The Mysteries of Max: Books 25-27

Chapter 28

Attracted by sounds of anguish, Dooley and I stepped out of the house and found the door that led from our backyard into Kurt Mayfield’s backyard wide open.

It was a sight to behold, to be honest, for as far as I could tell that squeaky iron door had never been opened. It must have taken a strong hand to open it even now, as it was pretty rusty and covered with weeds on Kurt’s side—purposely so, I would have thought, to prevent nosy neighbors from entering his yard unannounced and uninvited.

We moved into Kurt’s domain with some trepidation, as Kurt is not exactly a friend of cats in general, or Dooley and myself in particular. He mostly disapproves of the impromptu singing sessions we sometimes engage in in the backyard in the middle of the night, when, having only just returned from cat choir, the muse strikes and we decide to sing a couple of bars.

Kurt is a retired music teacher, you see, and his musical sense is quite refined.

What we saw, though, when we passed across the threshold and into Kurt’s backyard, drove all thought of Kurt as some kind of ogre from our minds, as we watched the pensioner hunched over Fifi, thick tears sliding down his cheeks, as the little doggie lay motionless at his feet.

“Fifi!” I cried, and hurried to the scene.

“I’ve called Vena,” said Odelia. She’d placed a hand on her neighbor’s shaking back. “I’m sure she’ll know what to do.”

Normally the thought of Vena Aleman paying a house call fills me with dread. She’s our veterinarian, and in that capacity not exactly our favorite person in the world, armed as she usually comes with needles and poking fingers, but this time I hoped she would fly like the wind to save Fifi’s life.

“Is she… dead?” asked Dooley.

“She’s not dead,” said Odelia. “I think she was drugged, but that’s for Vena to decide.”

Just then, Chase returned from his morning run and came to see what all the fuss was about.

“I think the same people that your anonymous witness saw prowling around Kurt’s house last night must have drugged Fifi,” Odelia told her boyfriend.

“My Jackson Pollock,” sniffed Kurt. “It’s gone. When I woke up this morning I noticed it immediately. I’ve put it on my bedroom wall, behind the door. I saw this documentary once about a couple that stole a famous painting and kept it behind their bedroom door for years. So I figured I would do the same. Only this morning when I opened my eyes it was gone!” He gestured at Fifi. “But I don’t care about the painting. All I care about is my sweet baby. The sweetest dog in the world, and now look what they did. They killed her!”

“She’s still breathing, Kurt,” Odelia reminded him. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

She grimaced when she looked in our direction, though, so I knew she was just saying this to make Kurt feel better.

“Is it cancer, Max?” asked Dooley. “Is that what killed her?”

“She’s not dead, Dooley,” I said. “Probably the people who robbed Kurt’s house last night gave her something to drug her and keep her quiet. Which is why she didn’t bark.”

“Oh, that’s not very nice,” he said, eyes wide.

“No, that’s not very nice,” I agreed.

Fifi is our friend, and if there’s anything I dislike it is people hurting our friends.

Just then, Ted Trapper stuck his head over the fence—our fence. When he saw the commotion, he joined us in Kurt’s backyard. “What’s happened?” he asked. “I heard all the hullabaloo and I thought—ooh, my God the poor thing. Is she dead?”

Suddenly, Kurt reared up and roared, “You did this, you two-bit bean counter! You stole my painting and you killed my dog!”

Ted reeled back at this. “Wa-what?” he stuttered.

“I talked to you yesterday about Ida’s Picasso and Tex’s Metzgall and now my painting is gone. Admit it, Ted—you’re behind this whole thing!”

“But—no! I’m not a thief, Kurt. No way, José!”

“And here we go again,” I muttered. It wasn’t the first time that Ted was being accused of being a thief. Last time it was actually Tex who accused him, after a number of garden gnomes had mysteriously found their way into Ted’s possession—garden gnomes that had hitherto been in Tex’s possession. The entire thing turned out to be a big misunderstanding, and Ted was cleared of all suspicion.

“I don’t think Ted has anything to do with this, Kurt,” said Odelia, coming to her neighbor’s defense.

“And I’m sure he’s guilty. Just look at that face. It’s the face of a guilty person. And will you look at that smile? He’s proud of himself—proud that he got away with it!”

“I’m not smiling!” said Ted.

It was true. Ted just has one of those rosy smiley faces—he can’t help it.

“One of your neighbors says he saw two people get away with your painting,” said Chase, inserting his formidable frame between the two men. “They got into a black van and raced off. Now why would Ted make his getaway in a black van if he lives two doors down?”

“I don’t know. Probably to hide the loot in a warehouse somewhere, along with the other stuff he stole.”

“And what about his accomplice?” asked Odelia. “Just think, Kurt.”

“I am thinking, Odelia!” said Kurt, his customary belligerence reasserting itself in the wake of the tragedy that had befallen him. “And what I’m thinking is that Marcie must be the second burglar. Probably she poisoned my sweet Fifi.”

“Oh, come on, Kurt,” said Odelia, but suddenly the irate neighbor turned on her.

“Or maybe you did it. Maybe you and he-man here stole my Jackson Pollock. You’re about to get married, aren’t you? And we all know weddings cost money. A lot of money. So you probably figured you could use some extra cash and stole my painting!”

“Kurt, if I were you I’d be very careful what I say next,” said Chase, also getting a little hot under the collar now, even though he looked very cool in his lycra. Cool and imposing. In fact he was towering over his neighbor, and Kurt, taking in the hunk of male prowess that is Chase Kingsley, quickly piped down. He probably didn’t want to be knocked out cold like his dog.

His doorbell rang, and he went into the house to answer it.

“That will be Vena,” said Odelia.

“Look, you have to believe me,” said Ted. “I didn’t do this. I would never steal from my neighbors—no, scratch that, I would never steal, period. I’m not a thief, Detective Kingsley—Chase. I’m just not.”

“I believe you, Ted,” said Chase, placing a large comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “And you’ll have to forgive Kurt. He’s very upset right now, and doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“I could sue, you know,” Ted said. “I could sue for slander and, and, and defamation of character.”

“Let’s all keep our cool,” said Chase. “The important thing right now is to make sure Fifi is all right, and that Kurt’s painting is retrieved and the thieves caught. You didn’t happen to be out and about last night, walking Rufus?”

“No, I walked him at eleven, then went straight to bed.”

“Mh. We have a partial license plate—I’ll get to work on that right away.”

Vena stepped onto the scene, looking competent and completely in charge, just the way a pet owner whose pet is out cold likes to see. Kurt was sniffling again, tears having formed in his eyes.

“It’s amazing how people can change when they are worried about their pets,” I told Dooley. “One minute he’s accusing Ted of all kinds of horrible things, and the next he’s weeping like a baby.”

“I think it’s cancer,” said Dooley. “I thought she looked very thin lately. Emaciated. It’s probably a tumor. Sometimes they hit you when you least expect it.”

Vena had examined the little doggie, and smiled a reassuring smile at Kurt. “She’ll be fine,” she said. “I’d say she was drugged. Did she eat something she shouldn’t have?”

“Kurt was burgled last night,” said Odelia. “And the burglars probably gave Fifi something to keep her quiet.”

Vena glanced around, then spotted a piece of meat lying a couple of feet away from where Fifi’s prostrate form lay. She picked up the piece of meat and sniffed then pulled a face. “This would have done the trick,” she said, then handed the meat to Chase. “I’m guessing you’ll need this as evidence, detective?”

Chase nodded, then automatically reached for a plastic evidence baggie, only to find that his lycra running outfit didn’t have pockets for such a contingency.

“Just put it back,” he said. “I’ll get something to take it into the lab.” He jogged off, and Vena worked on Fifi for a moment, and suddenly, like a miracle, the Yorkie opened her eyes, looked around a little groggily, then emitted a happy bark.

“Oh, Fifi!” said Kurt, picking up his doggie and pressing her to his bosom. “You’re alive!”

“Must have gone into remission,” Dooley said knowingly. “Happens all the time. She’ll have to watch out, though. Cancers this aggressive can come back when you least expect them to.”

“Oh, Dooley,” I said, and rolled my eyes.