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Harriet and Brutus were trailing him, and making sure he collected every last one of the letters. They were under strict instruction not to let Marge’s husband out of their sight, since she didn’t trust him any further right now than she could throw him. Whatever that meant.

Brutus thought it was a strange expression. Why would Marge want to throw Tex? He even thought it was probably physically impossible for a diminutive woman like Marge to throw a tall man like her husband. Unless she had suddenly developed superhuman strength, or had joined the ranks of the Marvel universe.

“Promise me you’ll never write me any love letters, snuggle bear,” Harriet now told her mate.

“I promise, sweet cheeks,” said Brutus.

“I mean, imagine if our personal thoughts were distributed amongst all of our friends—or even worse, a bunch of complete strangers. It’s too horrible to contemplate!”

“You do know that cats can’t write, don’t you, lemon drop?” asked Brutus with a touch of concern. “We don’t have the opposable thumbs to hold a pen.”

“I know that, love sponge. But still. Just for my own peace of mind, promise me you’ll never, ever put your personal musings about our relationship on paper.”

“I promise,” said Brutus fervently, and he meant it, too.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jackson,” said Tex as he accepted the letter from the older lady.

“You have very nice handwriting, Doctor Poole,” said Mrs. Jackson. “I could understand nearly everything you wrote. There’s just one passage that wasn’t clear to me. What did you mean by ‘I want to be your Tampax?’”

Tex swallowed once or twice.“I’m sure you must have misread, Mrs. Jackson.”

“I don’t think so. I distinctly remember reading it and wondering what it meant. I even asked my friend Mrs. Jones, and she said it probably referred to a tampon. And I said you couldn’t possibly be referring to a tampon, since the rest of your letter was very sweet, but also very sexy, if you know what I mean. And tampons may be a lot of things, but they’re not sexy or sweet, are they now?”

“No,” said Tex. “No, I guess not.”

He was sweating profusely, Brutus saw, and he felt for the guy.

“This is probably the most humiliating thing I’ve ever seen,” he told his girlfriend. “Poor Tex. I feel for him.”

“I’d feel more for him if he hadn’t put those letters out for trash collection,” said Harriet, and Brutus could see his girlfriend was as implacable as Marge had been. And suddenly he felt relieved that cats couldn’t write. Imagine having the whole world made privy to your personal thoughts about tampons and such. He shivered as Tex said his goodbyes to Mrs. Jackson, and slumped off.

“Only two more to go,” the good doctor announced, trying to put on a brave face. But Brutus could see that his heart wasn’t in it.

Clearly this was not the doctor’s finest hour.

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Odelia, who’d finished up an article on the best herbs and spices to make the perfect pumpkin soup, waltzed into her uncle’s office down at the police precinct.

Uncle Alec looked up when his niece entered and looked relieved to see her.“What brings you here?” he asked as he leaned back in his chair and intertwined his hands behind his head.

“Boredom, to be honest,” said Odelia, dropping down on a chair. “Dan’s got me writing articles about pumpkin soup now.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Nothing’s happening in this town, Uncle Alec. Nothing at all!”

“I know,” said her uncle, but instead of looking bored, he looked relieved. “What?” he added when he saw the look on his niece’s face. “It’s a good thing when the police have nothing to do. It means no crimes are being committed, and everyone is happy and going about their business without bothering anyone else.”

“No neighbors threatening to kill each other? No wives threatening to shoot their husbands?”

“Nothing at all,” said Uncle Alec. “And that’s exactly the way it should be.”

“If nothing is happening, I’ve got nothing to write about,” Odelia grumbled. “And if I’ve got nothing to write about, we don’t have a paper.”

“I’m sorry, honey. But you can’t expect me to make up some imaginary crime, just so you and Dan can fill your paper, do you now?”

“No, I guess not,” she said reluctantly. She idly swiveled in her swivel chair. “Guess I’ll have to write a couple more articles about how to make the perfect pumpkin soup.”

“What’s your gran been up to? Chase told me she’s interning atGlimmer?”

“Yeah, she and Scarlett are trying to heal a broken heart, apparently. Max and Dooley are on the case, so I’m going to hear all about it tonight.” She grimaced. “Fat lot of good it’ll do me. I can’t write an article about a secretary who’s pregnant with her boss’s baby, or some guy who’s in love with his colleague.”

“No, I guess not,” said Uncle Alec. Then he brightened. “Marge told me about that letter business. Now there’s the perfect story for theGazette. It’s got romance, it’s got human interest, some excitement, the whole shebang.”