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“You heard me,” growled the Siamese. He directed a nasty look at Dooley. “And you must be Dooley. You look even dumber than I thought you would.”

We both stared at him. He wasn’t a large specimen, but what he lacked in size he made up for in venom. “Who are you?” I cried, greatly disturbed.

“Name is Tank, and I’m here to tell you that there’s a new game in town.” He tapped his own chest for some reason. “Move over, bozos. Tank is here.”

“Tank?” I asked. “Your name is actually Tank?”

“You don’t look like a tank,” said Dooley.

“Got a problem with my name?” Tank asked in a challenging, macho way. Like a bully looking for a fight, which I guess he was.

“Oh, no, just an observation,” said Dooley.

“Yeah, we never met a cat named Tank before,” I said.

“Well, you met him now,” Tank growled.

“What do you mean when you say there’s a new game in town, though?” asked Dooley. “What game? And which town?”

Tank grinned, displaying some very sharp teeth. “Oh, you are dumb.” He tapped my chest, hard. If he’d expected me to roll over, though, he was mistaken. Not because of my extreme courage and superior physical strength, but because of my unique body type. I’m big-boned, you see, and Tank’s paw merely disappeared into those big bones of mine, which made a gentle ploinking sound, then wrapped themselves around his paw. Much like Jell-O. Yes, I know most bones aren’t made of Jell-O, but mine are, all right?

“My God you are fat!” cried Tank, then tapped my chest again. There was more ploinking and quivering as my body adjusted itself to his touch, and after a while I got quite tired of the whole experience and got up.

He must have been impressed by my sheer size, for he stopped poking me. I may not be strong, or courageous, but what I lack in bravery I make up for in size. Twice the size of Tank, in fact. And even though I’m as docile as a butterfly, size does tend to impress.

He took a step back, and eyed me from beneath glowering brows. “Tell your cronies Harriet and Brutus that from now on I’m the bee’s knees, okay? Odelia Poole’s reign is over. The name to remember is Christopher Cross.”

“I thought it was Tank?” said Dooley, curious.

“Chris Cross and Tank! We’re taking over!”

“So who is this Chris Cross?” I asked.

“Don’t you play dumb with me, Max,” he said, baring his teeth once more. “You know who Chris is—and you know who I am, too.”

Dooley and I shared a look, then we both shook our heads. “Never heard of you, I’m afraid,” I said.

“Or this Chris Cross person,” Dooley added.

“Oh, I see what you’re doing. Clever. Very clever. But psyching me out won’t work. Chris Cross is the best pet detective in the county—maybe even the country. So it’s goodbye to Odelia and Max and hello to Chris and Tank!”

“Hello,” said Dooley good-naturedly. “Nice to meet you, Tank.” He glanced around. “So where is this Chris?”

“We’re taking over the investigation,” said Tank, ignoring Dooley. “Just so you know.”

“That’s all right,” said Dooley. “We’re on strike anyway.”

Tank gave Dooley a strange look, then held up a paw, extended his claws and pretended to slice his own throat for some reason. “Game over,” he said, and then he was off, leaving us to stare after him.

“What was that all about?” asked Dooley finally.

“Beats me,” I said. “Something about Chris Cross and some game.”

“Do you think he understood why we’re on strike?” asked Dooley.

“No idea,” I said, and I plunked back down again.

“I like this strike thing, Max,” said Dooley, closing his eyes.

“I know. You said it before.”

“No, but I really like it.”

“Me, too, buddy.”

“Very relaxing.”

“Very.”

And then we slept.

Chapter 10

The next visitor who swam into our ken wasn’t the strangely rude cat who called himself Tank, but a timid white cat who looked as if she’d just seen a ghost. I’d opened one eye at the sound of something or someone slithering through the low grass, and found myself face to face with this new arrival.

“Hey, there,” I said good-naturedly, for my mood always improves when I can get some quality shut-eye. Plus, I was happy Tank hadn’t returned.

The cat stared at me with fear etched across her furry features. She was a very pretty, smallish cat of the Birman variety if I wasn’t mistaken. She also had a little crown on her head and a pendant around her neck that could have been a diamond. My guess was that she lived on the premises. And that her name was Pussy.

“Nice weather we’ve been having,” I said by way of introduction. Always a nice icebreaker. It didn’t work on this cat, though, for she continued staring at me as if I were some monster from the deep about to devour her whole.

“Do you live around here?” I asked, going for my second most popular icebreaker.

This time there was a response, as the cat nodded twice.

“Hey, that’s great. We’re just visiting,” I said. “Our human is an amateur sleuth and she’s looking into the death of the owner of this place. Did you know him?”

Again a quick nod.

Dooley, who’d woken up from all of my chattering, also opened his eyes.

“Hey there,” he said. “Nice weather we’ve been having.”

“Already tried that, Dooley,” I said from the corner of my mouth. “No dice.”

“Do you live around here?” he asked next.

The cat opened her mouth and said, in a squeaky voice, “I live here. What are you doing in Samson’s pen?”

“Samson’s pen? Oh, you mean this pen belongs to someone?” I asked.

“Who’s Samson?” asked Dooley, deciding to go for the direct approach.

“Samson is Gabe’s pet chicken,” said the cat, surprising us with her sudden eloquence.

“Pet chicken?” I asked.

She nodded three times. “She ran away last night. I should have known it was a bad sign.”

“Chickens do tend to run away,” I said, as if I were the world’s greatest expert on poultry, which I’m not. I haven’t met a lot of chickens in my time, or made friends with our feathered friends. Chickens tend to make themselves scarce when cats are around.

“So where did Samson run off to?” asked Dooley.

The cat shrugged.

“And why is Samson running away a bad sign?” I asked.

“My human died this morning,” she said, and looked as if she were on the verge of tears. “And then my other human was arrested for murder, and now it’s just me and a dozen staff and who knows what will happen next?”

“I guess the human that’s dead will stay dead and the human that was arrested for murder will go to prison,” said Dooley. “But that’s just a wild guess so don’t pin me down on that.”

“Dooley!” I hissed. “Can’t you see she’s distraught.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Dooley, horrified. “I didn’t realize…”

“It’s all right,” said the cat, her eyes downcast and her lips trembling. “Like I said, I should have seen it coming.”

“You mean with Samson running off and all?” I asked.

“Yeah, and with Leo and Gabe fighting all the time.”

“Yeah, that’s usually a bad sign.”

She’d plunked herself down in front of us, and seemed more amenable to chatting now. Always good to get this kind of stuff off your chest. And without boasting I can tell you that both Dooley and I are excellent listeners. That’s what you get from living with Harriet and Brutus: they’re excellent talkers and we’re excellent listeners. And so the world keeps on turning.

“So you’re Pussy, right?” I said.