40b1ce81e27faee7f7dcd22da99b93e1

And when I hesitated to fully and enthusiastically endorse his view on this newly found cooperation between the feline and the coleoptera species, he sternly wagged an antenna at me.“You promised, Max, remember?”

“Oh, all right,” I said. “Yes, we’ll provide you with room and board on different premises for as long as you all shall live.”

“Max, what are you doing!” Brutus whispered in my ear.

“I think I’ve just promised one thousand beetles that they’ll be able to live in our home,” I said, and as I said it, I realized this was probably not the best sample of negotiation technique I’d ever displayed. Then again, since our lives were on the line, what choice did I have!

And so on Frank’s instructions we all started digging our way to freedom. It took a while, and it took some effort and some planning, but as we all pretended to be moles for a change, and not cats, I’m gratified to say we finally managed to break through into freedom, leaving that dank and disgusting dungeon behind us.

And as we emerged, looking like denizens of the underworld ourselves, our collective fur unfortunately matted and liberally smeared with packed dark earth, a familiar sight met our eyes: it was Odelia and Chase, who at that moment must have decided to drop by once more, to see how the search for Harriet was going.

I almost wept with relief when I saw them walk up to the front door, and cried,“Odelia! Over here!”

Odelia jerked her head around at the sound of my voice, and came hurrying over. And I have to say that when she saw six bedraggled cats staring back at her, their hopeful faces turned up and beaming with joy, she almost wept, too.

“My God, what happened to you!” she cried.

“We escaped from Davenport’s dungeon,” I explained.

“And Harriet has a Swedish syndrome but she’s fine now,” said Dooley.

“And Max promised one thousand black beetles that you’re going to feed them and give them shelter for the rest of their natural lives,” said Brutus.

“You have to take me to the vet, Odelia!” Harriet cried. “He poisoned me! That man poisoned me and now I’m going to die!”

You’ll be pleased to know that in the end, Harriet didn’t die, and that Davenport was duly arrested for catnapping. Turns out that he’d made stealing Persians part of an MO that went back years, and that many of the cats he’d stuffed had once belonged to citizens of Hampton Cove. In other words, the man was a serial catnapper and stuffer, and had now finally been caught, thanks to the concerted effort of the members of cat choir. A big win for the good guys!

CHAPTER 27

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

Two big easels had been set up in the backyard of Marge and Tex Poole, and one small one, with the lady of the manor busily putting the first pencil strokes on the canvas that was propped up on her easel. Next to her, her mother was doing the exact same thing, and next to Vesta, Grace was busy with crayons on her own little easel. The birds, who were merrily tweeting on what was shaping up to be a gorgeous morning, had all gathered in a nearby tree to take in the intriguing sight.

Ever since Marge had started her art class, with her mother quickly following in her footsteps, she’d found a renewed purpose in creating her modest works of art. She didn’t look upon it as art, of course. Merely as a hobby that had gotten slightly out of hand, but it was definitely something she was good at, or else Chanda Chekhov wouldn’t have called her an emerging and promising talent.

“He called me an emerging talent,” she now reiterated their teacher’s words to her mom, in case the latter hadn’t heard.

“You mean like an emerging market?” asked Ma, her tongue between her teeth as she tried to capture the essence of those birds.

“Laugh all you want. But the fact of the matter is that he believes in my talent.”

“Oh, but I believe in your talent, Marge,” said Ma. “I believe in it so much that I’m willing to pay good money for one of your paintings, if you ever get it done.”

Marge frowned before herself. Her mother had put her finger on a sore point: Marge had started many a drawing, but so far hadn’t finished one. It was an area of weakness. She had a vision in her head of how a drawing should look, but then when she studied the end result, she found it lacking in crucial areas. Well, in all areas, actually. Invariably what she drew didn’t look anything like the thing she was going for. It was all very frustrating, she found, even though Chanda had told her to be patient, and to work on improving her technique, whatever that meant.

“Look, I’ve just drawn a bird,” said Ma proudly, and when Marge took a peek at her mother’s work, she had to admit it actually looked like a bird, unlike her own attempt, which looked more like a potato with a beak.

“If only those birds would sit still for one second,” Marge lamented. But of course birds being birds, they just kept fluttering about, darting from tree to tree. No consideration for the poor artist trying to capture them in a drawing.