7c6cdd7d45cb035b54aafd3ac9eb9cc8

“Old guy like Dan and a hot young bimbo like that? She probably dropped by the office to tell him she was finished with him on account of the fact that she found someone better than that old fart.”

“A young fart,” Scarlett added, nodding.

“So Dan flew into a rage and whacked her over the head with his gnome. End of story. Lean on him hard enough and I’m sure he’ll confess. Now if there’s nothing else, we’ve got people to see and crime to fight so adios.”

And with these words, she and Scarlett took off.

“Are you sure Dan killed her?” asked Scarlett.

“Of course. Old guys like Dan fly off the handle when they get dumped. Can’t take the rejection. If I’ve seen it happen once I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

“Oh, sure,” said Scarlett, nodding. “Remember that time I dumped Leo’s ass? His face got all red and splotchy and for a moment there I thought he was gonna have a stroke.”

“You dated Leo?”

“I thought you knew. Why? You’re not jealous, are you?”

“Maybe a little,” she admitted.

“No need to be jealous, sweetie. I only dated him to spite you. But that’s all in the past now.”

“All in the past,” Vesta echoed.

“I’m so glad we’re friends again. Aren’t you?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, though sometimes she wished Scarlett was a little less… Scarlett.

Chapter 5

Dooley was seriously worried about his best friend Max. Max had been behaving strangely all morning. For one thing, he wasn’t his usual self. Perhaps it was too much to say that Max was a cheerful cat, but he wasn’t uncheerful either. Dooley thought Max was probably semi-cheerful. But all that morning Max had been looking distinctly down.

He claimed it was because of the mice. That he didn’t know what to do about them. But Hector and Helga and their little ones had been there for weeks, and during all this time Max hadn’t been particularly worried. He was worried now, though. Very worried.

And so Dooley was worried, too.

Dooley loved his friend. He figured he was the luckiest cat in the world for having a friend like Max. Honorable, wise, very smart and very brave, and extremely kind, too.

And as he and Max ambled along the sidewalk heading into town as they did most mornings, to talk to their friends and snoop around, Dooley couldn’t help but think that Max was hiding something.

It had to be cancer. It simply had to be.

Max was sick and dying, and being the wonderful friend that he was he didn’t want Dooley to worry.

Oh, no, Dooley thought as tears formed in his eyes at the thought of losing his best friend. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear.

He decided to launch another joke. It was important now to make his friend laugh. To make him laugh and laugh and laugh until he was feeling much, much better, and that nasty cancer was simply driven out of his body and replaced with good, healthy cells.

“Did you hear the one about the one-armed sailor who took a job as a window cleaner?” he asked now, arranging his features into an expression of jollity, designed to inspire happiness and laughter in his friend.

“No, I haven’t,” said Max, a little grumpily.

“Well, he didn’t get the job.” He waited for Max’s pleasant laugh to ring out, and when it didn’t come, he decided to set the example and produced the kind of laugh a hyena would approve of.

Max frowned and said,“I don’t get it.”

Oh, dear. Clearly Dooley had to up his game. Come up with better material.

“Um…” he said, thinking hard. “A priest, a rabbi and an assface walk into a bar. And the assface says to the priest, ‘Have we met before?’ And the priest says, ‘No, I don’t think so. I’d remember a face like yours.’”

He waited for Max to laugh uproariously, but nothing came. Not even a chuckle or a chortle. So once again he decided to show his friend how it was done and guffawed loudly and with solid conviction.

“I didn’t want to tell you this, Dooley,” finally said Max, after giving him a curious look—exactly the kind of look a doctor would give a patient before having him admitted to Bellevue, Dooley imagined. “But your jokes need work. A lot of work.”

“What kind of work, Max?” he asked. Your up-and-coming comedian likes to take these little criticisms on board.

“Well, for one thing your jokes aren’t funny.”

“Mh,” Dooley said, nodding. “I see your point,” he said, filing Max’s comment away for later use.

“What’s going on over there?” asked Max now, and gestured to the offices of the Hampton Cove Gazette. It was where Odelia worked, and a very nice office it was, too. With a very nice boss named Dan Goory. He looked like Santa Claus, only without the pleasant rotundity. Or the red-cheeked cheerful face. Or the bag of presents and the use of a stable of reindeer. On second thought Dan didn’t look much like Santa Claus at all.

Dooley looked over to where Max was pointing. Odelia was there, and so was her uncle and her boyfriend Chase. And when Dooley saw the ambulance, his heart skipped a beat. Or two.

“Oh, no! An ambulance! Maybe Dan died!”

“Dan didn’t die,” said Max. “He’s standing right there, talking to Uncle Alec.”