Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Peril

“I was supposed to meet him here today,” Grandma continued. “For our grand reunion. And now you tell me he’s dead!”

“At least in The Notebook they were together at the end,” Odelia said.

Philippe wiped away a tear. “What an amazing story.”

“Yeah, pretty swell, huh?” said Gran. She smacked her lips. “Burt promised me apple pie. Do you think he ordered and paid in advance? I could use a piece of warm apple pie.”

Just then, another elderly lady stomped into the hotel lobby. Odelia recognized her as Scarlett Canyon. She was Gran’s age but looked years younger. The Hampton Cove scuttlebutt had it that Scarlett had had work done on her face, which looked suspiciously wrinkle-free. It lent her an unnatural look, her lips puffy and her eyes cat-like. She also had an impressive décolletage that she liked to play up by wearing dresses a few sizes too small.

“Vesta Muffin!” she roared the moment she walked in. “You whore!”

Grandma shot to her feet. “Look who’s talking!” she retorted furiously.

“Who’s this now?” Chase asked.

“Scarlett Canyon,” Odelia said. “She hates Gran’s guts. And vice versa.”

Rumor also had it that Scarlett had once tried to seduce Gran’s husband Jack and succeeded. The couple had stayed together but Gran had never forgiven either Scarlett, her former best friend, or her husband, who’d proceeded to drink himself into an early grave. The drinking had nothing to do with Scarlett, though. The man had been a closet alcoholic.

“Burt was my lover!” Scarlett cried, waving her arms dramatically. “Not yours!”

“Is it just me or does she remind you of Elizabeth Taylor?” asked Chase.

“Tell her. You’ll make her day,” Odelia said.

“Burt was mine—all mine!” Gran returned.

Philippe was staring from one old lady to the other, visibly confused that the scene had so abruptly switched from The Notebook to an episode of Feud .

“He always told me he loved me more,” claimed Scarlett.

“That was before he met me,” said Grandma.

“Impossible! Burt liked a woman with curves! Not a bag of bones.”

“Burt liked women—not skanks who prey on other women’s husbands.”

“Oh, boy,” said Chase. “Maybe we should break this up.”

“Maybe you’re right. Before these ladies break the internet.” She gestured to several people filming the scene with their smartphones. Everybody likes free entertainment.

But before Chase could intervene, Scarlett broke down in tears, swooping down on one of the sofas and tremulously declaring, “My lover is dead. Now my life is over.”

Philippe, who’d been following the interaction with breathless anticipation, suddenly asked, “So who of you is my grandmother?”

Both ladies looked up in confusion. “Huh?” asked Scarlett eloquently.

The kid was wringing his hands, his face flushed. “My dad always told me his mother was a woman Burt had loved and lost in the Hamptons. So one of you must be her.”

“I was wrong,” said Chase. “This isn’t The Notebook . This is The Bold and the Beautiful .”

And to add credence to his claim, suddenly Gran cried out, “Me! I’m your grandmother, my sweet, dear boy. It’s me!”

Philippe’s face cleared and he opened his arms to hug his newfound relative.

Uncle Alec appeared confused. “How can you be his grandmother? Wouldn’t you remember giving birth to a second son?”

Gran shrugged. “You try to remember everything that happened to you when you’re my age.”

“Don’t you believe her! Vesta is not your grandmother!” suddenly cried Scarlett, rearing up from the sofa like an opera star and approaching Philippe. “My precious boy. You finally found me.” She then threw out her hands and without warning clutched the kid to her ample chest. “My lovely, beautiful boy! My precious, precious grandson! My beloved Pierre!”

“Philippe,” the kid managed from between the massive mammaries.

“Whatever.”

Uncle Alec blew out a sigh. “Oh, boy.”

Chapter 7

Dooley and I were wandering along the street. It had been tough to get Dooley to relinquish his spot on the ground and return animation to his listless form but finally I’d managed. I’d told him Kingman, whose owner runs the General Store on Main Street, was the town’s expert on fleas, and that if anyone would know how to fight this infestation it was him.

“Do you really think Kingman can help us?” Dooley asked for the umpteenth time.

“Yes, I really think Kingman can help us,” I replied. In actual fact Kingman couldn’t save us if his life depended on it. But I had to get away from Harriet and Brutus who were the perfect double act to lead me straight into a nervous breakdown. As if the fleas weren’t bad enough, now I had to cure Brutus’s performance anxiety? Give me a break.

So a nice walk was exactly what the doctor ordered.

Soon I felt my mood lift. The slight breeze ruffling my furry flanks. The sun casting its golden rays upon a near picture-perfect world. Sidewalks full of happy people pushing strollers. Kids gurgling cheerfully. Moms merrily gossiping about other moms. I even liked the sight of all the dogs that pranced around, restrained by those nice sturdy leashes and collars.

That’s how you can tell the difference between a dog and a cat: a cat will never allow a human to put a collar or a leash on them. Cats are free-roaming spirits, not slaves like dogs.

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” I told Dooley. “Odelia will fix this.”

“I thought Kingman would fix this?”

“Someone will fix this,” I said, my confidence in the happy solution returning.

“I wonder who patient zero is.”

“Patient zero?”

“Don’t you remember from the movie? Gwyneth was patient zero. She got the virus from bat and pig poop after she shook hands with the chef who hadn’t washed his hands.”

“I don’t think it was bat and pig poop, exactly.”

“It was some creature’s poop.” He turned to me, his tail swishing excitedly. “We need to find our patient zero so we can save the world.”

“Maybe we should focus on saving ourselves.”

“It’s too late for us, Max. Even Rose from Titanic didn’t make it.”

“Oh, will you please forget about Rose from Titanic ! It was just a movie!”

He didn’t speak for a moment, then said somberly, “I’ll bet I’m Rose. And I’ll bet you’re Morpheus from The Matrix and you get to live. Or maybe you’re Matt Damon.”

“I’m not Matt Damon and you’re not Rose! It’s fleas, Dooley. Stupid fleas!”

“It’s an infestation,” he said stubbornly. “And we saw that movie for a reason.”

“Not everything happens for a reason, Dooley.”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“Not everything.”

“Everything.”

“Oh, God!”

We walked on in silence for a moment. My happy mood dampened, I suddenly wished that instead of Contagion we’d seen Ratatouille . It was also about a group of critters but these critters lived in Paris and they could cook. I was pretty sure Dooley’s outlook would improve if I could convince him fleas were happy little critters who enjoyed cooking.

We’d arrived downtown and were walking along Main Street, with its throngs of shoppers, honking cars and busy shops, when we noticed a peculiar scene. The hotel across the street from Kingman’s General Store had one of its windows blown out, as if a fire had raged through it. And down on the sidewalk a sort of tent had been put up, with funny-looking people in white coveralls hovering about. They looked like astronauts.