Дебора Хоу - Howliday Inn

I AWAKENED to the sound of cloth being torn. From the low growls that followed, I surmised that a game of Rip-the-Rag was in progress. Slowly, I opened my eyes and stared out into the bright sunlight. At last, the storm had passed, and from the sight of animals at play before me, it appeared that all was well with the world. Max, Georgette and Taxi tugged at what looked like an old towel. Heather sat sunning herself, while Howard dug at the earth in the far corner of the compound. Lyle was wrapped around a ball of some kind, kicking at it with his hind feet. The scene was so inviting that for one brief moment, I wanted to run outside and join in the play.

And then I remembered Chester. My heart sank. And the thought occurred to me: someone out there, some seemingly innocent frolicker, was really a cold-blooded killer. How could I play with a murderer? I asked myself. And who could it be? Who could it be?

I cast my eye over each in turn.

Georgette let go of the towel and, merrily darting back and forth, nipped at Max’s ankles. Sure, I thought, she has reason to be happy. With Louise out of the picture, she’s got Max all to herself now. He didn’t seem so miserable either, I noticed. How quickly his grief had spent itself. Well, why not? After all, if he had bumped Louise off, no one but Chester knew. A little poison in Chester’s food, and there was no more need to pretend. Soon he and Georgette would run away together. Everything was going according to plan. Why shouldn’t he be happy?

And Taxi? I watched as he collided with Max’s shoulder. He fell back onto the grass and rolled around, scratching his back. Max ran off with the rag, waving it in the air. Suddenly, Taxi lurched to his feet and, picking up the challenge, grabbed one end of the rag from Max. They tugged in opposite directions. How pleased Taxi must be, I thought, if he were the culprit. After all, he’d wanted so badly to impress Max, to be his best friend. And now, it appeared, he had given Max everything he could ask for … and more. And, in return, he’d gotten everything he’d wanted, too. It was not easy to forget Taxi’s interest in murder by poison. How excited he’d been when he first mentioned it to Max and me. No, he might appear on the surface to be a little dumb, but Taxi was no dumb dog.

The sound of scratching drew my eyes to Howard. What was he doing, anyway? He seemed to be digging a hole. To bury a bone, I thought. Or perhaps something else. He kept looking furtively over his shoulder, as if he were afraid of being caught. My glance fell on Heather. How strange the two of them were. Perhaps Chester had been right, maybe they were werewolves. I vowed to keep my eye on them.

Suddenly, Lyle sprang up and attacked a leaf that happened to blow by in the passing breeze. “Gotcha, you little devil,” he cried. “You thought you could escape the long arm of the law, eh? Well, take that. And that.” And he bludgeoned the poor leaf into a fine powder. He was an oddball, no question about it. I remembered his threat to Louise. And then his words from the night before popped into my head. “Let’s string him up!” he had exclaimed as he ran off. Lyle was just crazy enough, I concluded, to carry out his threats. Murder would be as natural to him as playing with a ball of yarn was to most cats.

Just then, the door to the office opened, and Harrison stepped outside, coming in my direction. “Hey, Harold,” he called out cheerily, “it’s about time you were up. You going to sleep all day?”

“Woof,” I answered.

“Oh, yeah? What kind of thing is that to say?”

Frankly, I wasn’t sure myself what I meant by it.

He opened my door. “Come on,” he said, “it’s almost time for dinner. How about getting a little exercise?”

Leaving my bungalow, I observed Harrison out of the corner of my eye. He was whistling now. His cheeks were puffed out and red from the force with which he blew the melody (such as it was) through his lips. Gee, he seemed happy, I thought. There was a twinkle in his eye as he patted my head and said, “Good boy, Harold.” From anybody else, such good cheer would have been normal behavior. From Harrison, it was definitely suspect.

What if he’s the one? I thought. Maybe he’s in cahoots with Dr. Greenbriar, as Chester once suspected. Maybe they’re doing some kind of awful experiment in their laboratory and … A shudder went through me as I thought of poor Louise and Chester in the laboratory of a mad doctor. I didn’t let myself think about it any longer.

Harrison went back inside, and I surveyed the scene before me. Georgette and Max had gone off by themselves, and Taxi was rolling on the ground playing alone with the remains of the towel. It was at that moment I decided to take matters into my own paws.

I remembered something Chester had once said to me when I had refused to go along with him to investigate another of his little hunches. I’d promised him I’d stay home and think about it.

“Sure, sure,” he’d said, “you may think about it, Harold, but I’m the one who will do something about it.”

“What do you mean by that?” I’d asked.

“Cats are doers. Dogs are not. That’s what I mean.”

“I think you may be overstating your case.”

“Think what you will,” he’d said as he’d walked away. “The fact is that I am the one who’s trying to do something. While you, O passive pooch, wrap yourself around your food dish and do nothing.”

Once more I felt the sting of Chester’s accusation. Do nothing! I thought. I’ll show him he’s not the only one with a brain. And so, with gritted teeth and a sense of great determination, I set out to unearth the truth.

I decided to start with Taxi, and I figured I’d catch him off guard with a direct assault.

“What do you know, Taxi?” I queried.

Taxi looked at me blankly. Perhaps that had been the wrong approach. I tried again.

“How are you, Taxi?”

“Oh hello, Harold,” Taxi said, as if seeing me for the first time.

“Some storm we’ve been having, eh?” I asked him.

“Oh, I’m all right, I guess.”

“What?”

“Fine, thanks.” There was a pause as Taxi and I looked at each other. “You asked how I am, and I’m telling you I’m fine.”

“Oh. Yes. I see.”

“How are you?”

“I’m okay, I guess.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were going to say ‘thank you.’ ”

“For what?”

“For asking how you are.”

“Oh,” I said, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I looked at Taxi a long time. Suddenly, I couldn’t remember what I had wanted to ask him, or why. Knowing Taxi, I decided, was definitely one of life’s more confusing experiences.

“You’re probably wondering how I got the name ‘Taxi,’ ” Taxi mumbled so softly that at first I thought he was talking to himself.

“Well, no, I wasn’t really, I—”

“Then I’ll tell you, Harold.”

“Thank you,” I said, wondering when the dinner bell would ring.

“You see, I was owned by these people in New York City who thought that when they took me out for a walk, it would be cute to call ‘Taxi!’ People who live in New York City think things like that are cute. It’s the air pollution that does it to them, I think. Anyway, for a long time, whenever they called ‘Taxi’ I thought they were really calling a taxi, so I wouldn’t come. And the taxi drivers thought they were calling a taxi, too, so they’d pull up. So all the time they were getting all these taxis they didn’t want and taxi drivers were getting mad at them and meanwhile I was wandering off down the street ’cause I didn’t know they were calling me …”