The Mysteries of Max: Books 25-27

Chapter 27

While the humans were all being escorted off the premises, as was probably to be expected, and loudly bickering about whose fault it was that they’d been discovered, we cats took a detour. And since no security guards ever pay much attention to pets, no one even noticed that suddenly we’d disappeared.

“Let’s split up,” said Brutus curtly, after we’d split off from the main group.

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea,” I said just as curtly.

“You go that way and we’ll go this way,” he added, his obnoxious side asserting itself once more.

“Or you go this way and we’ll go that way,” I countered.

“Fine,” he grunted.

“Fine,” I said.

For a moment, we stood toe to toe and nose to nose, then Harriet said with a sigh, “Come on, Brutus. We haven’t got all day.”

And then we were off, Dooley and I heading deeper into the bowels of the candy-making facility that was Garibo Enterprises, and Harriet and Brutus disappearing around a corner.

“Visiting Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory isn’t really the same without Willy Wonka,” said Dooley as we traipsed along a carpeted corridor.

“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “Still, if there’s something to be found that even remotely looks like a clue, it’s our duty to find it, Dooley.”

“Oh, all right,” he said, and was silent for a beat. Then: “Do you think they make cat kibble, too?”

I smiled. “I think there’s every chance that they do, Dooley.” And why not? After all, the same company that produces the Mars bars also produces pet food, right? Though I doubt whether the ingredients are the same.

We turned a corner and suddenly were greeted by a sight to behold: a large plate-glass window offering a view of what I suspected was the main factory floor, and we could see, from the second floor where we were located, the entire production line.

“See, Dooley,” I said. “On one side of this giant machinery the ingredients are fed into the machines, and on the other side the candy comes rolling out, ready to be shipped.”

We both stared at the people who were handling the long conveyor belts, all of Bobby Garibaldi’s workers outfitted with funny-looking hairnets, lab coats and even face masks.

“Why do they all look like doctors and nurses, Max?” asked Dooley finally.

“For hygienic reasons,” I explained. “To prevent hair from ending up in the candy.”

He nodded sagely. “I guess it wouldn’t be nice to find a hair in your lollipop.”

“Or nose droppings in your jelly beans.”

He laughed. “Yuck!”

We moved along, and soon found ourselves back where we started: outside Garibaldi’s office. This was where we needed to be. This was where a possible clue could be found.

And so we silently slipped back into the CEO’s office. He was at his desk, still quietly fuming after encountering not one but two of his favorite foes: a reporter and a cop.

We snuck in unseen, and crept underneath his desk, so we could spy on the man undetected.

“Yeah, Odelia Poole,” he was saying into his phone as he swiveled around on his swivel chair. “Pretending to be a Russian investor. Yeah, and Chase Kingsley. A cop, Mom. A cop! What’s a cop doing snooping around?”

He pressed a button and switched to speakerphone as he got up and started pacing the room.

“It’s fine, darling,” a woman’s voice spoke. “This has got nothing to do with us, so let’s not get rattled.”

“Rattled?” spat the guy. “Who is this dead woman? And why does she look exactly like Aunt Vicky?”

“I don’t know, darling. And I’m sure the police don’t have a clue, either. Otherwise they wouldn’t have barged in on you like that.”

“I don’t understand,” said Garibaldi, shaking his head as he glanced out through the window at the parking lot. “If they wanted to ask me a bunch of questions, why didn’t they make an appointment? Why this cockamamie story about Russian investors?”

“I’ve read up on Miss Poole,” said the man’s mother. “Her uncle is the chief of police, and she fashions herself to be something of an amateur sleuth, assisting the police in their investigations. This was probably her idea. Catch you off guard. Make you say things you’d later regret.”

“What things? I don’t know anything about this murder business.”

“I’ll bet they were wearing a wire,” the woman continued. “And they simply tried to catch you in some incriminating statement.”

“And who were those other two? One looked like Estelle Getty and the other like a prostitute.”

“Vesta Muffin is Odelia Poole’s grandmother. She runs the local neighborhood watch. She’s a total fruitcake.”

“And the other one?” asked Garibaldi. I could see from my hiding place that he was looking a little wistful. Clearly this ‘prostitute’ had struck a chord with him.

“Scarlett Canyon. She’s a nobody. Likes to think she’s God’s gift to men but she’s simply an old Jezebel—a painted tart.”

Next to me, Dooley chuckled lightly. “We better not tell Scarlett. She’s not going to like this,” he whispered.

“Or Gran,” I whispered back.

Whoever Garibaldi’s mom was, she was one tough baby.

“Look, son, you have got to relax.”

“Relax! How can I relax when I’m being hounded by cops, reporters and the local gang of Looney Tunes?” He grabbed for his ponytail. “Have you talked to Uncle Quintin?”

“Yeah, I talked to him last night.”

“And? Is he budging?”

“Nah. Your uncle is a stubborn old fool. But I think this whole thing with the dead girl has got him rattled. I think he might come around to our point of view this time.”

“Well, he’d better. I didn’t spend my entire adult life churning out sugary goo for fun.”

“I’m sure it won’t be long now, darling. Just hang in there, and make sure the Poole woman and that detective stay away from you. We’ve come too far to back down now.”

The conversation over, I shared a look of concern with Dooley. I had a feeling that these were very deep waters we were plumbing. Very deep waters indeed.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” suddenly a voice tootled in our ear.

It was Garibaldi, and he was peeking under the desk, looking straight at us.