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“Where are the fireworks?” Butterbean whispered to Walt. She hadn’t realized they were part of the plan.

“Forget the fireworks,” Walt hissed. “I’ll explain later.”

Mrs. Food gave a sharp laugh.“Of course Madison’s still here,” Mrs. Food said. “Now if you don’t mind—”

There was a ding from the hallway, and Bob jogged up behind Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six.“Oh, hi, good, you’re both here. Hope I’m not too late.”

Mrs. Food frowned.“Too late for what?”

“The meeting?” Bob frowned back. “Our little chat?” He turned to Mrs. Food. “To be honest, I was relieved when I got your call. I think getting together and clearing the air is a great idea. Hopefully we can straighten this all out.”

“My call? But…” Mrs. Food stared at him open-mouthed for a long second, before turning to look at Madison. Madison shrugged.

Walt licked her paw smugly.

“Well, I’m not meeting in the hallway,” Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six said snippily.

“No, of course not. Come in.” Mrs. Food stood back. “For our meeting.” She sounded like she’d gritted her teeth on that last word.

Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six walked into the room, clasping her hands in front of her chest like she was afraid to touch anything.

“Please, have a seat,” Mrs. Food said.

Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six looked down at the couch like it was something Walt had just coughed up. She sat down gingerly, perching on the extreme edge of the cushion.

Mrs. Food sat in the chair closest to her, and Madison half sat on the arm.

“So, now, I’d like to start, if I could,” Bob said, sitting down and leaning forward on his knees like he was some kind of coach. “Now, first off, I want to say that we have no direct evidence implicating Madison in this crime.”

“Thank you,” Madison said.

“But we don’t have any evidence implicating anyone else, either. And we don’t have any evidence that it WASN’T Madison.”

“But I told you—” Madison started.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve heard enough,” Mrs. Food said, standing up. “Madison’s word is good enough for me. I think this meeting is over.”

“Mrs. Fudeker, please—”

“Butterbean! You’re on!” Oscar squawked. Things were moving faster than they’d expected.

Everything depended on Butterbean. Everything.

Taking huge strides, Butterbean raced across the floor and lunged up at the coffee table.

“Control your ANIMAL!” Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six screeched, reeling back in her seat.

Butterbean ignored her. She knew what she had to do. With one last lunge, Butterbean slammed her foot onto the Television remote.

And the Television came on.

— 18 —

AND IMMEDIATELY CHANGED TO THE Home Shopping Channel.

“Butterbean, no!” Mrs. Food leaned forward to grab her. “I apologize for my dog.”

Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six had shrunk back so far against the couch cushions that it looked like she was going to climb on top of them.

“I’ll get her,” Madison said, getting up to come around the coffee table.

“That’s the wrong channel!” Oscar screeched. “Hit the down button! Or the up button! Change it back to the surveillance camera!”

Butterbean hit the remote again. It changed to the Hallmark Channel.

“NOOOO!” Butterbean wailed as she smacked the channel changer again. A show with a car chase came on. “I’m sorry!” She smacked at it again. The volume went up. “I should’ve practiced!”

“Control that dog!” Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six said, raising her feet off the floor, like she thought Butterbean was going to go for her toes.

“I’ve got her,” Madison said, scrambling to pick Butterbean up. “She’s not usually like this. She’s going to be a therapy dog.”

“That dog? I doubt it,” Mrs. Hates Dogs on Six sniffed.

“I am SO!” Butterbean lunged so she was half dangling from Madison’s arms and flailed her front paws, smacking at the remote repeatedly. The channel flicked back and forth quickly, and finally landed on a black-and-white-camera shot. The surveillance camera in the basement.

“That’s the one! Stop!” Walt yowled. “STOP!”

“I’m sorry, Oscar!’ Butterbean moaned as Madison carried her into the kitchen.

Oscar didn’t answer. His focus was on the camera footage of the storage area. Theempty storage area. He looked at Walt, his eyes wide.

There were no raccoons anywhere.

The white cat hurried down the row of raccoons, fluffing whiskers and smoothing down wispy tufts of hair. Then she clapped her paws.

“Okay, you know what to do! Raccoons, center stage. Band, stage right. Singers, stage left. We’re going to knock their socks off!”

Wallace nudged her and pointed to a group of rats standing awkwardly to the side.“Where should the rats go?” They were dressed in sailor suits, pinafores, and tiny nightgowns. One of them was wearing a bonnet.

The white cat hesitated and then waved her paw vaguely in the direction of the stage.“Rats, um, upstage.”

She turned to Reginald, who was standing to the side, wearing an oversized, fringy leather vest and a cowboy hat.“Are you ready?”

“Let’s do this,” Reginald said, adjusting his hat.

The white cat looked up at Chad, who was hanging from the surveillance camera. He looked like he was asleep.“Chad! Curtain up!”