Molly Moon & the Morphing Mystery

Wasting no time, the three dogs ran to the covered alley beside the hotel. This was the hotel tradesmen’s entrance. They trotted through it, sniffing all about them. Halfway along, there were large hatches in the pavement, opening up to the hotel’s basement kitchens. These hatches were used for the kitchen deliveries. Looking down through one of the grilles, the dogs could see chefs preparing food. A mustached man was whisking a batter; a man in a tall white hat was decorating a cake. And the smells coming from there were unbearably good. The aromas of sauces and gravies, of garlic and fried onions streamed up out of the hatch and laced the night air. Even the raw meat smelled delicious to Molly now that she was a dog.

“Oh, I’m so hungry,” she whined.

“Me, too,” agreed Micky.

“Hungry as a wolf!” declared Petula. “We will sort that out later, but let’s track down Mr. Nasty first.”

Leading the way with her nose twitching, she led the twins around to the back of the hotel. They came to a small, manicured garden with bay trees and crocus-filled flower beds. In the center of the garden was a paved area with a pond, and in the middle of that was a statue of a small flying cupid. Water gushed from the winged boy’s stone spear. The whole garden was lit with blue lights that illuminated the lawn and trees like magic outdoor candles.

The dogs stood on the lawn and looked up at the back of the hotel. Its facade was punctuated with French windows and balconies that overlooked the garden. On the left side, a discreet fire escape hugged the brickwork.

“They’re up there, I think,” Petula said, gesturing to a balconied window on the first floor. “You, Molly, should be able to smell them better than me—Jack Russells have far superior noses to pugs.”

“You’re right,” Molly agreed. “I can smell them now—the smell is drifting through those thin cracks of the window. Amazing! He’s pinecones and ink, and now I can smell wine too. He’s drinking red wine. And I can smell the leather cover of the hypnotism book! That’s amazing! And I can smell newspaper. I think he’s reading the papers. And she smells of strawberry shampoo or face cream or something, and popcorn and felt tips. She’s drawing or coloring with them. That’s incredible!”

“Is the human sense of smell so much worse?” Petula asked.

“It’s like two hundred times worse. As a human you can only smell present smells and strong ones. Whereas as a dog, I can smell that a cat was here at about three o’clock and a hedgehog was here last night.”

“And,” added Micky as Stanley, “that smell of cat is so annoying! It makes me want to chase cat. Bite cat. That’s a weird feeling.”

“Most dogs can’t stand them,” agreed Petula. “Personally, if I see a cat, my body sort of takes over, and before I know it, I’m running after it. I’m never fast enough to catch them, though.” Petula smiled. “Now, you two, I think Mr. Bad and Miss Popcorn are staying in this hotel for the night, so there’s nothing we can do about them now. Instead we should get something to eat.”

Petula shook herself off and led the dogs to a garbage bin in an outdoor alcove near the hotel’s kitchens. The contents of the black bags smelled to Molly almost as good as the food in the hotel.

“As humans,” Petula explained, “you would never have considered eating garbage, I know, but you’d be surprised—lots of very tasty morsels can be found in bins.” Petula put her front paws against the bulging sack that, like a coconut in a cup, sat lodged in the black plastic bin. “The only difficulty we’re going to have is getting at it.”

“I’ll have a go,” said Micky. Leaping, he grasped the side of the garbage bag with his teeth and tugged it toward the ground. The plastic bin fell over. Then, with wolfish ferocity, he ripped the bag apart.

Half-eaten steaks and carved-up lamb shanks tumbled out, mixed with the remnants of crepes and cottage pies, strudels and vegetables.

“Yum!” Molly exclaimed. Hungrily the three dogs dived into their supper.

They all ate till their stomachs were tight. Then they heard the kitchen doors opening. A kitchen worker was bringing out another bag of garbage. Quickly the dogs scampered to the back garden.

“Oh, no! I don’t believe it!” they heard the man complain. “Those damn foxes! They’ve been at these bins again.”

The three dogs lapped up a drink from the hotel pond. Then Petula trotted to investigate a gazebolike structure that stood under a horse-chestnut tree at the end of the garden.

The hut had a half-open, latticed enclosure that certainly provided shelter from wind and rain. What was more, jute sacks, the sort that gardeners used to collect lawn clippings, were strewn across its floor.

“This will do nicely,” said Petula, “so long as we sleep close together.”

“Micky and I will have to take it in turns to sleep,” Molly reminded Petula, “or it’ll be like Miss Hunroe said—if we fall asleep too long, we’ll get overwhelmed by the dogs who really own these bodies.”