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“You think?” said Kingman, his face lighting up.

“Of course! This mall is going to put Hampton Cove on the map. We’re all going to be rich—not just Marge and Tex—everyone!”

“I want to be rich,” said Tigger with a wistful smile. “Being rich sounds nice.”

“The only one who’s going to be rich is me,” said Clarice. “Rich in rats!”

“Oh, Clarice, just go away,” said Shanille, clearly not all that fond of the feral cat.

“I can’t go away—I’m guarding this quartet of bozos.”

Kingman turned to me.“So you took my advice? That’s great, buddy!”

But Shanille appeared less than impressed, judging from the way the corners of her mouth had turned down.“Are you sure this is a good idea, Max?”

“Of course it’s a good idea!” said Kingman. “It was my idea!”

“So… you’ve got a cat… guarding another cat?” asked Missy, who seemed confused.

“It sure beats a human having to guard a cat,” said Kingman.

“That’s true,” Shadow agreed with a curious glance at Clarice.

“So how does this work, exactly?” asked Buster, giving his fur a lick.

“Well,” I said, a little shamefacedly, “since we were attacked in our own attic Odelia has hired Rambo over there and then we ourselves have retained Clarice’s services.”

“So let me get this straight,” said Shanille. “First you got Chase to guard you—ahuman. Then adog, and now Clarice? How many bodyguards does a cat need?!”

“Oh, you’re just jealous, Shanille,” said Harriet snippily.

“Jealous! I’m stunned, that’s what I am! Stunned! Since when does a cat ask a human to be their bodyguard—or a dog, for that matter? That’s just… wrong on so many levels!”

“It is a little weird,” Misty agreed.

“You know I can hear you, right?” said Rambo now, waddling up. “And for your information, this is just as awkward for me as it is for these guys. What do you think the Dog Guild is gonna say when they find out I’m guarding cats—cats, for crying out loud!”

I was making myself as small as I could. Clearly my reputation was hanging by a thread, and so was the reputation of my housemates. Shanille was probably right. No cat allowed themselves to be guarded by a human or a dog—or another cat. It wasn’t done.

“Look, what we’re actually here for,” I said, deciding to change the subject before things got completely out of hand, “is to find out more about the death of Charlene Butterwick’s uncle. He died yesterday morning, and Odelia wants to know if anyone of you might have seen something, or heard something?”

But my friends weren’t so easily distracted. “Even if my life were in danger, the last thing I’d do was to entrust my life and safety to a dog,” said Shanille, still harping on the same theme. “No offense, Mr. Rambo.”

“None taken, Miss Shanille,” said the big dog good-naturedly. I saw that he was staring intently at the bags of dog kibble Wilbur Vickery had on sale this week.

“So no one knows anything about Charlene’s uncle?” I asked. “Nothing?”

“Come on, guys,” said Clarice. “Let’s get out of here. First rule of bodyguarding: never allow your charge to stay in the same place for too long. Gotta stay mobile!”

Frankly I didn’t mind skedaddling, as Shanille and the others had now fully embraced the bodyguarding theme and were running with it. Even Kingman was starting to see the error of his ways when he suggested retaining Clarice’s services as our protection detail.

And as we set paw for home, I felt slightly deflated. Not only weren’t we getting anywhere with our investigation, but our assailant was still out there, and our reputations, such as they were, were now thoroughly being reduced to less than nothing.

“Don’t worry, Max,” said Rambo, as he waddled up next to me, leaving a trail of goo on the sidewalk. “They’ll come around to this whole guard dog thing. A new concept always takes a while to catch on. But before you know it this will become the new craze, and then every cat in Hampton Cove will want a dog to guard them.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, sure. It’s always like that. Just look at the pogo stick. First people think it’s weird, and then they embrace it and everybody wants one. Thing starts flying off the shelves.”

I didn’t want to tell him that comparing a dog to a pogo stick was probably not doing his species justice, but his words definitely sounded like music to my ears.

When you live in a small town like Hampton Cove, your reputation is everything, you see. And so I very much cared what other cats thought of me.

“Just you wait and see,” said Rambo. “This time next month they’ll all come knocking on my door, offering me purses of gold if I’ll be their bodyguard.” And to emphasize his words, he dropped a big glob of blubbery goo onto the sidewalk.

Somehow the gesture seemed to detract from the confidence he was exuding. Then again, I’m not well-versed in analyzing trends, and I’ve never used a pogo stick in my life, so what did I know?

“So are we there yet?” asked Rambo, his breathing a little labored, I thought.

“No, I’m afraid we’re not an inch closer to figuring out who might have killed Charlene’s uncle—or evenif he was killed,” I said.