4c392a139708e5efb30cc267dbb0c768

“Oh, and another little scoop. My good friend Van Wilcox is also in line to join the ranks of EGOT winners. That’s an Emmy, Grammy, Oscarand a Tony! He’s the first President in history to pull off such a hat trick. Amazing, huh? Yeah, he is a great man. In fact he’s the greatest man in a long line of great men. The greatest great, you might say. So how abou—”

Odelia switched off her phone, gazing dazedly at the screen, where President Wilcox could be seen shouting into his phone, then looking annoyedly at the little gadget, before tucking it away again and shaking his head at so much insolence.

“I think… I’ve just been played,” said Odelia uncertainly.

“Don’t worry, honey,” said Grandma, patting her on the arm. “We’ve all been there.”

“And here I thoughtyou were the nymphomaniac,” Dooley told Milo.

“Mythomaniac, Dooley,” Harriet was quick to correct him.

Even Milo could see the humor in that, for he laughed loudly.

“How about another burger?” said Tex, breaking the embarrassed silence that had descended upon the company. “I’ll do the honors, shall I?”

“No!” Marge shouted before Tex reached the grill.

Chase, who’d turned off the TV, took over from the doctor, and soon the party was in full swing again.

Milo drifted off in the direction of Grandma, who was now feeding him pieces of burger and even bits of coleslaw. Harriet and Brutus had snuck off into the garden next door, where they planned to make good use of those hills and valleys Gran had created, and then it was just me and Dooley.

“Milo seems fine, doesn’t he?” said Dooley. “He hasn’t told a lie all day.”

“Except for the part about pulling your tail,” I reminded my friend.

“The jury is still out on that one,” said Dooley. “No one has pulled my tail so he could be right.”

I pulled Dooley’s tail, hard, and he yelped in surprise. “See?” I said. “No gold.”

He eyed me sheepishly and rubbed his tail.“I really hoped he was right.”

“Maybe I didn’t pull hard enough,” I said, and made to pull again.

“No! I believe you,” he said quickly.

“At least spitting out nuggets of gold beats scooting your poop across the carpet.”

“I think we all learned a valuable lesson, Max.”

“Which is?”

“If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.”

I looked at Dooley, surprised.“Those are regular words of wisdom, buddy.”

“I read that on Odelia’s calendar.”

Of course he did.

“You know? If Milo went into politics, he could be one of the greats,” said Dooley.

And so he could. But fortunately for humans Milo is a cat, and cats aren’t eligible to go into politics and lead countries. Then again, maybe if they were, the world would be a better place. No politician licking his own butt in the middle of a speech would ever be able to be taken seriously when declaring war on another nation or making budget cuts and lowering pensions. And no stump speech would go over well if the one giving the speech suddenly yawned in the middle of a sentence, stretched and promptly fell asleep.

But wouldn’t it be fun to watch the video on YouTube?

9. PURRFECT ALIBI

Prologue

Marge Poole surveyed the scene. She wondered if they’d set out enough chairs. The event she was staging was without a doubt the biggest and most ambitious one she’d ever taken on. Even though the Hampton Cove library had been remodeled five years ago with exactly this kind of literary event in mind, and a small conference room had been added forwriters to hold readings, Marge had never expected ever to land the bestselling thriller writer in the world for one of her Author of the Month evenings.

But there he was. Chris Ackerman. Author of such bestsellers asThe Connor Conundrum andThe Dixon Dilemma. America’s favorite writer and the most-borrowed author of all time. The scribe was seated on the small stage, peering through his reading glasses and going over his notes, an expensive-looking golden fountain pen poised in his hand. When he noticed Marge nervously bustling about, he fixed his pale blue eyes on her.

“Wasn’t Burke supposed to be here by now?” he asked.

There was an edge to his voice, and Marge didn’t wonder. A long-standing feud between Chris Ackerman and Rockwell Burke, the well-known horror novelist, had existed ever since Burke had announced that he felt Ackerman’s books were the work of a hack and a dilettante and had discounted his prose as bad writing. In fact it had surprised Marge a great deal when Burke had accepted to host the evening, and interview Ackerman on stage.

Perhaps the horrormeister had had a change of heart. More likely, though, it was because his own once flourishing career had hit a snag, his last three books not selling as well as he’d hoped, at which point his publisher must have insisted he try to turn things around by associating himself with the reigning king of theNew York Times bestseller list.

“He’ll be here,” Marge assured Ackerman, who was glancing at his watch.