The Mysteries of Max: Books 25-27

Chapter 7

Wilbur Vickery made a face when this customer counted out the sum she owed him down to the last cent.

“One cent, two cents, three cents…” the woman murmured as she put a pile of coins on the counter.

Wilbur, even though he was of an age when most people stop losing interest in technological advancements, had embraced the digital revolution wholeheartedly. He liked nothing better than when people paid with plastic. Coins were such a nuisance. You had to count them, you had to make sure you didn’t shortchange people and, most of all, you never knew where all those coins had been. People paid a visit to the bathroom, didn’t wash their hands, and then brought out their coins to pay for their wares. Yikes.

He glanced over the counter and out into the street, where passersby enjoyed a relaxing stroll in the sun, while small business owners were cooped up inside having to patiently wait for customers to empty the contents of their wallets, counting out coins and keeping an entire line of customers waiting.

Wilbur’s big piebald, Kingman, sat on the sidewalk, on an overturned plastic crate, chatting with other cats. Well, at least Wilbur thought Kingman was chatting. With cats it was hard to know what it was they were doing, but it sure as heck looked to him as if they were chattering away like a bunch of gossiping old maids.

“Thank you for your business,” he said dutifully when the lady had finally divested herself of her last copper coin and he’d dumped them into his cash register.

He cast a quick glance at the bank of screens located next to the till, where he could monitor any of the dozen or so cameras he’d installed in his store. Right next to that was a television screen tuned to ESPN, where currently two newscasters were arguing the pros and cons of LeBron James’s state of fitness for next month’s game.

“It’s a disgrace,” said the next customer in line.

He stared at the woman. “Disgrace? What are you talking about?” He recognized her as Ida Baumgartner, one of his regulars.

“And you call yourself a member of the neighborhood watch,” she said, shaking her head and looking at him with clear reproach in her eyes.

She was a formidable woman, of sizable proportions, with no less than three chins, or it could have been four. All of her chins were waggling now, and her eyes, behind those square-shaped horn-rimmed glasses, were hard and unforgiving.

“Burglars are running amok in our town and you’re sitting here twiddling your thumbs as if you don’t have a care in the world.”

He would have pointed out that he wasn’t exactly twiddling his thumbs but making a living selling his wares to all who wanted them, but Mrs. Baumgartner was already continuing her tirade. “If I were you I’d take down that sign,” she said now, pointing to the sign on the wall behind them that read, ‘Proud member of the Neighborhood Watch.’

“Well, I…”

“The police are doing nothing to stop these miscreants, nor do I expect them to, since they are, after all, civil servants, and can’t be bothered, but I’d really expected more from you, Wilbur, seeing as you’re supposed to be one of us.” She dropped a twenty dollar note and it fluttered down to the conveyor belt. “But all you care about is our money, not our safety. I should have known.” And with a shake of the head and a final dark frown, she grabbed her large canvas shopping bag containing her frankly meager haul, and stalked off, leaving Wilbur to stare after her, feeling bewildered and slightly annoyed.

“Don’t listen to her, Wilbur,” said his next customer, Father Reilly. “It’s not your fault that criminals are running circles around our law enforcement officers.”

“My fault? Your fault, you mean,” said Wilbur, for Father Reilly was as much a member of the newly launched neighborhood watch as he himself was.

“Myes, you’re probably right,” said the priest, fingering his tuft of white hair. “Maybe we should get together and see if we can’t put a stop to the latest crime wave to hit these shores.”

“Have you heard from Vesta yet?” asked Wilbur, referring to Vesta Muffin, the heroic founding mother and current leader of the watch.

“Can’t say that I have. But rest assured, if this crime wave is as bad as Ida seems to think it is, I’m sure that Vesta will be on top of it, and so will Scarlett.”

“I hope so,” said Wilbur. “We pledged to keep this town safe from crime, Francis, and if what Ida is saying is true, we’re failing in our sacred duty.”

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” said Father Reilly soothingly. “Ida tends to see danger where there is none. We all know that about her.”

This was true. Ida was one of those people with hypochondriacal tendencies, and spent more time at the doctor’s office than out and about. Still, it’s one thing to imagine yourself the victim of every disease on WebMD and another to accuse the neighborhood watch of gross negligence in the face of a violent crime wave sweeping through the town. “I’ll talk to Vesta,” said Wilbur therefore. “Tell her to organize a meeting. If there really is a gang of burglars hitting our town, we need to get on top of this pronto, Francis. Or we’ll be tarred and feathered for not doing what we promised people we’d do.”

After Francis had walked out carrying his two bottles of wine and a nice block of Brie cheese, Wilbur took his phone and called Vesta. He didn’t like being accused of gross negligence, but what he liked even less were criminals taking what didn’t belong to them. And as he waited for Vesta to pick up, suddenly he saw that some teenager was grabbing a can of Red Bull and tucking it into the waistband of his cargo pants, then pulling down his Bugs Bunny sweater over it. “I saw that, Bart Stupes!” he yelled, and disconnected again, just when Vesta’s voice called out, “Wilbur? What do you want?”

But the store owner was already stalking down the aisles en route to catching a sneak thief in the act.