions—just push that button when I tell you,” the white cat said. “You’re a cameraman now.”
“Okay?” Wallace said. It was always good to add new skills to his r?sum?.
The white cat waved to the tube-top raccoon standing on the sidelines.“You! Sparkles!”
The tube-top raccoon looked around and then pointed at herself questioningly.“I’m Tulip?”
“Tulip, get out there! Show them what you’ve got,” the white cat said. “Do that move you were doing earlier. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Tulip’s face lit up and she raced out in front of the camera.
It was her big shot.
“Are those maracas?” Madison asked, peering at the screen.
“Those are RACCOONS,” Bob said, his face turning deeper and deeper red. “In MY STORAGE AREA.”