go away and leave him in the kennel.”
She was right, of course. Not about Mr. Muffin. I had no idea whether he was in psychic communication with his mistress.
But I did know that someone at The Haven was a killer. And I was still steaming over Brangelina’s insinuation that it might be me. I made up my mind then and there to do a little investigating of my own. The sooner the Spa Strangler was found, the sooner I could go home to my Chunky Monkeystocked refrigerator.
Back in my room, I saw Prozac out on the patio staring at the koi pond.
You’ll be pleased to know that in my absence she finally got a vigorous workout with her Whirlybird exercise toy.
I found the feathered remains of the poor thing scattered everywhere.
“Prozac,” I said, plucking a feather from the bowl of flowers on the dresser, “how could you?”
She glared at me, affronted, and began swishing her tail in an Academy Award-winning performance of a Long-Suffering Kitty.
How could I???? Trapped in this diet dungeon with nothing to eat but a measly can of Fancy Feast? No wonder I went after that idiotic Whirlybird. If I don’t get something in my tummy soon, there’s no telling how long I’ll last! At this stage of the game, I’ll eat anything, I tell you! Anything!
“Here,” I said, holding out the gray chicken I’d smuggled from dinner. “I brought you this.”
She took one look at it, and wrinkled her pink nose in disgust.
Eeeeu. I can’t eat that.
Is she impossible, or what?
“It’ll have to do, until I get back from my food run,” I said, plopping it in her bowl.
After gathering poor Mr. Bird’s remains and hiding them in my suitcase (heaven knows what punishment Frau Olga would mete out if she discovered them), I headed off to town.
I’d cleverly donned cargo pants and a jacket with plenty of pockets to store the goodies I planned to buy. I intended to dash into Darryl’s Deli to load up on calories and a quick peek at the eminently peek-worthy Darryl, then hurry back to feed Prozac, who’d been meowing piteously when I left, draped over the back of the armchair, very Sarah Bernhardt On Her Deathbed.
But you know how it is with best laid plans.
Driving through town, I happened to see that the pizza parlor was open. Even from my car, I could smell the garlic wafting from the exhaust vent. Mind you, I’d been dreaming of that pizza ever since I’d first seen the restaurant from the top of Mount Olga.
The lure of garlic was too powerful to resist. The next thing I knew, I was pulling into the parking lot.
I’d just run in for a quickie slice to go. I’d be in and out in five minutes. Six, tops.
But once again my plans were derailed. Because the first thing I noticed when I stepped inside, other than the heady aroma of garlic and sausages, was Harvy and Kendra sitting at a table, a pizza and pitcher of beer on the red checkered tablecloth between them.
What a perfect opportunity to start my investigation. Princess Prozac would just have to wait.
I trotted up to Mallory’s former posse, a suitably mournful but friendly smile on my face.
“Hi, there. What a surprise running into you two like this.”
Kendra looked up from her beer with bloodshot eyes.
“Not really,” she replied, slurring her words. “Sooner or later everybody at The Haven winds up here.”
Aha. So I wasn’t the only inmate who cheated.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked, pulling out a chair before they could say no.
“Sure,” Harvy said, with an expansive wave of his beer stein. “Have a seat.”
I horned myself in between them and got right down to business.
Okay, I didn’t get right down to business. I took one look at their pizza and forgot all about the interview. Gosh, that thing looked good. Sausages and mushrooms, swimming in a sea of thick gooey cheese.
“Help yourself,” Harvy said, no doubt noticing the pizza lust in my eyes.
He and Kendra watched in disbelief as I wolfed it down in record time.
“Care for
She was right, of course. Not about Mr. Muffin. I had no idea whether he was in psychic communication with his mistress.
But I did know that someone at The Haven was a killer. And I was still steaming over Brangelina’s insinuation that it might be me. I made up my mind then and there to do a little investigating of my own. The sooner the Spa Strangler was found, the sooner I could go home to my Chunky Monkeystocked refrigerator.
Back in my room, I saw Prozac out on the patio staring at the koi pond.
You’ll be pleased to know that in my absence she finally got a vigorous workout with her Whirlybird exercise toy.
I found the feathered remains of the poor thing scattered everywhere.
“Prozac,” I said, plucking a feather from the bowl of flowers on the dresser, “how could you?”
She glared at me, affronted, and began swishing her tail in an Academy Award-winning performance of a Long-Suffering Kitty.
How could I???? Trapped in this diet dungeon with nothing to eat but a measly can of Fancy Feast? No wonder I went after that idiotic Whirlybird. If I don’t get something in my tummy soon, there’s no telling how long I’ll last! At this stage of the game, I’ll eat anything, I tell you! Anything!
“Here,” I said, holding out the gray chicken I’d smuggled from dinner. “I brought you this.”
She took one look at it, and wrinkled her pink nose in disgust.
Eeeeu. I can’t eat that.
Is she impossible, or what?
“It’ll have to do, until I get back from my food run,” I said, plopping it in her bowl.
After gathering poor Mr. Bird’s remains and hiding them in my suitcase (heaven knows what punishment Frau Olga would mete out if she discovered them), I headed off to town.
I’d cleverly donned cargo pants and a jacket with plenty of pockets to store the goodies I planned to buy. I intended to dash into Darryl’s Deli to load up on calories and a quick peek at the eminently peek-worthy Darryl, then hurry back to feed Prozac, who’d been meowing piteously when I left, draped over the back of the armchair, very Sarah Bernhardt On Her Deathbed.
But you know how it is with best laid plans.
Driving through town, I happened to see that the pizza parlor was open. Even from my car, I could smell the garlic wafting from the exhaust vent. Mind you, I’d been dreaming of that pizza ever since I’d first seen the restaurant from the top of Mount Olga.
The lure of garlic was too powerful to resist. The next thing I knew, I was pulling into the parking lot.
I’d just run in for a quickie slice to go. I’d be in and out in five minutes. Six, tops.
But once again my plans were derailed. Because the first thing I noticed when I stepped inside, other than the heady aroma of garlic and sausages, was Harvy and Kendra sitting at a table, a pizza and pitcher of beer on the red checkered tablecloth between them.
What a perfect opportunity to start my investigation. Princess Prozac would just have to wait.
I trotted up to Mallory’s former posse, a suitably mournful but friendly smile on my face.
“Hi, there. What a surprise running into you two like this.”
Kendra looked up from her beer with bloodshot eyes.
“Not really,” she replied, slurring her words. “Sooner or later everybody at The Haven winds up here.”
Aha. So I wasn’t the only inmate who cheated.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked, pulling out a chair before they could say no.
“Sure,” Harvy said, with an expansive wave of his beer stein. “Have a seat.”
I horned myself in between them and got right down to business.
Okay, I didn’t get right down to business. I took one look at their pizza and forgot all about the interview. Gosh, that thing looked good. Sausages and mushrooms, swimming in a sea of thick gooey cheese.
“Help yourself,” Harvy said, no doubt noticing the pizza lust in my eyes.
He and Kendra watched in disbelief as I wolfed it down in record time.
“Care for
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