Chapter 10
Ihave to confess that throughout this entire episode, my mind kept flashing back to the pet flap incident. The sight of my beloved pet flap—symbol of a cat’s freedom—on fire was the stuff of nightmares.
Dooley must have read my mind, for he said, “It looked just like one of those rings of fire, didn’t it, Max? Like the ones you see in the circus, with a trapeze artist having to sail right through the fire?”
“It sure did, buddy,” I said. “In fact, it looked exactly like that. And the last thing I want is to be one of those trapeze artists, risking their lives for the entertainment of others.”
“You shouldn’t try to walk through a burning pet flap, Max,” said Brutus seriously. “You’d catch fire yourself, and you wouldn’t like that.”
At the thought of having to walk through fire, I shivered all over.
Gran had stopped the truck to let Clarice in, who didn’t seem to take kindly to the fact that she had been left behind.
“This is simply too much,” she grumbled as she climbed into the vehicle through one of its armored doors. “First Scarlett takes off without telling me where she’s going, and then you guys show up only to leave again—without so much as a hello or a goodbye!”
“We didn’t know you were up there,” Harriet explained.
“Oh, so now I’m invisible to you, am I? This is just the absolute worst day of my life,” she lamented as she settled in next to us on one of the benches that had been bolted to the floor in the back.
She glanced around. “What is this thing, anyway? It looks a lot bigger than the kind of cars Gran usually drives around in, doesn’t it? And I mean, a lot bigger.”
“Gran crashed her last two cars,” Brutus reminded her. “And then her final car was blown up.”
“I know, Brutus,” said Clarice. “I was there, remember? Nasty business, that was.”
“So now she has decided that she will only drive around in cars that are indestructible. And this happened to come upon her path, so she jumped at the chance.”
“It certainly looks sturdy,” said Clarice appreciatively, tapping the window with one paw. “Bulletproof glass, I presume?”
“I believe so,” I said, still unable to shake the image of the burning pet flap. “Everything about this truck is bulletproof, rocket-proof, and bombproof.”
“This thing is practically a tank,” Brutus declared with satisfaction.
“Why is this the worst day of your life, Clarice?” asked Dooley. “Aren’t you feeling well, maybe?” Then he gasped. “Oh, no! You’re not… sick, are you! Is it cancer? It is, isn’t it?!”
“I never get sick, Dooley,” Clarice assured our friend. “You know that. A steady diet of rats and mice over the years has made me immune to any disease known to cats.”
“Then what is it?” asked Dooley solicitously.
“Well, like I said, Scarlett took off without telling me where she was going. And, worse, without even suggesting she take me along with her. Simply left me behind. And you all know how I feel about being left behind, don’t you?”
We sure did. The last people who had been owned by Clarice had decided to leave her behind in the woods just outside Hampton Cove, tied to a tree.
At times she had tried to convince us that she’d had to gnaw off her own paw to escape, but since she was still in possession of all of her limbs, that story didn’t really track.
But it was certainly true that she had lived in those woods for the next couple of years and had gradually turned feral.
Now, in spite of the good life that she led with Scarlett, or because of it, clearly the prospect of being left behind still rankled, as was perfectly understandable.
“Who is that cat?” asked Mercedes. “And why does she look so angry?”
“Oh, that’s Clarice,” said Gran. “She belongs to Scarlett. And she’s not angry. This is her normal expression. She always looks like that.”
“Please don’t talk smack about me, Gran,” Clarice implored. “I’m not in the mood.”
But since Gran couldn’t really engage us in conversation, with Mercedes seated next to her, she didn’t respond.
“Where are we going?” asked Clarice.
“Fetching Scarlett,” I said. “She’s at the senior center, apparently.”
“I knew it!” said Clarice. “I knew she was out on a date! She never takes me along on those dates of hers. Almost as if she’s ashamed of me. Can you believe it? Ashamed of me! The sweetest cat in all of existence!”
Sweet wasn’t the moniker I would have used to describe Clarice, but it was true that over the years she had mellowed a lot. And settled down. But that didn’t mean she was fully domesticated. She could still be pretty fierce if she wanted to be. And it has to be said that she often wanted to be.
“This lady is looking for her son,” Dooley explained for Clarice’s sake. “She thinks that he has been murdered since she hasn’t heard from him for a while. And the police don’t seem to be interested in finding his killer, so Gran has offered to find him instead.”
“That was very kind of her,” said Clarice, who was still inspecting the vehicle, making sure that it was up to her exacting standards.
As we moved along at a steady pace, Gran’s face still plastered against the windshield, she grunted, “I think I’m getting the hang of this thing.”
“You’re doing really well, Vesta,” said Mercedes encouragingly. “Really, really well.”
Judging from the nervous glances she kept darting at Gran, she didn’t really mean this, though.
And I have to say that Gran’s driving style, never the most refined, seemed even more exacerbated by the size and weight of the BearCat.
The big, lumbering vehicle kept swerving from one side of the road to the other, which is not the way it should be, and from time to time Gran moved dangerously close to the vehicles parked by the side of the road.
Every time she almost hit one of them, Mercedes winced, and so did the five of us.
Eventually, Gran seemed to gain better control of the armored truck. The swerving gradually subsided, and the moments of sheer panic became fewer and farther between—which was fortunate, since I had been on edge from the moment we set off.
Then, just as we were beginning to feel safe, a car suddenly stopped directly in front of us. Instead of hitting the brakes, as any sensible driver would have done, Gran plowed straight into it.
The technical term is rear-ending, and since we were by now used to such a contingency occurring, we didn’t even flinch.
The fact that we were inside what could realistically be termed a tank probably had something to do with that. We hardly felt a thing. Just a minor bump and the sound of crunching metal—presumably the other car being crushed like a can of Coca-Cola.
As Gran got out, she cursed loudly, and she even used some swear words that us cats had been told never to employ.
“What is it with these people!” she yelled as she inspected the grille of her fine new ride.
We all got out, and so did Mercedes, who looked mildly shaken.
But then she had only recently been added to the roster of Gran’s passengers. A species perpetually endangered from the moment Gran takes up her position behind the wheel.
“Looks fine to me,” said Gran after a moment. “Not a scratch on her.”
The same couldn’t be said about the car we had rear-ended. It looked totally demolished, half of it completely flattened. The fact that Gran had pretty much driven right up to the rear window before stopping had contributed to the sad state the vehicle was in.
The car’s driver didn’t seem to feel the same way about the incident as Gran.
“You destroyed my car!” the man cried. “It’s as flat as a pancake! A total loss!”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” said Gran. “As far as I can tell, the front of the car is still intact. All you need to do, fella,” she added as she patted the man on the shoulder, “is to have the rear end replaced, and your car will be as good as new. It’s a minor operation.”
“And who’s gonna pay for that?”
“Why, your insurance, of course. After all, you stopped your car when you shouldn’t have.”
“This is all your fault,” said the man, attempting to poke Gran in the chest. Clearly, no one had warned him that you never—ever—poke Gran in the chest. The last person who tried probably still has a permanent kink in his finger. At least, that’s how I imagine it.
Gran grabbed the man’s finger and gave it a gentle twist, causing him to suddenly go down on his knees, as if about to propose matrimony. He let out a surprised squeak.
“Never do that,” Gran growled as she twisted the man’s finger even further.
“Looks like those self-defense classes Gran took paid off,” said Brutus proudly.
“What self-defense classes?” asked Harriet. “Did Gran take self-defense classes?”
“Of course she did. Along with Scarlett. To make sure that when they come up against crooks and thieves, they are able to defend themselves.”
It sure was an interesting sight: the man was on the ground now, practically weeping.
As Gran held him down, our attention was drawn to a most peculiar sight: a man dressed in a bumblebee suit, complete with cape and mask, had taken up position on top of a nearby building.
He had planted his fists on his hips and stood with his legs an uncomfortable distance apart in a strange stance.
Then he held up his hand and declared, “Another great day for the Germinator. Weeding out Hampton Cove’s crooks germ by germ! ”
We looked where he was pointing and saw that two men had been fastened to a lamppost for some reason.
I instantly recognized them as Jerry Vale and Johnny Carew, two of Hampton Cove’s most notorious crooks.
They didn’t seem happy with their unfortunate predicament, if their loud laments were anything to go by.
“And don’t do it again!” bellowed the Germinator, whoever he was.
“He looks like a giant bumblebee, Max,” said Dooley. “Do you think he is a bumblebee? Only one that has been fed too much nectar and pollen?”
“No, I think he’s just a regular dude,” I said. “Who likes to dress up like a bumblebee.”
“Who the heck is that?” asked Gran.
In her consternation, she had let go of the other driver’s finger, and he got up.
“That’s why I braked so suddenly,” he explained. “Because that guy suddenly ran right in front of me.”
“He must have used that fire-escape ladder,” said Mercedes, as she pointed to the ladder that had been attached to the side of the building.
It certainly explained how a man who thinks he’s a bumblebee can get up on top of a building when he can’t actually fly like a bumblebee.
“Those guys,” said Gran, as she pointed to the two men fastened to the lamppost. “I know them.”
“That’s Johnny Carew,” said Brutus, “and Jerry Vale.”
“They’re known crooks,” Gran explained for Mercedes’s and the traffic-collision victim’s sakes. “What’s your name, by the way? Your face looks awfully familiar.”
“That’s because I’m one of Doctor Poole’s patients,” said the man, a lot more obsequious now. He was rubbing his painful finger. “Last time I was in his office, you told me not to bother the doctor every time I felt some ache or pain, but simply to take an aspirin.”
“I did? Odd. I don’t seem to remember saying that,” said Gran. She then clapped the man on the back. “You know what? Have your car fixed, and send the bill to my son. You know who my son is, right?”
The guy nodded. “Chief Lip. Are you sure he will pay for my repairs?”
“Of course he will. He gave me three dodgy cars that broke down at the first sign of trouble, so he owes me. If they hadn’t all failed me, I’d never have been forced to buy this monstrosity. So technically, this is all his fault.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Muffin,” said the man gratefully.
“And now let’s take care of this freak show,” said Gran.
I wondered if she was referring to the two crooks tied to that lamppost or to the man pretending to be a bumblebee. Possibly both.