The Mysteries of Max: Books 25-27

Chapter 7

“So who is this woman, Max?”

“I don’t know, Dooley. All I know is that she was rich and that she disappeared a long time ago.”

“Oh,” he said. “Not much to go on, then?”

“Not much to go on,” I agreed. Though that had never stopped a pair of feline sleuths like us before. Last night Odelia had recruited us on the spot, and since we still felt exceedingly guilty about destroying Chase’s precious inflatable pool, we’d immediately and without demurring agreed that we’d find out what had happened to the mysterious owner of that mysterious ring hidden inside that mysterious figurine on the double.

And as we were traversing Hampton Cove’s streets, early in the morning and therefore still relatively cool, I thought how hard this assignment was going to prove.

I mean, it’s hard enough to find a person who went missing yesterday, let alone one who disappeared two decades ago, wouldn’t you agree?

Still, we were both determined to give it our best shot, and it was with this purpose in mind that we joined Kingman. The spreading piebald was seated in his usual spot: right in front of his owner’s general store, and already busily chatting with whoever awarded him their attention.

“Hey, Kingman,” I said by way of greeting as we walked up. “Boy do we have a doozy for you this morning.”

“Hiya, fellas,” said the voluminous cat. “Did you know that the world is actually a flat disk? I didn’t know but Wilbur told me all about it this morning.”

“A flat disk?” I asked, much surprised by this revelation.

“Yeah, turns out we’ve all been lied to all these years. The earth is flat, you guys, and if we stray too far near the edges we just might fall off!”

“I, um, did not know that,” I said.

“Yeah, Wilbur joined some group online that is all about revealing the truth to the world,” said Kingman with a nod.

I looked up at Wilbur Vickery, who was busy surfing on his phone and ignoring his customers. He did indeed look like the kind of person who’d believe anything anyone posted on the internet.

“So what is it you wanted to ask me?” said Kingman. “And better make it quick, cause I’ve got a date with a hot young lass lined up.”

That didn’t surprise me one bit either. Kingman always has dates with young undiscerning lasses lined up. How he does I do not know, for he’s hardly the most beautiful cat in the world. He does have the gift of the gab, though, so maybe that’s got something to do with it.

“A spider jumped Marge yesterday,” said Dooley, deciding to start his story from the very beginning. I could have told him that sometimes it’s better to start in medias res, so to speak, but Dooley clearly hadn’t been made aware of this. “It was a very hairy spider. But that’s not important. She found a goatherd,” he continued, much to Kingman’s confusion.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “So a hairy spider and then a goatherd. Gotcha.”

“And then Harriet broke the goatherd—”

“How did she manage to do that? Usually goatherders are pretty tough fellas.”

“It wasn’t a fella—it was a girl goatherd. And a very pretty one, too, with a blush on her cheeks and a smile on her face. Clearly a goatherd who loved herding goats.”

“Oh-kay… So how did Harriet manage to break this blushing goatherd, may I ask?”

“It wasn’t a real goatherd,” I explained. “It was a figurine of one, and it broke.”

“Uh-huh,” said Kingman, whose attention was already starting to wane, as his gaze drifted away from us, looking for more interesting avenues to explore—not unlike a fellow guest at a reception or dinner party, glancing over your shoulder in search of a more interesting person to talk to than you.

“And inside the goatherd was a ring,” Dooley continued, oblivious that the attention of his audience was slipping and slipping fast. “And this ring belonged to Vicky Gardner, who disappeared twenty years ago. And now Odelia wants us to find her, dead or alive.”

“Dead or alive, huh?” said Kingman. “That’s the way to go, boys. Always catch ‘em dead or alive. Now if you’ll excuse me for one sec…” And with these words he was waddling off in the direction of two pretty female felines who just happened to pass by.

“I think we just lost Kingman,” I said.

“But I haven’t even told him the most important part,” said Dooley, much disappointed.

“Now, Dooley,” I said, placing my paw around my friend’s shoulder, “I like your storytelling technique, I really do, but if there’s one suggestion I would make, it’s that you should probably get to the point a little quicker.”

“But I came to the point immediately,” said Dooley. He ticked the items off on his digits: “Spider, goatherd, ring. Or did I leave out something important, Max?”

“No. No, you didn’t, Dooley,” I admitted. “Spider, goatherd, ring just about sums it up.”

Kingman was still chatting with the two lady cats, and it was clear that unless Dooley and I turned into a pair of female cats ourselves, we wouldn’t stand a chance of getting him to pay attention to us until these two lovely ladies had decided to skedaddle.

I sighed and said, “Let’s move on, Dooley. And maybe next time let me tell the story, okay?”

“Okay, Max,” said Dooley. “Though I still don’t see what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, per se,” I said. “It’s just that…”

But before I could give Dooley a masterclass in storytelling, suddenly an object fell from the sky and almost dropped right on top of us. It was a whitish-greenish-grayish wad of pigeon dung, and it splattered to the pavement in front of us.

We both looked up, and saw the culprit fly off, laughing hysterically as it did.

“Missed!” the bird yelled. “Better luck next time!” And then it was gone.

“It almost hit us, Max!” said Dooley. “It almost dropped its… doo-doo on our heads!”

“Yes, Dooley. And I’m pretty sure it meant to hit us, too.” Pigeons, as a rule, don’t like cats, and I like to think that the feeling is mutual. And since they have the upper hand, in the sense that they can fly and we cannot, it’s hard not to feel a powerful sense of annoyance with the birds.

“I don’t think I like pigeons, Max,” Dooley announced, giving me an injured look. “Especially when they try to drop their doo-doo on our heads.”

“No, I’m not particularly fond of them either,” I admitted.

But we had more important things to deal with, and so we soon forgot about the pigeon incident and set paw for the barbershop, where our friend Buster awaited. Buster, a Main Coon, is usually very well-informed indeed, and I was hoping he might be susceptible to being drawn into our little investigation of this cold case.