The Mysteries of Max: Books 25-27

Chapter 14

While the humans talked, Dooley and I had wandered off, as we usually do. The house where Mr. Quintin Gardner lived was huge. Plenty of rooms and corridors, and all of them pretty gloomy, I might add. Almost as if Mr. Gardner would have preferred to live in Victorian times, if given the opportunity.

The walls were bedecked with paintings of what I could only assume were ancestors of Mr. Gardner or his missing spouse. All of them gargoyles, I must say, with not a redeeming aspect to be found.

“Some humans are really ugly, aren’t they, Max?” asked Dooley, as he studied the portrait of a woman with no less than three hairy warts on her face.

“It’s all a matter of perspective, Dooley,” I said, with what I hoped was the right modicum of censure. It doesn’t do to call humans ugly. They rarely appreciate it.

“Odelia is pretty, though, isn’t she?”

“Odelia is very pretty,” I allowed.

“But if we’re allowed to call Odelia pretty, then we’re also allowed to call these people ugly, aren’t we?”

“Um…” It was the kind of irrefutable logic that sometimes makes it tough to argue with Dooley. Lucky for me we’d finally come upon something to distract our attention from the gargoyles: a stuffed marmot was sitting on top of a sideboard in the corridor. We both stared at the marmot as the marmot stared back at us with its beady eyes.

“It looks alive but it smells dead,” said Dooley aptly.

“That’s because it’s been stuffed,” I said.

“Stuffed? What do you mean, stuffed?”

“Well, some people love their pets so much that even after they die they like to keep them—as a reminder of the love they shared. And so Mr. Gardner must have really liked this marmot, for he had it stuffed.”

“I don’t understand,” said Dooley, shaking his head.

“You’ve heard of mummies, right?” I asked, wondering how to explain it to my friend in a way that wouldn’t freak him out.

“Oh, of course. I’ve seen plenty of Discovery Channel documentaries on mummies. The Discovery Channel loves a good mummy. Almost as much as it loves sharks.”

“Well, stuffing is more or less the same thing. They, um, first remove the, um, organs, and then replace them with, well, the stuffing.”

Dooley gaped at me, then opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, before crying, “No way!”

“Yes, unfortunately so.”

“But…” He glanced up at the marmot, still looking as if it might come to life at any moment. “But what about the eyes? It looks so alive!”

“Glass,” I said. “They remove the actual eyes and replace them with glass beads.”

“But Max, that’s horrible!” he yelled.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” I agreed.

“You mean that when we die Odelia is going to have us both stuffed?”

“Um…”

“Oh, no!”

“Well,” I murmured, giving the marmot a dark look. The darn thing had caused my friend to become upset. Then again, sometimes the realities of life have that effect on a cat, and no matter how much you try to shelter them, it’s hard to protect them all the time.

“Look, I’m sure the marmot didn’t suffer,” I said as we moved along.

“But Max, stuffing!”

“I know, I know,” I said with a sigh.

We passed by more rooms, whose doors were all closed, unfortunately, but even as we climbed another set of stairs we never picked up the scent of any pets—except the stuffed marmot—so I think it’s safe to say that we were at a dead end—no pun intended.

On the top floor, we finally found a room whose door was wide open, and inside was a woman making a bed. She was dressed in the customary costume of a maid, which made me assume that she was, indeed, a maid. She didn’t see us, and we didn’t make our presence known, for obvious reasons: no one likes a pair of snooping cats.

“This must be the master bedroom,” I said, and admired how airy and bright it was, compared to the rest of the house, which was musty and dark.

“A double bed,” Dooley pointed out. “Do you think Mr. Gardner remarried?”

I gestured with my head to the nightstand, which held a portrait of the missing woman. “I doubt it,” I said. And as we glanced around I saw signs of Vicky everywhere: from a portrait on the wall, to silver-framed pictures, and even a bust on the dresser. “She might have been gone two decades but clearly she hasn’t been forgotten,” I said.

“No pets,” Dooley pointed out.

“Except the dead marmot,” I said before I could stop myself.

“Max!” Dooley wailed, drawing the attention of the maid, who looked startled, then uttered a loud shriek.

“Oops,” I said. “Time to go, Dooley.”

And so we ran, not walked, out of there, before the woman could start chasing us with a broom, which she seemed more than willing and capable of doing, judging from the volume of her cries.

We arrived downstairs and saw to our surprise that Odelia, Uncle Alec and Chase had either left the building or had relocated to some other part of the large mansion.

“The door,” I said, and hurried in that direction. Unfortunately the door was firmly shut, and with no other way to turn we hurried along the hallway and back into the house, in search of some other exit.

“I can’t believe Odelia left us in here,” I said as we made our way in the direction of the kitchen, following our noses to take us there.

“Maybe she’s upstairs and we missed her,” Dooley suggested.

“We would have smelled her,” I said, experiencing a touch of annoyance at being abandoned like this by my human, and in a strange place no less.

We’d finally found the kitchen, which, from my experience, usually presents two attractive aspects: the kitchen door is often not as barricaded shut as tightly as the front door, and kitchens are where the food is at, and I must confess I’m a big fan of food. It’s all those big bones of mine, you see. They need to be fed a regular diet to stay in shape.

Unfortunately the kitchen that Mr. Gardner had built was different on both accounts: the door wasn’t open, and there was no food to be had.

“We’re stuck, Max!” Dooley cried. “Stuck in the house of an animal stuffer!”

I had to agree that the prospect was a dire one, and frantically looked around for a way out, even as the sound of approaching voices and footsteps told me the jig would soon be up.

And that’s when I saw it: the kitchen door was one of those doors consisting of half a piece of wood and above that several panes of glass separated by some type of lead lining. And one of those panes was open now, presumably to let in some air.

“Through there, Dooley,” I said.

“It’s too small, Max!” said Dooley. “You’ll never make it through!”

“I have to make it through,” I said with determination. “You go first. Hop onto my back and I’ll give you a boost!”

Dooley did as he was told and hopped onto my broad back. I made a bucking motion at the same time he made the big leap, and much to my delight he flew through the air like a feline Rudolf Nureyev and zoomed through that open pane with no effort at all.

“And now for the tricky part,” I said to myself. So I made the same leap, only without the advantage of a nice boost, but with the aid of a pair of very powerful hind legs, and soon I was flying through the air, though more like a moderately cherubic Nureyev than a Nureyev at his slimmest, and as I approached the window, I suddenly realized to my horror that Dooley had been right: it was too tight!

And so I sailed right in, until suddenly…

PLOP!

I got stuck halfway through.

“Max! Why did you stop?!” Dooley yelled from down below.

“It’s my belly,” I croaked. “It’s not cooperating!”

Dang those big bones of mine…