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“I’m going to let the cats out,” she said. “They’re not going to be comfortable cooped up inside the car. And she opened the door to let us out. We jumped at the chance. Well, all of us except Harriet, who still didn’t seem keen to join in the nocturnal adventure.

I gave Odelia a wave of the tail goodbye and she closed the door again. I just knew there would be plenty more nookie and I was glad she’d spared us having to witness it.

“So how are we going to get in?” asked Brutus.

“You heard Chase. There’s a wonky window near the back,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll be able to sneak in that way.”

Chase had parked his car inside the Whitmore Manor domain. Clearly security left something to be desired, judging from the front gate which had been left wide open, and not a single guard placed at the entrance to halt our access to the manor. He’d parked under a big oak tree, to provide himself some measure of cover, and for them the long wait began. For us, the long trek through the manor began, in search of this illustrious Chihuahua.

Dooley and I quickly moved ahead, Harriet and Brutus trailing behind. At a certain point I heard Brutus exclaim,“It was a matter of perspective!” and I shook my head.

“Brutus really is in the doghouse, isn’t he?” Dooley said.

“Or the cathouse, depending on your perspective,” I said, and we both giggled like two silly kittens. Even though Brutus and Harriet might take this thing bloody seriously—literally—that didn’t mean Dooley and I couldn’t extract some merriment from the episode.

We found the window just where Chase had said it was, and snuck into the manor through the crack—dropping gracefully to the cement floor below. It was pretty dusty and dank-smelling in the basement, but then basements usually are.

Odelia had told me Langdon’s bedroom was on the third floor, the last room on the left, so that was our destination. We snuck through the basement, which was just a collection of old furniture covered in white sheets gathering dust, snuck up the stairs, through a long corridor, and up more stairs, these ones marble instead of rickety wood.

Upstairs, we heard laughter and singing coming from one of the rooms, and I quickly snuck a peek. Four or five people were smoking something that had an acrid tinge to it that wasn’t tobacco, and drinking a substance that wasn’t lemonade. They looked as if they were having a whale of a time. They were also partly naked, so I quickly retreated. I’d been forced to witness enough human nookie for one day thank you very much.

The third floor proved more quiet and peaceful than the second, which was a good sign.

“I’m not sure about this, Max,” Dooley said as we tiptoed underneath the portrait of a dour-looking man dressed in a hunter’s outfit. Dogs were converging on a deer, and I felt for the poor deer.

“I’m not too sure about this either,” I admitted. It was all well and good to describe this Chihuahua as a sweetheart and a cutie pie, but dogs are a treacherous breed. They can be sweet and cute one minute, then viciously turn on you the next. I was going to keep my options open and make sure I had my route of escape mapped out just in case.

“Do you think Brutus and Harriet got lost?” he asked as we paused to listen for sounds of human activity.

I glanced back to the stairs. There was no sign of either one of our two friends.

“I just hope they haven’t killed each other,” I said with a twinge of concern. That slash across the nose was still fresh in my mind, and the thought rankled.

“Maybe we should turn back,” said Dooley, glancing up at yet another hunting print, this one depicting a brace of dogs tearing into a poor rabbit. It was definitely a bad omen.

“We need to press on,” I told Dooley. “Odelia expects us to talk to this dog, so we need to talk to this dog.”

We moved along the corridor, which was all dark paneled walls and oak parquet covered with a long and high-pile runner our paws sank into. The smell was musty, either from the smokers on the second floor, or the natural smell of an old manor.

We finally arrived at the last door on the left, and to my relief it was ajar. Cats, as you may or may not know, have a hard time opening doors. At least when they operate on a knob principle. Tough to turn a knob when all you have are soft pink pads, fur and claws.

We snuck into the room, careful not to make a sound. From inside, snoring drifted our way. And as we moved deeper into the room, a peaceful scene greeted us: there, in the middle of the room, a man was sleeping in a big four-poster bed, a dog draped across his feet. A night light had been left on, bathing the Hallmark-type scene in a soft golden hue.

“Aww,” I said.

“How sweet,” Dooley echoed.

At this, the doggie pricked up its ears, then sniffed the air, and finally spotted us.

He made a soft gulping sound, then abruptly jumped down from the bed and scooted behind the nightstand.

So much for the rabid, cat-devouring monster we’d been dreading to encounter.

Chapter 22