Chapter 9
“Dooley, can you look for any trespassers?”
Dooley nodded and hurried off to make sure he carried out his friend Max’s request faithfully. Everything depended on every single member of the crew doing as they were told—no mistakes.
As he took up his position on the corner of the parking lot, he watched carefully, making sure that he didn’t miss a thing.
From his vantage point, he saw that Harriet had also taken up her position, and so had Brutus, and of course Max himself.
Looked like the four of them were all in position, and now the most delicate part of the mission could finally commence: Gran backing out of her parking spot and making sure that she didn’t hit either man or beast.
“Everything is clear here!” Dooley yelled. “You can come, Gran!”
“Everything is clear over here, too!” Harriet yelled from her position on the other side of the parking lot.
“You’re good to go!” Brutus screamed from his location.
“Everything clear!” Max joined in.
“Okay, I’m coming out!” Gran yelled from the window of the truck.
As she backed up, everything looked absolutely perfect. And once she had managed to put the sizable vehicle into position, she yelled, “Okay, you guys. You can all jump in now!”
Dooley was glad of the reprieve. So much was depending on his judgment, and he didn’t like the pressure. If a car had driven up and he hadn’t spotted it, and Gran had hit that car, that would have been on him, and he hated that.
And so it was with a sigh of intense relief that he jumped into the large and bulky vehicle.
“What do you call this thing again, Gran?” he asked.
“A BearCat,” said Gran. “It’s an armored truck that is normally only used during antiterrorism campaigns. Since it’s bulletproof and can sustain an actual bomb explosion.”
“Great,” said Brutus as he settled in on the back seat of the impressive vehicle. “Now we’re perfectly safe from harm.”
After Gran decided to get rid of the decrepit red Peugeot her daughter Marge had lent her, she went in search of a replacement better suited to her regular crime-fighting forays as leader of the Neighborhood Watch.
Things started promisingly when her son, Uncle Alec, lent her a surplus police car.
Unfortunately, an accident soon reduced it to a total loss.
The same fate befell its replacement, and when Gran subsequently confiscated a third vehicle—this one belonging to the bomb squad—it was blown to smithereens by explosives that had inadvertently been left inside.
Which is when Uncle Alec decided that Gran was never going to get another police vehicle for as long as he was in charge.
“How did you get ahold of this beauty?” asked Mercedes, who was sitting next to Gran in the passenger seat. “I mean, it looks absolutely marvelous.”
“Oh, I got it from a patient,” said Gran distractedly. Contrary to the old Peugeot she had steered around Hampton Cove for all these years, the BearCat was a lot bigger and also a lot more difficult to handle, so she needed all of her skills to keep it from crashing into something—or someone.
Not that that would be a big deal, as the car was built like a tank. In some respects, it actually was a tank.
“A patient? I didn’t know you were a doctor.”
“Oh, no, I’m not,” Gran hastened to explain. “My son-in-law is. And I work for him in a part-time capacity as his receptionist. So I meet a lot of patients. And when one of them heard that I was in the market for a new set of wheels, he graciously offered me this.”
“Who was this patient? An army colonel?” asked Mercedes.
Gran smiled. “Something like that. All I know is that he wants to support the Watch, and I have to say I’m mighty grateful for his kind offer. I mean, if I drive around Hampton Cove in this baby, crooks will immediately run off screaming.”
“I’ll bet they will,” said Mercedes. She had placed her purse on her lap and sat ramrod straight, the epitome of good posture.
Gran could learn a thing or two from her, Dooley thought, since the old lady was sitting with her face plastered against the windshield as usual, trying not to bump into things. Or people. Or anything, really.
“So where are we going?” asked Mercedes.
“First we’re going to pick up my second-in-command, Scarlett, and then we’re going to start looking for your son’s killer.” She cast a quick sideways glance at her new friend. “He was killed, wasn’t he?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Mercedes, pursing her lips. “I mean, if a son doesn’t answer his mother’s calls, there can only be one explanation. That he is dead. And since he’s too young to die from natural causes, that means he must have been murdered.”
“Any idea where he would have holed up?”
“Some hotel, probably, or maybe one of them Airbnbs. All I know is that he said he was traveling to Hampton Cove. This was last week, and he hasn’t picked up my calls since. Hasn’t responded to any of my messages either. Which leads me to conclude he’s dead.”
“Okay,” said Gran, though she looked skeptical, Dooley thought.
Mercedes’s explanation didn’t exactly hold up under closer scrutiny.
Just because someone refused to take your calls didn’t necessarily mean they were dead, did it?
Maybe the man simply didn’t want to talk to his mother.
And since Mercedes had a particularly forceful personality, Dooley could certainly understand why.
Not every son enjoyed dealing with a mother like that.
Case in point: Gran’s son Alec. He often seemed determined to imagine that he didn’t have a mother.
“Are you sure you’ll be able to park this thing?” asked Mercedes. “I mean, if every time you want to take it for a drive you need four cats to act as lookouts, it’s not very convenient, is it?”
“It’s convenient enough,” said Gran. “And besides, I’m still learning how to handle it. I figure it will take me about a week, and then I’ll be driving this baby as if I’ve never done anything else in my life.”
“Hmm,” said Mercedes, but she didn’t look convinced.
They had arrived at the apartment block where Scarlett Canyon lived, and Gran, since she didn’t want to go to the trouble of parallel parking, simply positioned her impressive ride in the middle of the street, took out a small device that looked like a radio, and yelled, “Scarlett Canyon! Come down immediately!”
Outside, the same message echoed from the speaker that was mounted on the roof of the BearCat, and immediately windows opened all along the block.
The only window that didn’t open was, of course, Scarlett’s.
“Looks like she isn’t home,” said Gran as she glanced up at the building.
She took out her phone and started to type a message.
“Why don’t you call her?” Mercedes suggested.
“Because I’m modern and cool,” said Gran. “And cool kids don’t call each other—they text. At least, that’s what my great-granddaughter tells me.” She poked the tip of her tongue between her lips as she concentrated on typing, then finally announced, “There. That should do the trick.”
Moments later, a response appeared.
“What does she say?” asked Mercedes.
“She’s at the senior center,” said Gran, and frowned. “Probably chatting up Dick Bernstein again.” She shook her head. “That man…”
“Who is Dick Bernstein?”
“Oh, just some mutual friend,” said Gran as she put her BearCat into gear again and pressed her foot down on the accelerator.
The armored truck lurched into motion with a considerable jerk. In the process, the four cats were slammed back on their respective seats and had a hard time keeping their balance.
It wasn’t just Gran who needed to get accustomed to this new ride, but also her cats.
But if Gran could get used to it, so could they, Dooley thought.
Moments later, they were zooming out of the street, en route to the senior center. Or at least they would have been if a heavy object hadn’t suddenly fallen from the sky and landed right in the center of the hood of the car.
It was Scarlett’s cat Clarice, and judging from the nasty glances she was giving Gran through the windshield, she wasn’t happy at all!