The Mysteries of Max: Books 31-33 Read online

  “You think it’ll work?” asked Wim, freely expressing his reluctance to embrace the scheme. The only reason he was on board, in fact, was that he was the son of Wim’s mother’s brother. Which didn’t stop him from pointing out the obvious and many flaws in Suppo’s scheme. Not that that, in turn, stopped the latter from pursuing it anyway.

  “Look, if I didn’t believe we could pull it off I wouldn’t be here,” said Suppo as he picked up the watch and slid it on his wrist. It looked pretty cool, he thought. Cool enough to make sure its wearer would very rarely take it off—which was the point.

  The sudden sound of a police siren had both men look up in alarm and move over to the window. They watched on as a police car passed by the hotel where they were currently holed up, then breathed a sigh of relief as it simply zoomed past and soon rounded a corner and disappeared out of sight.

  “If this scheme of yours lands my ass in prison…” Wim said, wagging a finger in his cousin’s face.

  “It won’t,” Suppo assured him.

  “But if it does…”

  “But it won’t!” he said laughingly.

  “Well, if it does, the police will be the last of your problems,” Wim finished the sentence.

  Suppo gulped a little. He knew exactly what his cousin was referring to—or rather, who. Wim’s blushing bride Sandy, a recent addition to the Bojanowsky family, was one of those women who took the expression ‘stand by your man’ very literally indeed. If Wim ever got sentenced to prison because of something Suppo got him involved in, Sandy would personally make sure Suppo suffered the consequences of his rash actions. And since Sandy’s most treasured possession in the world, aside from Wim himself, was a small menagerie of tigers, there was every chance in the world Suppo’s body would never be found—or what was left of it after she’d fed him to her private zoo.

  “So what was that man doing hiding between those potatoes, Max?”

  “I don’t know, Dooley. But I’m sure Uncle Alec will find out.”

  Dooley gave me a pensive look. He’d clearly been brooding on this vexing problem ever since Gran had ushered us back into her car and had driven us home.

  “I think he was hungry,” my friend said finally. “So hungry he didn’t notice the truck was moving and before he knew what was happening he was crushed to death by all of those potatoes.”

  “I very much doubt whether a person who’s hungry would try and find nourishment in a truck full of potatoes,” I said. “Those potatoes are raw potatoes, Dooley. In the sense that they haven’t been baked or cooked or fried or whatever people do with potatoes.”

  He merely stared at me, clearly not comprehending why this would negate his theory.

  “People don’t eat raw potatoes,” I explained. “They’re not tasty, and also, they can be poisonous, especially when—”

  “That’s it!” Dooley cried. “You solved the case, Max! You and me both.”

  “Um…”

  “Don’t you see? I solved the part on how he got onto that truck, and you solved the part where he ate a bad potato and died! We have to tell Odelia. She’ll be thrilled.” And before I could stop him, he’d wandered off in search of our human.

  I could have told him that Odelia was at the office, busily writing her articles, but Dooley had already disappeared from view, and so I decided not to bother. I’d picked a nice spot in the backyard, the grass was tickling my belly, and frankly I was feeling very comfortable, thank you very much. Too comfortable to bother about some stranger who met an untimely death surrounded by a large collection of potatoes. Dooley might think there was a case to be solved, but I wasn’t convinced. Not every person who dies ends up that way through malice, do they? And I was pretty sure this particular death was an accidental one.

  And so I rolled over onto my back and allowed a few precious rays to tickle my tummy. And I’d just started dozing off when a pshh-ing sound told me someone desired speech with me. I opened one eye and saw that a small snail had crawled all the way up to my face and was eyeing me with a distinct sense of curiosity.

  “Are you Max?” asked the snail.

  He or she was one of those snails that like to carry their own home on their backs. I yawned then said, “Yep, that’s me.”

  The snail looked left, then it looked right, and finally it lowered its voice and said, “There’s something very important I need to tell you, Max.”

  “Yeah? And what’s that?” I said with an indulgent smile.

  “A truckload of potatoes was left lying on the tarmac of the main road into town this morning,” he announced, as if conveying some world-shattering news.

  “I know,” I said. “I was there when it happened.” I yawned again.

  “Oh,” said the snail. “Well, it may interest you to know that a man was found dead amongst those very same potatoes.”

  “Old news, I’m afraid, Mr. or Mrs…”

  “Mr. Ed,” said the snail. He seemed to relax a little. “I was told you were a smart kitty, Max. And I can see they weren’t lying. You are exceptionally well-informed.”

  “Just a coincidence,” I said. “Gran—that’s my human’s grandmother—just happened to be in the neighborhood.” I decided not to mention she’d been on a potato-hunting expedition at the time. No sense in washing the Poole family’s dirty laundry in public.

  “The thing is, Max,” said Mr. Ed, “that the man was a crook. And not just any crook either. He’s the crook that ripped off my human to the tune of no less than seventy-five thousand smackeroos last week.”

  Now this was news to me, and I stared at the snail, trying to figure out where his eyes were. “Your human? What do you mean, your human? You’re a snail. Snails don’t have humans. You guys roam wild and free, not a care in the world except where to find some delicious leaves to munch on.”

  “That’s what you think,” said the snail, making a gentle scoffing sound as he shook his tiny little head. “It’s not just cats and dogs that have humans that care for them and love them, Max. Snails are lovable creatures, too, you know. Or don’t you think we deserve to be loved as much as some of the bigger pets do?”

  “Oh, sure,” I said quickly, now rolling onto my tummy and giving the snail an apologetic look. “Of course you do. I think you’re absolutely worthy of love… Mr. Ed.”

  “Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” he said with a shrug, which involved hoisting his entire shell into the air and then lowering it again. “You think I’m hideous, don’t you? Disgusting. Just a slimy, weird-looking creature who for some reason drags his cozy little home along with him wherever he goes, leaving nothing but a trail of gooey goo behind.”

  “No, no,” I assured Mr. Ed. “That’s not what I was thinking at all, Mr. Ed.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s exactly what you were thinking. But that’s all right, Max. It’s not often cats and snails mix in a social setting, and I for one felt hesitant to approach you like this. Out of the blue, I mean. But I figured I owe it to my human to get the word out, and I can’t do it on my own. For some reason my human is reluctant to involve the cops.”

  “But why? What happened?” I asked, now thoroughly intrigued by this unusual tale.

  “Max!” suddenly Dooley’s voice sounded in my rear. “I can’t find Odelia anywhere! I hope she hasn’t touched those poisoned potatoes! Who are you?” This last question wasn’t directed at me but at Mr. Ed. “Hey, you’re a snail.”

  “Excellent powers of observation, cat,” said Mr. Ed.

  “Dooley, meet Mr. Ed,” I said. “Mr. Ed, this is Dooley, my best friend.”

  “I know who you are,” said Mr. Ed. “You and Max work together, don’t you? You’re like a team. Well, I’m glad you decided to drop by, Dooley, since I only intend to tell this once. So listen carefully.” And then he took a deep breath and said, “It all started two weeks ago…”

  Chapter 5

  Harriet and Brutus had also joined us, and after making the necessary introductions, and getting Brutus to stop grinni
ng at the notion of a snail regaling a couple of cats with the woes that had befallen his human, Mr. Ed resumed his tale. And a tall tale it was, too.

  “Evelina is one of those humans who has a hard time bonding with another human of the opposite sex,” the snail explained, his tentacles waving in the air to emphasize his words. “She’s forty-two now and has never married. Oh, she’s been in relationships, but never one that lasted more than a couple of weeks. Lately her sister Emma expressed concern that she will never find a man to settle down with, and experience the joys of having a family of her own. And so Emma made it her mission to get Evelina hooked up with a significant other. She arranged a number of dates, keeping a close eye on her progress. Unfortunately the first ones were all duds, and Evelina was frankly prepared to give up when one day Emma hit upon Mr. Right.”

  “I thought your name was Ed?” said Brutus, still grinning.

  Mr. Ed ignored our friend’s barb, and continued. “This man, his name was Bob Rector, though she liked to call him Bobby, scored a fulsome ten on Evelina’s scorecard.”

  “Evelina kept a scorecard?” I asked.

  “Well, actually this was Emma’s idea. She’d read somewhere that it is advisable to score your dates, and so every time Evelina had gone out on a date they made it a point to sit down for a moment of reflection. You know, like a performance review? Evelina owns her own business, and so does Emma, so I guess the idea appealed to them.”

  Brutus’s grin was widening, and I could tell he had to tamp down the urge to utter some ill-advised crack. A glance from Harriet shut him up, though. I think she was as eager as the rest of us to get to the heart of this curious little story.

  “So Evelina and Bob went on a second date, and then a third, and by the time their fourth date rolled around Evelina was already talking wedding plans and had selected a list of potential names for their firstborn. Marie if it was a girl, Perry if it was a boy.”

  “What a coincidence,” said Dooley. “Our human is about to get married, too. But we’re not invited,” he added with a touch of sadness.

  “Well, anyway,” said Mr. Ed, “things were going really well, and everyone said that Evelina looked twenty years younger, and that she’d never seemed happier. Even her work colleagues all said she was one lucky lady to have met such a fine gentleman.”

  “What does she do for a living?” asked Harriet.

  “She owns a very successful party supply store. She sells everything from costumes to cakes and decorations—the works.”

  “So she’s rich,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. Evelina is loaded.”

  “Oh, boy,” I said. “I think I can guess the rest.”

  “You can?” said Dooley. “But how, Max?”

  “Look, do you want me to tell the story or not?” asked Mr. Ed, who was getting a little annoyed by all these interruptions.

  “I want you to tell the story,” said Dooley, sobered.

  “Well, so one day disaster struck. Evelina and Bob had planned to meet, when all of a sudden she received a message announcing he’d been taken.”

  “Taken?” asked Dooley. “Taken where?”

  “Who cares!” said Mr. Ed, growing a little hot under his collar—if snails have collars, that is. Hard to tell. As it was, his face took on a slightly darker tinge of green, and he spat, “I’m starting to think the stories of Max and Dooley, phenomenal sleuthing team, are highly overrated.”

  Brutus cleared his throat. “You probably meant to say ‘Harriet and Brutus, phenomenal sleuthing team. Or maybe HARRIET & BRUTUS (WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF MAX & DOOLEY).”

  Mr. Ed gave him a stoic look—by this time I’d located his eyes—they’re on stalks—and went on. “So turns out Bob had been kidnapped, and the ransom fee was a cool seventy-five thousand dollars,” he said, keeping Brutus under close observation lest he shot off his mouth again.

  “So did she pay?” I asked.

  “Yes, she did. The scheduled ransom drop was last night. Seventy-five thousand in unmarked bills, to be delivered by her, without the involvement of the police. So she did as instructed and dropped the money in a trash container located at the canal lock near McMillan Street and then waited in vain for news from the kidnappers. They were supposed to let Bob go as soon as they got their hands on the money. But much to my dismay I discovered that Bob’s body has been found, having fallen off a potato truck.”

  “So the kidnappers killed Bob!” said Dooley. “The potatoes are innocent!”

  “And you think Bob was behind his own kidnapping,” I said, “and something went wrong and he ended up dead instead?”

  Mr. Ed nodded, his tentacles dangling freely as he did. “I never trusted this Bob fellow. Too good to be true. Plus, he almost stepped on me when he came over for dinner one night. And even though he later claimed it was an accident, I could see the look in his eyes after he almost crushed me.” He paused for effect. “It was the look of a killer.”

  “A snail killer,” said Dooley, a little breathlessly.

  “Exactly. So your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to find out what happened to my human’s money—and to prove to her once and for all that Bob was a bad ‘un.”

  “Don’t you have something more tangible to go on?” asked Harriet, who clearly wasn’t fully convinced by Mr. Ed’s story. “I mean, just because the guy almost stepped on you doesn’t make him a bad person.”

  “Yeah, my human has stepped on my tail plenty of times,” said Brutus.

  “Let me tell you something,” said Mr. Ed, wagging a tentacle in Brutus and Harriet’s direction. “When you’ve lived with humans for as long as I have, you get a feel for the species. And I know that guy was up to no good. I could see it in his eyes.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Harriet, rolling her own eyes at this. She then turned to me. “Max, you’re not seriously going to accept this case, are you?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, musing on Mr. Ed’s story. “It is entirely conceivable that Bob was behind his own abduction, and that the only thing he was interested in was the money, not Evelina’s hand in marriage.”

  “Well, I’m not buying it,” said Harriet.

  “Me neither,” said Brutus. “I think you were jealous, Mr. Ed. You were afraid that Evelina was going to get married and that once they moved in together you’d get kicked out. So you concocted this cockamamie story trying to paint Bob as the bad guy, when it’s pretty obvious the poor guy is the victim. Max, just skip this one. The client is biased.”

  “I’m not a client!” said Mr. Ed. “I’m just a snail, who’s concerned about his human, and who’s turning to you, Max and Dooley, to help out a fellow pet.”

  “A fellow pet!” said Brutus. “Everybody knows snails aren’t pets. They’re pests.”

  Mr. Ed was shaking with sheer indignation at this slur. “I beg your pardon!” he cried.

  “No human takes a snail as a pet,” said Brutus. “It’s pretty obvious you’ve made this whole story up, buddy. Is your name even Ed? We only have your word for it.”

  “I’ll drag you to court for slander and defamation of character!” said the tiny snail.

  “What court?” said Brutus, then made a throwaway gesture with his paw. “Oh, forget about it. I’m out of here. I don’t have to listen to this. Are you coming, sweet pea?”

  “Absolutely, smoochie poo,” said Harriet.

  Once our friends had disappeared through the hedge, Mr. Ed gave me and Dooley a pleading look. “I’m not lying, Mr. Max. I promise you that everything I just told you is the God’s honest truth.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Ed,” I said, and I meant it, too. Due to the limited size of his cranium, I frankly didn’t think Mr. Ed could have made up such an elaborate story. Besides, why would he?

  “So will you help me? Please?”

  I shared a smile with Dooley and the latter said, “I’m happy to announce that Max will take your case, Mr. Ed. And so will I. Now tell me everything you know about those potatoes, because I
have a feeling they’re the most important clue here.”

  Chapter 6

  “Can you believe how gullible Max and Dooley are?” said Brutus as he and Harriet moved into the house to see if Gran or Marge had managed to fill up their food bowls since the last time they checked—about twenty minutes ago. “Nobody keeps a snail as a pet, and definitely not some rich businesswoman.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” said Harriet. “We all know humans are eccentric, and especially the rich and famous.”

  “Yeah, I know, but most of those keep pet snakes or lemurs or alpacas. Surely snails are pets non grata for that set.”

  “Like I said, I wouldn’t write off the possibility,” said Harriet. “But where I do follow you is that this story of this Bob seems highly unlikely. We both saw that potato guy. Did he look like the kind of guy anyone would pay seventy-five thousand for?”

  “More like the kind of guy you’d pay to get rid of,” Brutus agreed. “With his silly suit.”

  “Well, it’s none of our business,” said Harriet. “If Max and Dooley want to waste their time running all over town because some snail told them to, Godspeed.” And she frowned at her bowl, which was empty, a sight she obviously didn’t enjoy. “Why is it that humans work so hard?” she lamented. “Gran is always sitting behind that desk saying hi and how are you to Tex’s patients, Marge is always giving or receiving books at that library of hers and Odelia is always writing articles about things that happened to other people. I mean—when are they finally going to start living, Brutus?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Brutus, who’d also noticed that his bowl was empty, and didn’t like it any more than Harriet did. They could, of course, dig into Max or Dooley’s bowls, which were still pretty full. But the sacred code between the four cats that made up the Poole household strictly forbade that kind of behavior.

  “Our humans,” said Harriet. “They work so hard, and for what?”

  “Um… so they can buy food for us and for themselves?” Brutus suggested.