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“Oh, yes, you do. You don’t like dogs, you don’t like kittens, you don’t like birds. You boys need to widen your horizons. Become a little more tolerant of other species. Imagine if I only talked to women and refused to talk to men? Or only talk to people my age and refuse to talk to kids or the elderly. I wouldn’t be much of a detective, would I?”

“That’s different and you know it,” I said.

“It’s not, Max. Dogs are very perceptive, and they spend a lot of time with their humans, maybe even more so than cats, so they’re invaluable witnesses. Remember Ringo?”

Ringo was a Chihuahua belonging to a well-known and successful Broadway producer, and had provided us with a telling clue that had solved the murder of Odelia’s understudy in a recent Bard in the Park production.

“That’s different,” I said. “Ringo was a nice dog.”

“Most dogs are nice. Just give them a chance.”

“Most dogs hate cats,” Dooley pointed out.

“Just give them the benefit of the doubt, will you? It’s what I do every day.”

“Me, too,” said Gran. “Tolerance, my boys. Tolerance is key in this business. Love all creatures, great and small, and you will go far.” She glanced down at her phone. “That jerk Scarlett Canyon. She’s at it again. Just look at that bathing suit. Makes her look like a clown.”

Odelia was darting skeptical glances at her grandmother, and I decided to head off another discussion by asking a more important question:“So have you decided what’s going to happen to Bim, Bam and Bom? Are you going to keep them?”

“Why? Don’t you think it would be fun to add three kittens to the troupe?”

I hate it when humans answer a question with a question. It’s not fair.

“Well, I have to admit they’ve have grown on me,” I said.

“Harriet still hates them,” said Gran. “She told me so this morning.”

“She’s the last holdout,” I said. “Even Brutus has fallen in love with them.”

“I like them, too,” said Dooley. “They’re really cute and sweet.”

“See?” said Odelia. “Life is so much brighter with three kittens in it.”

She still hadn’t answered my question, and I had a feeling she never would.

“We’re here,” she said, proving my point.

We’d arrived at one of those big country clubs, where all the rich people seem to flock. Usually there’s a golf club attached, and tennis courts, for some outdoor activities. The men often go off golfing while the women pick up a bronzed and handsome tennis coach and pretend to be interested in tennis. Meanwhile, the older generation sips tea and gossips while scarfing down petit fours and macaroons. I was fully expecting to find the place littered with Chihuahuas, Bichon Fris?s and Maltese, and my heart was sinking a little. It’s one thing to be a detective, but another always having todeal with a cat’s natural enemy.

But then I remembered Odelia’s words about giving peace a chance or something along those lines, and I pulled myself together. Your true detective can’t be too choosy about the company he keeps, or else he’ll never succeed in catching those bad guys.

Odelia let us out of the car, which she’d parked herself, without the assistance of a valet, and then Dooley and I were trotting in the direction of the clubhouse, where we hoped to have many fascinating encounters. Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself. Odelia has a book on affirmations, and I had a feeling they would come in handy today.

Every day, in every way, I like dogs better and better and better.

Ugh. Who was I kidding?

Chapter 22

A woman waved them over and Odelia waved back. She then turned to her grandmother.“Better behave, all right? No nasty comments from you.”

Gran looked indignant.“Nasty comments? Who do you take me for?”

Odelia knew exactly who she took her for. Gran had a sharp tongue sometimes, and could rub people the wrong way. She could also be charming, if she wanted to, but that was the problem: very often she simply didn’t want to.

Prunella Lemon looked exactly as in the pictures Odelia had seen: very pretty, with sharp features, long auburn hair and dressed in elegant figure-hugging green and strappy sandals.“Hello,” she said as she shook the famous writer’s hand. “My name is Odelia Poole.”

“Hi there,” said the writer in a surprisingly deep voice. “So nice to meet you, Odelia.” She turned to Gran. “And you must be Odelia’s dear old grandmother.”

“That’s right,” said Gran sweetly. “I’m Odelia’s beloved old granny and you must be that wonderful and extremely talented woman who wrote my all-time favorite book.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you liked it,” said Prunella smoothly.

“Oh, I loved it,” said Gran, even though Odelia knew for a fact she’d never read it.

“So what is this all about?” asked the writer, taking a seat.