The Mysteries of Max: Books 25-27

Chapter 10

“Hiya fellas,” said Buster, clearly happy to see us. “This place is buzzing—Fido’s been busy, busy, busy like you wouldn’t believe!”

I could very well believe him. Humans love to have their hair removed. From their heads, from their faces, and even other parts of their bodies I don’t want to get into right now, too. Dogs are much the same. They, too, need to be put to the trimmer from time to time. Cats, on the other hand, are far removed from all this hair-removal rannygazoo. We can take care of that ourselves, thank you very much.

The door to the barbershop was open, to let in some of that cool air that is readily available in the early morning, right before the day turns into a real scorcher, though I could have told Fido Siniawski, our local barber, that he probably should close the door, for the air streaming in was getting really hot, the day advancing already nicely. Only two customers were inside, one being subjected to Fido’s signature treatment, the other patiently waiting in the waiting area and thumbing through a copy of Cosmo.

“Any new gossip?” I asked straight out of the gate. Buster is one of our main sources of gossip in Hampton Cove. He usually knows what’s happening, since all the movers and shakers of our town at some point or another find themselves seated in Fido’s chair, and many of the non-movers and non-shakers, too.

“Nothing special,” said Buster with a sad look. “Place has been buzzing but that doesn’t mean there’s also a lot of interesting stuff being said. The Mayor was in here only yesterday. She’s going for a complete makeover. New hair, new clothes, even a new face, if her secretary is to be believed—she was in here right after the Mayor left.”

“Mayor Butterwick is getting a new face?” asked Dooley. “You mean they will remove her old face and give her a completely new one?”

“It can be done. With plastic surgery. Nowadays they can do pretty much anything with plastic surgery. New nose, cheek implants, changing the shape of the jaw…”

“But what was wrong with her old face?” asked Dooley. “I liked it just the way it was, and so, I think, did Uncle Alec.”

Odelia’s uncle has been dating our mayor for the past couple of weeks now, and by all accounts they’re a great couple. Though judging from this little bit of news Buster had to impart maybe things weren’t so great after all, if Charlene felt the need to go for an extreme makeover.

“And what if Uncle Alec doesn’t recognize her anymore?” Dooley continued. “Or doesn’t like her new look?”

He was right, of course. A man starts dating a woman, and in the middle of the process she suddenly changes appearance to such an extent it’s almost as if he’s dating a completely different woman. Not fair, if you see what I mean—and very confusing.

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” said Buster with a shrug. “And then of course there’s Wilbur Vickery, who was in here last night, and shocked us all when he asked Fido to shave off his beard.”

Dooley and I were shocked, too. “Wilbur shaved off his beard!” I cried, aghast. Wilbur Vickery had been the proud owner of a long and flowing white beard. Though when I say white I’m probably not painting the right word picture. It’s more of a dirty yellow, like the teeth and fingers of a heavy smoker. And it doesn’t really flow—it kinda bristles.

“I think it’s a good thing,” said Dooley. “Beards are filthy. And Wilbur’s beard more filthy than most.”

“Things always seem to get stuck in Wilbur’s beard,” I agreed. “Crumbs of food, cigarette ashes, nasal mucus… I think I once even saw a prawn dangling in there, and I could be wrong but I think I heard it scream, so it might have been caught alive.”

“Well, rejoice, fellas,” said Buster with customary glee. “Cause Wilbur’s beard is now a thing of the past, thanks to Fido’s able hands, and the power of the razor blade.”

I tucked these two tidbits of information in my memory for regurgitation at a later date to my human. Odelia might not want to write an article about Wilbur’s beard and Charlene Butterwick’s extreme makeover, but then again she might. The Hampton Cove Gazette is one of those small-town rags, and small-town rags don’t always go for the big breaking stories but focus on the small stuff, much to their readers’ delight, I might add.

“There’s something very important we need to ask you, Buster,” I said now, the necessary preliminaries dispensed with.

He placed a paw on my shoulder. “Say no more, Max. Of course you can have a whiff of Fido’s WindBlaster 5000. Superior technology combined with the most powerful motor in fan history. Get a load of this.” And with a flick of the paw, he turned a switch on the biggest fan I’ve ever seen in my life. Immediately it was as if a hurricane had landed right in the middle of Fido’s shop: the blades were moving the air to such a degree that it was all I could do not to be swept up like a feather and blown back against the wall.

“AND I CAN CRANK IT UP EVEN MORE!” Buster yelled over the noise the blades cutting through the air made. And to show us he meant what he said, he cranked it up, as promised, and this time I did start being blown backward, and so was Dooley. Soon I was scrambling for any object in the vicinity to keep me from flying away. My cheeks were flapping in the breeze, my eyes were tearing up and closing, and I had the distinct sensation that my fur was being removed by the sheer force of the air displacement.

But lucky for us Fido finally intervened and turned down the fan. “What did I tell you, Buster,” the irate barber admonished his Main Coon. “No messing with the fan.” And muttering under his breath, he returned to his customer, who for some reason was having her hair painted a distinct shade of purple, and continued his work.

I was still feeling a little shaky, but Buster whooped and said, “Drop by any time, fellas. This heatwave doesn’t stand a chance against the WindBlaster 5000!”

Dooley glanced at me, I glanced at Dooley, and we both shook our heads. Clearly Buster wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be questioned about missing ladies from twenty years ago. So we thanked him for his time, and went on our way. A good detective knows when to ask questions, but also when to keep his tongue, and clearly this was one of those occasions where silence is golden.

“I’m sure Buster doesn’t know anything about a woman who went missing twenty years ago anyway, Max,” said Dooley as we traversed the sidewalk, which was already hotting up considerably. Soon it would be too hot for our sensitive paws to tread on.

“Yeah, I guess this is going to prove a tough one, Dooley,” I intimated. “Not many pets were even alive twenty years ago, so it might be difficult to find an actual witness.”

“At least now we know that Wilbur lost his beard and that Charlene is thinking about losing her face,” he offered.

“Yeah, at least there’s that,” I agreed.

And we’d just arrived at Odelia’s office to give her our report from the frontline—no matter how inconsequential—when the door of the Gazette burst open and Odelia appeared. Her eyes were sparkling, and her cheeks flushed, and at that moment she looked the picture of the raging reporter, on her way to her next big story.

When she saw us, she practically screamed, “Perfect timing, guys—there’s been a murder! Let’s go!”

Only serial killers and reporters can be this happy when a murder has taken place, I found myself thinking, but then I was swept up in my human’s excitement and moments later we were in Odelia’s car and on our way to whatever adventure awaited us this time.