Дебора Хоу - Return To Howliday Inn

He was halfway across the compound before I could get out the rest. “What if Rosebud means you?”

CHESTER was gone for most of the afternoon. I spent the time digging. It went very slowly. Bob and Linda were more talk than action. Howie and The Weasel had small paws. I was getting more worn-out by the minute.

And the metal fence seemed to have no bottom.

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It was late in the day before Chester returned, a jubilant expression on his face. I looked up as he jerked his head toward our bungalows. Howie and I ran to join him.

“Nice of you to show up,” I said. “Don’t tell me you’ve spent this whole time talking crackers with a parrot?”

“Oh, we had a much more interesting conversation than that,” Chester exclaimed. He looked around and lowered his voice. “I’ve learned the secret of Chateau Bow-Wow!”

“Really?”

“Wow,” said Howie.

“It’s a code, so I still have my work cut out for me.”

“Is it a common code?” Howie asked. “Or more of a flu?”

“It’s a number code,” said Chester, gritting his teeth. “All I have to do is make sense of it. For a while there, I thought I wasn’t going to get anything out of her, then all of a sudden she started repeating these numbers. Over and over. It has to mean something, don’t you see?”

He looked around to be sure no one was listening, leaned his head in toward ours, and said very softly, “Six-one-one-one-five.”

“Six-one-one-one-five?” Howie yelled excitedly.

“Howie!” said Chester, annoyed.

“That’s it!” someone shouted.

“Ee-yes!”

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We looked up. Felony and Miss Demeanor smiled down at us from atop Chester’s bungalow, then scampered off.

“Nice going,” Chester told Howie.

Howie lowered his head and looked up at Chester sheepishly.

“I’m sorry, Pop,” he said. “I get carried away.”

“Don’t tempt me,” said Chester. “Now where are those two off to? And why did they want to know the code? I’m telling you, Harold, those two are our culprits. I’m going to follow them and you can—”

Chester was cut off by Ditto’s sudden squawking.

“New one coming tonight! New one coming tonight! Hamlet got to go! Hamlet got to go!”

I looked around. Bob and Linda were sitting on their haunches in front of their bungalow, staring wide-eyed at the jabbering bird. Felony and Miss Demeanor had stopped in their tracks halfway be- , tween our bungalows and theirs. They too were staring. The Weasel’s head poked out from behind the bush. He turned sharply. I followed the direction of his gaze.

He was looking at Hamlet, who was quivering with fear.

“Too late!” cried Rosebud. “Too late!”

The door to the office opened. Daisy came out and walked slowly the full length of the compound. Reaching Hamlet, she burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling. “I’m so sorry.” She put her arms

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[Image: Miss Demeanor pull the dog.]

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around his neck and hugged him for a long time. Then she took hold of his collar and led him away.

As he reached the office door, Hamlet turned back and looked at us. He raised his head and let out a piteous whimper, one that filled the very air with sadness and left it empty as the sound died away.

“The rest is silence,” he said.

Daisy tugged gently on his collar. They walked into the office. The door closed.

And the rest was silence.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

A New Arrival

SILENCE remained like an unwanted guest. The only thing that broke it was Chester’s muttering from the next bungalow after dinner. Numbers, letters—I knew what he was up to. He was trying to decipher the code.

After Hamlet’s departure, although no one had said as much, it was clear we were all thinking the same thing: Something terrible was going to happen to him. Chester was convinced that the answer lay in the code, which was going to reveal the secret of Chateau Bow-Wow and somehow help us understand Hamlet’s fate.

As it turned out, it wasn’t the code that helped us so much as a ditsy little poodle who arrived later that night.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

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It was just beginning to get dark when Chester cried, “Harold!”

“What is it?!” I was so startled I bumped my nose on the wall as I swung around to face Chester’s bungalow.

“I’ve got it,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m coming over.”

A moment later, he was inside my bungalow.

“I’ve been substituting letters for numbers. It took me a while to get the right combination, but now I have it, I’m sure of it. Six, one, one, one, five. Six equals F. That’s easy.”

“If you say so,” I said.

“One is A, the next two ones are eleven, that equals K, and the five means E. Put them all together, they spell—”

“Muh-uh-uhther!” I sang out. I’m a sucker for that song.

“Knock it off, Harold,” Chester snapped. “It spells fake. Get it?”

“No,” I said. “Fake what?”

“I don’t know that yet! Maybe Greenbriar’s a fake. Maybe he forges documents, makes counterfeit money in the cellar. Whatever it is, my guess is that Chateau Bow-Wow is nothing but a cover for some sleazy, shady operation. Rosebud must have found out. And then Hamlet.”

I gulped. “And now you.”

“Correction,” he said, “now us.”

I gulped again. This time it stuck in my throat.

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Dashing to the door, Chester said, “Excuse me, Harold, but I’ve got some bones to talk to.”

And he was gone.

How like a cat. They stop by long enough to tell you you’re a dead dog, then rush off to talk to an even deader one.

Well, I wasn’t about to spend my evening sitting around worrying what terrible fate lay in store. No, I would figure some things out myself.

I sat down and began to think.

Fake.

What did it mean?

After several seconds, my head started to hurt from thinking and I was getting nowhere. I decided to drop in on Howie. Maybe if he did half the thinking my head would hurt only half as much.

I told him what Chester had told me.

“Do you think Dr. Greenbriar is a quack?” I asked him.

“You mean a vet who specializes in ducks?” Howie said. “That’s what I call a fowl practice. Get it, Uncle Harold, get it? A fowl practice.”

For some reason, my head began hurting more instead of less.

“A quack is a doctor who doesn’t have a license, a phony. If Dr. Greenbriar is found out to be a quack, he could go to jail.”

“That would be terrible,” Howie said. “There aren’t any ducks in jail. Who would he take care of?”

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I had the feeling I’d lost Howie.

Just then, Chester appeared at the door of Howie’s bungalow. “Harold, Howie,” he said, “hard as it is for me to admit this, I need you.”

Howie scampered over to Chester. “Aw, Pop,” he said, “we need you too, don’t we, Uncle Harold?”

The Weasel suddenly popped up next to Chester. “I couldn’t help overhearing and if you don’t mind my saying so it’s about time you three lovable guys told each other how much you cared. What a beautiful moment. There’s a little song I could sing—”

“Rosebud’s not talking,” said Chester, not giving The Weasel a chance to finish his sentence, let alone break into song. “I thought maybe she’d talk to a dog. Harold?”

“I’ll try,” I said.

“Me too,” cried Howie.

“I’ll sing backup,” said The Weasel.

And off we went.

It was no good. A half hour of calling Rosebud’s name, of asking her the meaning of the word fake, of telling her what happened to Hamlet—all to no avail. She was as silent as, well, as silent as a bunch of bones and an old collar.