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“This is how I proved that Ted is a common thief.” He turned to his brother-in-law. “I’d like to file charges, Alec. Can I file charges? I feel very strongly I should file charges.”

“Sure you can file charges, Tex,” said Alec, as he ladled a second—or it could have been a third or even a fourth—helping of extra-buttery mashed potatoes onto his plate.

“Easy now, darling,” said Charlene, placing a hand on the Chief’s arm. “Your diet, remember?”

Alec gave her a look of alarm, then reluctantly returned the potatoes to the glass bowl and set down his plate—now completely devoid of food, buttery or otherwise.

“Um, come into the police station tomorrow,” he said. “Dolores will take your statement.”

“Are you sure about this, Tex?” asked Marge. “We don’t want to create trouble with the neighbors now do we?”

“I didn’t create the trouble,” said Tex. “He did,” he added, pointing the gnome’s pointy red hat in the Trappers’ direction.

Just then, Ted’s head appeared over the fence, caught sight of Tex viciously waving his gnome, gulped, and sank out of view again.

Clearly things weren’t hunky-dory in pleasant suburbia.

“So what’s going to happen next?” asked Charlene, who likes to stay on top of things in her town. She’d addressed her question at Odelia. “With the murder case, I mean?”

“Well, we interviewed Jack Warner today. He runs the Maria Power Society, one of two official Maria Power fan clubs in town, and he thinks Dan is the culprit.”

“Ha!” said Uncle Alec, clearly feeling justified by Jack Warner’s words.

“And why does he think that?” asked Charlene, as she directed a critical glance at the sizable piece of chocolate pie Uncle Alec had scooped onto his dessert plate.

“There seems to exist a great degree of rivalry between the Maria Power Society and the Gnomeos,” Chase explained. “Both are dedicated to keeping the memory of Maria Power alive, and their leaders have had it in for one another for years.”

“Is she still alive, this Maria Power?” asked Scarlett.

“Oh, yes,” said Marge. “In fact she lives right here in Hampton Cove. Though no one has seen her in years. She likes to keep herself to herself. Our very own Greta Garbo.”

“I think we should probably go and have a chat with her,” said Odelia. “See what she has to say about this fan club business—and the murder, of course.”

I detected now, through the hole in the fence, that Rufus was trying to attract our attention.

“Rufus is ready to join us,” said Harriet, who’d noticed the same thing. “Are you guys ready?”

I sighed a deep sigh.“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said. I didn’t want to admit it in front of the others, but I found the prospect of four cats having to enlist the services of a dog to help us chase a flock of mice from our basement humiliating to a degree. I mean, if word got out, the four of us would be thelaughing stock of all of Hampton Cove.

Then again, what else could we do? Rufus, as I saw it, was our last hope. And lucky for us, cats and dogs don’t usually seek out each other’s company, so chances of Rufus blabbing to our friends about this were minimal to non-existent.

And as we made our way into Odelia’s backyard, Rufus in tow, Dooley remarked, “You’re looking so unhappy, Max. Do you want me to tell you another joke?”

“No, Dooley. That won’t be necessary.”

I glanced over to Rufus, who gave me a goofy grin. Clearly the joke was on me.

Chapter 15

I have to admit I found it touching that Harriet would try to help me deal with the mouse issue. Though I wasn’t entirely happy with her solution, it was nice of her to cross over into enemy camp and recruit a dog to do my dirty work.

We entered the house through the pet flap, as is our habit, before I realized Rufus would never fit—in fact I sometimes have a hard time fitting through the darn thing myself.

Lucky for us Odelia had left the sliding glass door open and Rufus could easily enter the house that way.

“Nice place you got here,” said Rufus, admiring Odelia’s living room and kitchen. I caught him casting a curious glance in the direction of the four kibble bowls Odelia likes to set out for our enjoyment, and figured when this was all over, we’d probably have to pay the big fluffy dog in kibble. Mounds and mounds of kibble.

It was a sacrifice I was willing to make, though.

We passed through the basement door and paused on the first step. The peace treaty I’d negotiated with the mouse colony divides the house into different zones, not unlike Berlin at the end of World War II: the living room and the upstairs are ours, and the basement is reserved for Hector and Helga, which means it’s a no-go zone for us cats.

But since the mice have been trespassing into our zones so often recently I just figured the treaty was null and void.

“Let’s do this,” I said therefore, and trotted down the stairs, three cats and one sheepdog in my wake.

Arriving in the basement I sniffed and had to admit that Hector and Helga ran a tight ship. Feces-wise, I mean. I didn’t detect even a hint of mouse droppings.