The Mysteries of Max: Books 31-33 by Nic Saint (interesting novels in english txt) 📕

stared at me, clearly not comprehending why this would negate his theory.

“People don’t eat raw potatoes,” I explained. “They’re not tasty, and also, they can be poisonous, especially when—”

“That’s it!” Dooley cried. “You solved the case, Max! You and me both.”

“Um…”

“Don’t you see? I solved the part on how he got onto that truck, and you solved the part where he ate a bad potato and died! We have to tell Odelia. She’ll be thrilled.” And before I could stop him, he’d wandered off in search of our human.

I could have told him that Odelia was at the office, busily writing her articles, but Dooley had already disappeared from view, and so I decided not to bother. I’d picked a nice spot in the backyard, the grass was tickling my belly, and frankly I was feeling very comfortable, thank you very much. Too comfortable to bother about some stranger who met an untimely death surrounded by a large collection of potatoes. Dooley might think there was a case to be solved, but I wasn’t convinced. Not every person who dies ends up that way through malice, do they? And I was pretty sure this particular death was an accidental one.

And so I rolled over onto my back and allowed a few precious rays to tickle my tummy. And I’d just started dozing off when a pshh-ing sound told me someone desired speech with me. I opened one eye and saw that a small snail had crawled all the way up to my face and was eyeing me with a distinct sense of curiosity.

“Are you Max?” asked the snail.

He or she was one of those snails that like to carry their own home on their backs. I yawned then said, “Yep, that’s me.”

The snail looked left, then it looked right, and finally it lowered its voice and said, “There’s something very important I need to tell you, Max.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?” I said with an indulgent smile.

“A truckload of potatoes was left lying on the tarmac of the main road into town this morning,” he announced, as if conveying some world-shattering news.

“I know,” I said. “I was there when it happened.” I yawned again.

“Oh,” said the snail. “Well, it may interest you to know that a man was found dead amongst those very same potatoes.”

“Old news, I’m afraid, Mr. or Mrs…”

“Mr. Ed,” said the snail. He seemed to relax a little. “I was told you were a smart kitty, Max. And I can see they weren’t lying. You are exceptionally well-informed.”

“Just a coincidence,” I said. “Gran—that’s my human’s grandmother—just happened to be in the neighborhood.” I decided not to mention she’d been on a potato-hunting expedition at the time. No sense in washing the Poole family’s dirty laundry in public.

“The thing is, Max,” said Mr. Ed, “that the man was a crook. And not just any crook either. He’s the crook that ripped off my human to the tune of no less than seventy-five thousand smackeroos last week.”

Now this was news to me, and I stared at the snail, trying to figure out where his eyes were. “Your human? What do you mean, your human? You’re a snail. Snails don’t have humans. You guys roam wild and free, not a care in the world except where to find some delicious leaves to munch on.”

“That’s what you think,” said the snail, making a gentle scoffing sound as he shook his tiny little head. “It’s not just cats and dogs that have humans that care for them and love them, Max. Snails are lovable creatures, too, you know. Or don’t you think we deserve to be loved as much as some of the bigger pets do?”

“Oh, sure,” I said quickly, now rolling onto my tummy and giving the snail an apologetic look. “Of course you do. I think you’re absolutely worthy of love… Mr. Ed.”

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” he said with a shrug, which involved hoisting his entire shell into the air and then lowering it again. “You think I’m hideous, don’t you? Disgusting. Just a slimy, weird-looking creature who for some reason drags his cozy little home along with him wherever he goes, leaving nothing but a trail of gooey goo behind.”

“No, no,” I assured Mr. Ed. “That’s not what I was thinking at all, Mr. Ed.”

“Oh, yes, that’s exactly what you were thinking. But that’s all right, Max. It’s not often cats and snails mix in a social setting, and I for one felt hesitant to approach you like this. Out of the blue, I mean. But I figured I owe it to my human to get the word out, and I can’t do it on my own. For some reason my human is reluctant to involve the cops.”

“But why? What happened?” I asked, now thoroughly intrigued by this unusual tale.

“Max!” suddenly Dooley’s voice sounded in my rear. “I can’t find Odelia anywhere! I hope she hasn’t touched those poisoned potatoes! Who are you?” This last question wasn’t directed at me but at Mr. Ed. “Hey, you’re a snail.”

“Excellent powers of observation, cat,” said Mr. Ed.

“Dooley, meet Mr. Ed,” I said. “Mr. Ed, this is Dooley, my best friend.”

“I know who you are,” said Mr. Ed. “You and Max work together, don’t you? You’re like a team. Well, I’m glad you decided to drop by, Dooley, since I only intend to tell this once. So listen carefully.” And then he took a deep breath and said, “It all started two weeks ago…”

Chapter 5

Harriet and Brutus had also joined us, and after making the necessary introductions, and getting Brutus to stop grinning at the notion of a snail regaling a couple of cats with the woes that had befallen his human, Mr. Ed resumed his tale. And a tall tale it was, too.

“Evelina is one of those humans who has a hard time bonding with another human of the opposite sex,” the snail explained, his tentacles waving in the air to emphasize his words. “She’s forty-two now and