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“I can… walk, you guys,” I muttered, much weakened. “You… don’t have to… help… me…”

I must have passed out, then, for when I came to, I thought I was in heaven, as I only saw disembodied heads floating over me: Harriet was there, and Brutus, but also Dooley, and Fifi, and even Rufus, the big sheepdog belonging to the Trappers.

“Max!” Dooley cried. “You’re not dead!”

“No, I guess not,” I said as I tried to sit up.

“Oh, Max,” he said, jumping on top of me and pressing me down again. “I thought you were dead for sure!”

“No, not dead,” I said, and spat out some water.

“Give him some space, Dooley,” said Brutus.

“Yeah, gimme some space… Dooley,” I murmured, and shook my head. I felt a little weak, but otherwise fine.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again, Max,” said Dooley, a tightness to his voice that betrayed his anxiety. “Don’t you ever die on me again.”

“I didn’t… die,” I said. “I just… took a little catnap.”

They all laughed at that, and seemed glad that I was fine.

“I think you established one thing, Max,” said Rufus. “Cats and bodies of water, large or small, don’t mix.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” I said, and spat out some more water. I had a feeling my belly was full of the stuff. I then glanced up at Harriet and Brutus’s beaming faces. “Thanks for saving my life, you guys.”

“That’s all right, Max,” said Brutus. “That’s what friends are for.”

“If you ever pull a stunt like that again, though,” said Harriet, “I’ll kill you, all right?”

“Fair enough,” I said with a weak smile.

And as we all sat there, rejoicing in the happy end, suddenly a loud scream rent the air. We all looked up in alarm, and saw that the scream had emanated from Chase, who must have arrived home. He was looking down at his inflatable pool, one side having been reduced to a mere bundle of ripped-up strips of plastic.

“My pool!” he cried. “M-my poor pool!”

Oops…

“Odeliaaaa!” he bellowed. “Your grandma took revenge—she destroyed my pool!”

Chapter 35

I was relaxing on the couch, recovering from my harrowing adventure in the inflatable pool, when the mail slot clattered, a sure sign a letter had been delivered. And since it was late at night at that point, and I’d recently learned from Odelia that the postal services rarely if ever deliver letters at such an ungodly hour, I immediately pricked up my ears.

I’m not one of those pets that lay in wait for the mailman or mailwoman to arrive, hoping to bite their ankles or generally cause grievous bodily harm—that’s dogs, not cats. But after the previous message about a ‘real sleuth’ possessing a ‘sweet tooth’ I’d secretly been hoping this mystery letter deliverer would keep up the good work and deliver another sample of his or her rhyming prowess.

So I ambled into the hallway and lo and behold: another pristinely white letter lay on the doormat, right across the words,‘Welcome Home!’

Odelia and Chase had already gone to bed, and Dooley was sleeping soundly, so it was just me and the letter, and for a few moments we faced off. Then I could no longer curb my curiosity and pounced on the thing: I neatly sliced it open with a single nail and expertly extracted the missive that was concealed inside.

And as I placed it on the floor, I frowned when I scanned its contents.

‘Follow the herder,’ the epistle read.

“Follow the herder,” I murmured. “Shouldn’t it be ‘Follow the herd?’”

But then I suddenly remembered how this whole adventure had begun: with that little figurine of the goatherder. Could it be that our unknown letter writer was referring to that little gem that Harriet had so expertly destroyed with a single flick of her tail?

I sat back on my haunches and gave myself up to thought for a few moments. As far as I could tell Marge had all but forgotten about the figurine, and the pieces had probably been swept into the dustbin by now. Or had they? I remembered she’d carefully tried to glue it back together, with Tex sabotaging her efforts by accidentally demolishing the thing. So maybe it was time to pay some closer attention to that infamous goatherd once more? At least according to our anonymous and highly mysterious letter writer, it just might hold the solution to the mystery of the disappearance of Vicky Gardner…

I briefly considered picking up the letter between my teeth and taking it upstairs to bring to Odelia’s attention, but then decided against it.

First of all, I’m not a dog, so unless I have to, I prefer not to pick up assorted items (for instance newspapers and slippers) and deliver them to my master, and secondly: once Odelia is fast asleep not even a cannon-shot has the power to wake her up.

So I simply decided to leave the letter where it lay, and where Odelia would no doubt find it in the morning, to do with as she saw fit.

I wandered back into the living room, and saw that my friend was awake and yawning widely.

“Dooley, I suddenly feel a certain need.”

“A need for speed?” he suggested.

“Not exactly,” I said. “But I do feel the need to go out and join cat choir.”