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We’d walked the distance to Main Street, and I had a vague plan in mind to talk to Odelia first. She is, after all, the real sleuth in our modest little outfit of amateur sleuths. Now I know what you’re thinking. Shouldn’t we head on down to the police station and inform the proper authorities about these new and frankly sensational developments? Unfortunately our local law enforcement personnel has but one flaw, and it is a doozy: they don’t talk to cats. And you can see how that would hamper a conversation. It would get awfully one-sided, and presumably cut very short indeed. Uncle Alec would smile affectionately while I tried to educate him on the finer points of Bob Rector’s recent past, and offer me a dish of milk. Chase would probably frown intelligently and nod equally intelligently and would give us a pat on the back and a ‘That’s just swell, you guys. Now run along and go and catch a mouse or something.’

Sherlock Holmes probably never had to put up with stuff like that when he talked to Inspector Lestrade. Then again, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a cat, of course.

“What are you going to tell Odelia?” asked Dooley.

“I was thinking we tell her everything,” I said. “After all, she’s the one who should lead this investigation, not us.”

“But why? We’re the ones Mr. Ed hired to take on the case. He’s our client and we’re the detectives officially assigned to the case.”

“I know, but sometimes it helps when you’re human,” I explained. “Especially when dealing with other humans.” I shrugged. “It’s just easier this way. Trust me.”

“I don’t think it’s fair,” said Dooley, giving me some lip. “We should be in charge of the case and Odelia should be our loyal sidekick. The one who does all the legwork. Like Archie Bunker did for Mr. Nero Wolf.”

“I think the person you’re thinking of is Archie Goodwin. But you’re absolutely right, Dooley. We should be the ones running point on this case. But unfortunately this is still a man’s world, and so it’s man, not beast, who’s mostly in charge.” I gave him a wink. “Though we all knowthat behind every great woman is a great cat, right?”

We’d arrived at the offices of the Hampton Cove Gazette, the place Odelia calls home—when she’s not home, at least. We entered through the front door, which is always ajar, as Dan Goory, Odelia’s editor, adheres to a strict open-door policy, just in case a member of the public drops by with some killer scoop or front-page breaking-news story.

We walked straight through to Odelia’s office and found our human hard at work, bent over her laptop, eyes focused on the screen, looking the epitome of the hard-working newshound.

“Stop the press,” I announced. “We have some breaking news for you.” It was something I’d always wanted to say, even though nowadays the Gazette is mostly an online affair, and as far as I know the internet isn’t powered by a printing press.

Odelia looked up and rubbed her eyes.“Oh, hey, you guys. What’s going on?”

“A snail asked us to investigate the abduction of his human’s boyfriend,” Dooley explained, getting down to brass tacks without delay—a practice that he probably learned at our human’s knee. Reporters like to get to the juicy stuff ASAP.

Odelia frowned.“A snail asked you to do what now?”

I decided to take over from my friend.“Mr. Ed, who is a snail—”

“One of those creatures that like to carry their homes on their backs,” Dooley added helpfully.

“—has asked us to look into the kidnapping and death of his human’s boyfriend.”

“Oh, so it went from a kidnapping to a death in less than five seconds now, did it? That’s fast work, Max.”

“First he was kidnapped and then he was killed,” Dooley said. “Not the other way around. At least I don’t think so,” he said, giving me a questioning look.

“Usually people get kidnapped before they’re killed,” I confirmed. Though of course there are always kidnappers who abduct dead bodies, for whatever reason. But I didn’t think we were looking at such a case here.

“So… a snail’s human’s boyfriend was kidnapped then murdered? Am I getting this right?” asked Odelia, blinking a little now.

“His name was Bob Rector,” Dooley went on. “Though she liked to call him Bobby. They met on a dating site. They hit it off but then he was taken and the kidnappers wanted seventy-five thousand dollars for him. She paid the money but he wasn’t released.”

“Well, he was probably released,” I said. “Only by that time he was already dead.”

“Death by potato,” said Dooley, nodding. “Very sad.”

Odelia’s face betrayed a sudden animation. “Wait, you’re not telling me that this Bob, this guy who was kidnapped, is the same guy who was found this morning?”