Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Advice. Purrfect Passion. A Purrfect Gnomeful

“Oh, just you wait and see,” I said. “Pretty soon they’ll expand their hunting ground to Marge and Tex’s place, and then spread out from there. And before you know it they’ll start in on Fifi’s dog chow, and Rufus’s too. Which is all the more reason we have to stick together and deal with them once and for all.”

For a moment, no one spoke, as I contemplated ways and means of ‘fixing’ Hector and Helga’s expanding offspring. After a moment, I felt that Dooley was watching me intently. I turned to him and asked, “What?”

“You don’t look so good,” Max,” he said. “In fact you look even worse than you did yesterday.”

“Why, thanks, Dooley. That’s very nice to hear,” I said, not hiding the hint of sarcasm in my voice. Though I doubt whether Dooley picked up on it.

“I’ll tell you another joke,” he announced, and before I could stop him, he said, “A duck, a shuck and a chuck walk into a bar…”

I held up my paw to stop him in his tracks. “Shucks don’t walk into bars. They have no feet.”

“Just listen,” he said. “You’ll laugh very much, and that’s exactly what you need. So a duck, a shuck and a chuck walk into a bar. ‘Say, listen,’ says the chuck. ‘I sold a truck for a buck to a cluck. What does that make me?’ Both the duck and the shuck shrug. Then the bartender says, ‘You sold a truck to a cluck for a buck? You know what that makes you?’ ‘What?’ ‘A shmuck.’” My friend laughed loudly, presumably to show me how it was done.

I, on the other hand, didn’t laugh at all. Frankly I didn’t get the joke, which is what I told Dooley.

“That’s because you’re not in the right frame of mind,” he said. “Oh, Max. I worry about you. I worry a lot. And worrying is not good. We should be laughing, and having fun. It’s the only way to make sure that we don’t get—”

And I was sure he would have said a great deal more, but the car had arrived at its destination, and Chase leaned out of the window to address the unknown person in charge of opening the gate. It was one of those very tall and eerie gates, with the pointy spikes on top, to keep unwanted visitors out at all cost. It reminded me of that Hitchcock movie Rebecca, and the words ‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderlay again,’ popped into my head and I shivered slightly.

Chase’s bona fides satisfactorily established, the gate crept open with a creaking sound, and soon Chase’s squad car was moving along a long and winding drive, crunching gravel as it did.

We pulled up to a large mansion that looked just as creepy as the front gate, with turrets on either side of the structure, and tall windows deeply set in gray stone that had blackened with age.

“Creepy,” Dooley said, and that was exactly the word to describe Miss Power’s home.

We got out of the car, and as we did suddenly a figure appeared in the tall entry doors. She was slim and gray-haired and looked sixty-ish. Presumably the housekeeper, I thought, but as we set paw in her direction, it was Uncle Alec, who’d parked right behind us, who corrected my mistake when he exclaimed, a distinct tremor of emotion in his voice, “Miss Power. An honor, ma’am. An absolute honor.”

The former actress nodded once, a tight smile on her lips, and stepped back to welcome us inside.

It only took me two seconds to ascertain that she was one of those rare people who didn’t own a cat, and three seconds to determine that what she did own was a dog, which filled me with joy and apprehension in equal measure. Joy because I don’t mind having a stab at a nice bowl of dog kibble from time to time, and apprehension because I had the distinct impression it was one of those big and scary dogs. The kind that can eat a cat whole and will do so without batting an eye.

“Please step through,” said the actress, who was dressed in simple garb: a long dark skirt and a gray blouse with a nice big brooch. She was also wearing a scarf around her neck, flat black shoes and looked just about as unglamorous as humanly possible.

“She doesn’t look like a famous actress,” Dooley whispered.

“I thought she was the housekeeper,” I confessed.

“I thought she was a lady butler.”

We both grinned a little, and as we followed the humans into what I figured was a drawing or sitting room, suddenly Maria Power directed a critical look at both Dooley and me and said, “Cats! How did they get in!”

“Oh, they’re mine,” Odelia was quick to say. “I hope you don’t mind. They more or less go everywhere I go.” When Miss Power gave her a penetrating look that said she minded a great deal, she quickly added, “If you don’t want them in the house I can leave them outside.”

“I would indeed prefer if they didn’t come in,” said Miss Power. “I’m quite allergic to cats.” And to show us what she meant, she sneezed.

Moments later we were relegated to the great outdoors, the door closed in our faces, and my affection for Maria Power, not great to begin with, dropped to an even lower level.

“I don’t think I like her very much,” Dooley said.

“No, me neither,” I said. As a rule I don’t like anyone who doesn’t like me. It seems fair that way. Though I probably should have made an exception for Miss Power, as she couldn’t help being allergic to cats. Then again, for a woman who owned a dog it was very strange that she would be allergic to us, and not her silly mutt. Although someone had once told me that there are dog breeds that don’t trigger an allergic reaction in humans who are otherwise allergic to anything with four legs and plenty of fur on top.

“Let’s go around the back,” I suggested. “Check out this place.” And of course report back to Odelia when we were through.

And maybe, just maybe, find that elusive bite to eat.

Chapter 23

Odelia was properly impressed as she took a seat in the opulently appointed sitting room, where Maria Power had taken her guests. She could tell from their demeanor that both Chase and Uncle Alec were equally intimidated by being in the presence of greatness, as they were uncharacteristically quiet.

“So… what did you want to talk to me about?” asked the actress, adopting a formal tone, her face displaying no emotion whatsoever.

She looked very well preserved for her age, Odelia thought as she studied the woman. She was seventy now, having retired when she was in her late fifties, after an illustrious career, but she could hardly detect any wrinkles on her smooth brow, and only a few crow’s feet around the eyes and a certain thinness of skin that revealed her age. And the gray hair, of course, which she wore in a short bob.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, Miss Power,” said Chase, taking charge of the interview, as Uncle Alec seemed too tongue-tied to proceed, “but there has been a series of dramatic incidents in town. First a woman was found murdered in Dan Goory’s office—Dan is the editor of the Hampton Cove Gazette, and also, and probably more importantly, the president of the Gnomeos, a fan club dedicated to your work. Then this morning Jack Warner was murdered. Jack was the president of the Maria Power Society. Both Heather Gallop and Jack Warner were bludgeoned to death with a garden gnome, and in both instances the most likely suspect seems to be Dan Goory.”

“So the head of one of my fan clubs killed the head of another club. How strange,” said Miss Power, tilting her head to one side a little and displaying a slight smile.

“Well, we have reason to believe the case is more complicated than that,” Chase continued. “You see, the murder of Jack Warner was witnessed by a hotel cleaner, and soon after she made a statement to that effect she was found dead.”

Miss Power lifted one eyebrow fractionally. “Also murdered by Mr. Goory, I presume?”