31906844db5c02010017a90f3f2ca805

“Wait. I’ll join you,” said Gran, but she looked so worn out there was no way she was going to be of much help now. “I need another vitamin,” she muttered, her eyes drooping closed. “Just another vitamin. A, B, C, D, E, F, G… Any vitamin will do.”

“No more vitamins for you, Gran. At least not the kind you’ve been popping.”

She moved over to where Fitz Priestley was sitting and introduced herself. He gave her a quick glance, then dismissed her with a wave of the hand.“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for amateur sleuths. Now get lost, Miss Poole, before I call security.”

Blushing scarlet at being dismissed so rudely, Odelia gritted her teeth.“Listen to me, buster. Jeb Pott’s daughter hired me to prove her dad’s innocence, and you’re going to talk to me or else I’ll write in tomorrow’s Hampton Cove Gazette that you’re the rudest, nastiest, most obnoxious director ever to set foot in this town. You got that?”

A slow grin spread across his narrow face.“My god, woman,” he exclaimed. “Have you considered working in Hollywood? You’d be a perfect fit!” He then gestured to a chair. “Here, take a seat. And tell me all about Jeb Pott and his remarkable wealth of problems.”

Chapter 24

As Dooley and I searched around for a sign of canine activity, we found ourselves faced with a unique problem: there was a distinct dearth of dogs in this exclusive club. We’d already been there ten minutes, and Odelia and Gran had probably finished their interview, and we still hadn’t been able to find a single dog.

“This is so weird,” I told Dooley. “It’s almost as if dogs aren’t allowed on the premises.”

“Maybe they aren’t,” Dooley said. “I’ve heard of places where pets are not allowed. There are even landlords that forbid them. Can you believe that?”

I told him I most certainly could.“Not all humans are like Odelia, Dooley,” I said. “Not all of them love pets the way she does.”

“Hard to imagine,” said Dooley as he sniffed the air. Dogs have a very particular and distinctive odor, and it’s not hard to pick up the trace. Only at this very moment neither of us could detect a single canine anywhere in the vicinity. Not a one.

And we’d finished our sweep of the terrace and were about to take in the tennis courts, hoping to have more luck there, when suddenly we ourselves were swept up, and not in a good way either.

“Hey!” I cried when a strong hand grabbed me by the neck and hoisted me into the air. “What’s the big idea?!”

“No cats allowed, I’m afraid,” a grating voice announced.

I turned my head to take in the miscreant who was cathandling us and saw that it was a large man with a round head and a weird little goatee beard.

“Rules are rules,” he then said, and took a firmer grip on the both of us and carried us away.

“Hey! Odelia! Odelia!” I cried, but she was too far and my cries were in vain.

“Max, we’re being catnapped,” said Dooley, sounding scared and confused.

One would feel scared and confused for less.

“He’s just throwing us out,” I said. “No need to worry. He’ll carry us to the front gate and kick us out of his club. No big deal.”

“Yeah, but what if he doesn’t? What if he hands us over to the chef and he puts us in today’s stew?!”

The prospect of ending up in the meat grinder made me gulp a bit. On top of that I was experiencing a certain amount of discomfort. It’s not much fun being carried by the scruff of the neck when you are a kitten, but even less when you’re a full-bodied cat that weighs closer to twenty pounds than ten. I experienced a certain pulling sensation at the nape of the neck that was distinctly painful and extremely unpleasant.

“Just let us down, will you, fellow?” I asked. “We got the message. We’ll just walk out the door and you’ll never see us again.”

“Rules are rules,” the big guy repeated, as if he were a broken record.

“Yeah, I know rules are rules, and I’m sorry we broke them, but this is not the way to treat a valued member of the community. And trust me, we are both very valued members of this community, feline or otherwise.”

“Yeah, we’ve solved a lot of mysteries together, and our owner is none other than the famous Odelia Poole,” said Dooley.

“She’s a reporter,” I added, “and if you don’t put us down right now she’s going to write a pretty nasty piece about you and your club.”

All to no avail, of course. The guy wasn’t going to let us go before he’d hand-delivered us to the front gate—or, as in Dooley’s nightmarish scenario, to the kitchen chef.

“Rules are there for a reason,” the guy muttered. “And when rules are broken, there are consequences.”

I just hoped those consequences didn’t involve being turned into fricassee.

He carried us to a door, then deposited us into a small cage and locked it carefully.

“Max, I don’t like this,” Dooley announced.

“I don’t like it either, Dooley,” I intimated.