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“Excellent job,” said Buster. “He must have sent her to the pet salon before he stuffed her. Not a single hair out of place. Very nice work.” You can take a hairdresser’s cat out of the hair salon, but you can’t take the hair salon out of a hairdresser’s cat, so to speak.

“Max!” Dooley suddenly cried. “Over here! I think I’ve got something!”

We found him at the back of the basement, near a wall that was covered in some species of green and black moldy residue. It had the consistency of French cheese, though it probably didn’t taste like it. But it wasn’t the mold that had attracted my friend’s attention. It was the wine rack directly in front of it. He was intently sniffing at those wine bottles, like a connoisseur about to open a bottle and take a sniff and a sip, then spit it out again. “Take a sniff,” hesaid, and so I did. And indeed I thought I detected a very familiar scent. The scent of a friend!

“It’s this wine rack,” said Buster. “I’ll bet it covers a door.”

“But how to move it?” I asked.

Just then, Brutus came up behind us, looking dusty and tired.

“What you got there, buddies?” he asked.

“We think we found a trace,” I told him, and saw him perk up right before our eyes.

“We have to give this wine rack a shove,” said Buster. “Can you put your back into it, Brutus?”

“Can I!” the big sturdy cat growled, and immediately put paid to his words by giving the rack of expensive wines such a hefty shove that the whole thing simply collapsed to the floor, dozens of bottles shattering to pieces, and the precious liquid splashing across the old stone floor.

And lo and behold: another staircase loomed before our eyes, a gaping black hole that led down into a deeper level, located underneath the basement.

We didn’t hesitate one moment, but immediately descended into the abyss, Brutus leading the way, eager as can be, with Buster picking up the rear.

When our paws hit terra firma once more, we discovered we’d arrived in a sort of dungeon, complete with vaulted ceiling, even darker, dingier and creepier than the rest of the place. What I disliked most was that ceiling: it was blackened with age, and somehow gave me the impression it might collapse on top of us!

But then, as we ventured deeper into the dungeon, I forgot all about the ceiling when I caught sight of Harriet. Our friend was humming… and painting!

CHAPTER 25

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By the light of a single bulb, our dear friend was slaving away at what looked like one of her famous paw paintings. Her otherwise pristinely white paws were now flecked with a multitude of different colors, and against the wall dozens of paintings hung, all painted according to her very unique paw-painting technique.

“Oh, hey, you guys,” she said when she finally noticed she was no longer alone. She waved a generous paw, encompassing her surroundings. “Took you long enough to find me! Welcome to my studio. This is where the magic happens! Take a load off your paws, make yourselves comfortable, and watch me create my art!”

And without missing a beat she continued dabbing around and daubing paint across the royally large canvas located underpaw.

“But sugar plum! What are you doing!” Brutus cried, aghast.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she said, frowning when a certain pawstroke didn’t exactly come out as she’d intended. “I’m hard at work on my next masterpiece, that’s what I’m doing. Now are you going to stand there or are you going to help me?”

“But snowflake!”

“Don’t you snowflake me, Brutus. I thought we had an agreement. I was going to be the creative genius and you my able-bodied assistant bringing my creative vision to life in riotous color. And now look what you’ve done. You’ve made me do everything myself!”

“But you were catnapped, sweet cakes!”

“Catnapped? What are you talking about?”

“That man Davenport! He catnapped you and locked you up in his dungeon!”

“He did no such thing. That man is an art lover, one of my greatest admirers.”

“But—”

“I’ll have you know that when no one believed in me, he was the one who offered me a chance. He built me my very own studio and he has been sponsoring me and pampering me and making sure I can focus on my work. The best food, the nicest smelling litter, the best accommodations. So that I’m not to be disturbed by anything or anyone and I can focus one hundred percent on my art.”

“But…”

“Look, if you’re just going to stand there criticizing my amazing benefactor, this wonderful patron of the arts, you can just walk right out again.”

It was obvious that not only had Harriet been catnapped, but she had also been brainwashed by this man Davenport. I think experts like to refer to this as the Stockholm syndrome, even though Hampton Cove isn’t actually located in Sweden, of course. So maybe it was the Hampton Cove syndrome.

“Look, you’ve been grabbed and locked up here against your own will,” I explained slowly, so my words would penetrate.