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“Yeah, not like that dummy Rufus,” Brutus scoffed.

A dog throat being cleared could be heard, and suddenly Rufus was there, giving Brutus a funny look.“I may be a dummy,” the big sheepdog said, “but my hearing is excellent.”

Brutus had the decency to blush under his fur, and muttered,“Sorry about that. I, I… I don’t know why I said that.”

“Probably because you think I’m dumb?” Rufus suggested.

“I’m sorry, Rufus,” Brutus repeated, thoroughly eating crow now. “I shouldn’t have said that. I really shouldn’t.”

“It’s all right,” said Rufus. “I know some cats talk before they think. But what’s all this about Fifi and poisoned meat?”

And since Rufus hadn’t yet been apprised of the facts pertaining to the case, Fifi proceeded to enlighten him. Soon the story would do the rounds of Hampton Cove, and every pet would be talking about what happened. In that sense pets are probably even worse than humans: we’re big on gossip. And I mean really big. In fact gossiping is pretty much all we do all day. When we’re not sleeping, eating or going to the litter box, that is.

And since one thing leads to another, soon Harriet was telling Fifi and Rufus all about my recent encounter with the Roomba, and much to both dogs’ delight, describing in graphic detail how I jumped on top of the thing, riding it like a cowboy riding a bronco, and managed to wear the thing down and bring home a smashing victory for Team Cats.

I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we were feeling much better when we finally returned indoors.

My happiness wasn’t to last, though, for the moment I stepped through the pet flap I became aware of a new challenge having infiltrated our home in the form of a dumpy woman, her black hair in a bob, giving us the evil eye the moment we entered the house.

“Max, Dooley,” said Odelia. “Meet Blanche. Blanche is our new cleaner. She’ll come in three mornings a week to keep our house spic and span. Isn’t that right, Blanche?”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to allow cats into your home?” asked Blanche in a raspy voice I immediately recognized as belonging to a heavy smoker.

“Oh, but Max and Dooley are very clean,” Odelia assured the cleaner.

“Mh,” said Blanche, clearly not a cat person. “Where I come from cats are strictly forbidden to enter the house. They are, after all, creatures of the night, and are out and about catching mice, and when they’re not out and about catching mice they’re sleeping on the porch.”

“In the winter, too?” asked Odelia, horrified by the prospect of her cats freezing their tushies off.

“Cats are tough and hardened creatures,” said Blanche. “They’re used to the cold. That’s why they got fur. Now where do you want me to start?”

And as Odelia explained to Blanche the ins and outs of the house, and where she could find the necessary cleaning supplies, Dooley and I exchanged a horrified look.

“I don’t like this, Max,” said Dooley, indicating we were on the same page where Blanche was concerned.

And when I glanced over into the living room and saw a huge vacuum cleaner—the industrial kind that can suck an entire star system into its belly without batting an eye—I shivered and said, “I don’t like it either, Dooley.”

I mean, that vacuum cleaner was all gleaming chrome and HUGE!

And as I studied this new enemy, it almost seemed to be grinning at me, and daring me to jump on top of it and ride it like a bucking bronco.

I had the impression it would sooner ride me than me it!

Chapter 31

“My Picasso still hasn’t been returned. I’m starting to think I should file a complaint against your brother-in-law for gross negligence. Only problem is: where do you file a complaint against the police? With the Mayor? But I want to file a complaint against her, too!”

And it was with this predicament that Ida Baumgartner left Tex, once the latter had assured her that the purple spot on her inner thigh wasn’t skin cancer but an innocent spot and absolutely not life-threatening at all.

Once she was gone, he tapped his upper lip for a moment. Ida’s words had rung a bell. He, too, was the proud owner of a very expensive painting, and just before Ida had walked in, Marge had phoned him and told him all about the breakin Kurt Mayfield had suffered. His Jackson Pollock had been stolen, with Vale and Carew in prison.

It was obvious, therefore, that a second gang was active in Hampton Cove, or even a first gang, in which case Vale and Carew were innocent after all, as they kept claiming.

Then again, innocent men don’t try to escape from prison.

He picked up his cell and dialed the number on the card from the information packet he’d taken into the office to give another read-through.

“Iris Johnson,” said a pleasant voice on the other end of the call. “Johnson and Johnson Insurance. How can I help you?”

“Hi, Miss Johnson,” he said. “This is Tex Poole. You paid me a visit last night in regards to my painting? I wanted to give you an update, just like you asked.”

Miss Johnson’s voice turned unctuous. “Of course, Dr. Poole, what is it?”