claims to be one of the Three Musketeers.”
“The Three Musketeers?” sniffed Harvey, taking a dignified pose on the rafter. “That’s ridiculous. I said I was a cousin of the Count of Monte Cristo.”
“Horatio,” said Olive, casually running her finger along the dusty edge of a mirror. “I was trying to ask you something important the last time I saw you.” She glanced up at the cat posing on the rafter. “Maybe Harvey could help with the answer.”
Horatio gave a doubtful harrumph.
“I want to know about Aldous McMartin. I know he made the paintings. I want to know why . I want to know if Morton ever really knew him. I want to know everything.” Olive stared hard into Horatio’s unreadable green eyes. “Please tell me the truth.”
Horatio looked up at Harvey.
Harvey stroked an imaginary mustache. “Tell the lady,” he said.
“Are you mad?” snapped Horatio. “Don’t answer me, Harvey. That was a rhetorical question.”
A sudden loud whimper came from the far corner. Olive gave a start. “What was that?”
“What was what?” asked Harvey innocently.
“That sound. That whimpering sound.”
“I have a guess,” said Horatio, with a sharp look up at Harvey.
Olive had already moved to the far corner of the attic and put on the spectacles. Now she was flipping through a stack of canvases. The whimpering sound had gotten a bit louder.
When she came to a painting of a weathered wooden barn surrounded by high yellow grass and a grove of birch trees, Olive heard the whimpering clearly. She knew she had heard it before. It sounded like a dog—a dog that was sad, or hurt. Through the small, square panes of the barn’s back window, she thought she could see something moving.
“Don’t do it,” Horatio warned. “Don’t go in.”
Olive thought of Morton, shivering all alone in the dark forest. “But something is whimpering in there,” she argued. She propped the canvas against the wall.
“At least don’t bring anything out with you this time!” Horatio shouted, but Olive was already halfway into the picture.
It was late autumn in this painting. There was a nip in the air that brushed the long grass around the old brown barn. Most of the trees in the distance had dropped their leaves, but here and there, one leaf hung, brown or red or gold. The whimpering had gotten louder now, and an edge of excitement entered it as Olive pushed open the creaking barn door.
The barn smelled like very old, empty barns do: like damp wood, and soil, and dust. Something bumped and shuffled in one of the stalls. Olive followed the sound, tiptoeing through the cloudy yellow light.
Inside the last stall, there was a dog. It was a large, dark brown mutt that could have been equal parts bloodhound, spaniel, boxer, and St. Bernard. When it saw Olive’s face appear over the edge of the stall door, it gave a delighted yap. And when Olive pulled open the stall door and came inside, its tail thwacked the ground in a frenzy.
The dog was clumsily tied up with a few strings and wires, but it didn’t look hungry or thirsty or hurt. Olive supposed that dogs in paintings don’t get hungry very quickly anyway. While Olive untangled the knots, the dog licked her face ecstatically.
“Good boy. Down. Down, boy,” said Olive. The dog went on licking. “What’s your name? Who put you in here?”
The dog didn’t answer. Olive felt a bit surprised, but she told herself that she shouldn’t be. After all, in most houses, the surprising thing would be if a dog did talk, not if it didn’t.
Olive was just getting the final knot undone when the dog gave a throaty woof. His whole body, which had been shaking with happiness, became suddenly taut and still. Olive followed his eyes. A multicolored cat wearing an eye patch was seated atop the narrow stall wall.
“So, me old matey,” it whispered, “We meet again.”
The dog gave a flying leap. Harvey zoomed off like something fired from a musket. “Yah!” Olive heard
“The Three Musketeers?” sniffed Harvey, taking a dignified pose on the rafter. “That’s ridiculous. I said I was a cousin of the Count of Monte Cristo.”
“Horatio,” said Olive, casually running her finger along the dusty edge of a mirror. “I was trying to ask you something important the last time I saw you.” She glanced up at the cat posing on the rafter. “Maybe Harvey could help with the answer.”
Horatio gave a doubtful harrumph.
“I want to know about Aldous McMartin. I know he made the paintings. I want to know why . I want to know if Morton ever really knew him. I want to know everything.” Olive stared hard into Horatio’s unreadable green eyes. “Please tell me the truth.”
Horatio looked up at Harvey.
Harvey stroked an imaginary mustache. “Tell the lady,” he said.
“Are you mad?” snapped Horatio. “Don’t answer me, Harvey. That was a rhetorical question.”
A sudden loud whimper came from the far corner. Olive gave a start. “What was that?”
“What was what?” asked Harvey innocently.
“That sound. That whimpering sound.”
“I have a guess,” said Horatio, with a sharp look up at Harvey.
Olive had already moved to the far corner of the attic and put on the spectacles. Now she was flipping through a stack of canvases. The whimpering sound had gotten a bit louder.
When she came to a painting of a weathered wooden barn surrounded by high yellow grass and a grove of birch trees, Olive heard the whimpering clearly. She knew she had heard it before. It sounded like a dog—a dog that was sad, or hurt. Through the small, square panes of the barn’s back window, she thought she could see something moving.
“Don’t do it,” Horatio warned. “Don’t go in.”
Olive thought of Morton, shivering all alone in the dark forest. “But something is whimpering in there,” she argued. She propped the canvas against the wall.
“At least don’t bring anything out with you this time!” Horatio shouted, but Olive was already halfway into the picture.
It was late autumn in this painting. There was a nip in the air that brushed the long grass around the old brown barn. Most of the trees in the distance had dropped their leaves, but here and there, one leaf hung, brown or red or gold. The whimpering had gotten louder now, and an edge of excitement entered it as Olive pushed open the creaking barn door.
The barn smelled like very old, empty barns do: like damp wood, and soil, and dust. Something bumped and shuffled in one of the stalls. Olive followed the sound, tiptoeing through the cloudy yellow light.
Inside the last stall, there was a dog. It was a large, dark brown mutt that could have been equal parts bloodhound, spaniel, boxer, and St. Bernard. When it saw Olive’s face appear over the edge of the stall door, it gave a delighted yap. And when Olive pulled open the stall door and came inside, its tail thwacked the ground in a frenzy.
The dog was clumsily tied up with a few strings and wires, but it didn’t look hungry or thirsty or hurt. Olive supposed that dogs in paintings don’t get hungry very quickly anyway. While Olive untangled the knots, the dog licked her face ecstatically.
“Good boy. Down. Down, boy,” said Olive. The dog went on licking. “What’s your name? Who put you in here?”
The dog didn’t answer. Olive felt a bit surprised, but she told herself that she shouldn’t be. After all, in most houses, the surprising thing would be if a dog did talk, not if it didn’t.
Olive was just getting the final knot undone when the dog gave a throaty woof. His whole body, which had been shaking with happiness, became suddenly taut and still. Olive followed his eyes. A multicolored cat wearing an eye patch was seated atop the narrow stall wall.
“So, me old matey,” it whispered, “We meet again.”
The dog gave a flying leap. Harvey zoomed off like something fired from a musket. “Yah!” Olive heard
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