Bunnicula Strikes Again! (6 page)

I noticed that the two dogs were tied to a parking meter in front of a coffee place called ESPRESSO YOURSELF. Bob's leash was bright green with the word POLO printed repeatedly in purple letters along its length. Linda's was lavender (perfectly matching her bandanna) with HALSTON repeated on it in black. Next to them was a ceramic trough with
Pour les chiens
written on its side. It was filled with water with slices of lemon floating in it. I later learned that
pour les chiens
means “for the dogs.”

So this was Upper Centerville.

“Well,” I said, trying to come up with an answer to Linda's question that would not immediately qualify us for the loony bin, “we're out for a stroll, actually. We, we . . .”

“We're looking for the movie theater,” Chester said.

What a relief! He wasn't going to say . . .

“Because . . . ”

Oh, no.

“. . . we're looking for a vampire rabbit. Have you seen one?”

“Uh, not lately,” said Bob. He looked over his shoulder as if to say, “I wonder what's keeping the kids.”

“We don't get many vampire rabbits in Upper Centerville,” Linda said, regarding Chester with a mixture of sympathy and distaste. “What exactly would we be looking for?”

“Black and white,” said Chester. “Red eyes. Fangs. Strange eating habits.”

They thought for a moment. “We
do
know a dalmatian who's awfully fond of Tofutti,” Linda offered.

“But then who isn't?” said Bob.

Linda nodded her head as Chester began muttering to himself again.

“I wish the kids would get out here with our cappuccino,” Bob said. Then, “Say, here's a coincidence.
We ran into two other inmates—I mean, guests—from Chateau Bow-Wow just the other day.”

Linda wrinkled her nose. “Those two
cats,”
she said. “No offense to you, Chester.”

“None taken,” said Chester. “I assume you're referring to Felony and Miss Demeanor.”

“Indeed,” said Bob. “Seems they were up to their old tricks. The kids were walking us in downtown Centerville. They hadn't taken us there in years, but now it's so ‘out' it's ‘in' again, if you know what I mean.”

I didn't have a clue.

Linda picked up the story. “We had just passed the movie theater when we spotted these two cats scurrying out from behind a garbage pail in the next alley. I referred to them as riffraff—a little loudly, I'm afraid—and one of them said, ‘Hey, you remember us!' and that's when I knew it had to be—”

“Felony and Miss Demeanor,” said Bob. “They seemed genuinely pleased to see us. They asked where we lived.”

“We told them we'd just moved and couldn't remember the address,” Linda said. “After all, they
are
cat burglars. They were on their way to a so-called caper even as we spoke. Shameful.”

Bob shook his head sadly. “They have too much time on their hands, that's their problem. They need a hobby. Anyway, they told us they lived down there.”

“In the alley?” Chester asked.

“No,” said Linda, “somewhere nearby. They just use the alley as their office.”

“Wow,” said Howie, “do they have a fax machine?”

Bob smiled indulgently at Howie. “I don't think so,” he said. “Maybe you'll see them when you go to the movie theater.”

“There's something to live for,” said Chester.

As he was getting directions to downtown Centerville, Linda suddenly remembered something.

“Last night,” she said, “we saw a black-and-white animal rummaging about in the garbage behind that new vegetarian restaurant. Just caught a glimpse of it really. Maybe it was the rabbit you're looking for.”

Chester's ears perked up. “Vegetarian, did you say?”

“Yes, it's right down the street here between
Maison de Wallpaper and Amour de Hair; you can't miss it.”

“In the French Quarter, eh?” said Chester. “Well, thanks for the tip. We'll check it out before we head downtown to the theater.”

Bidding Bob and Linda goodbye, we headed off down the street.

“If it
was
Bunnicula's mother,” said Howie as Maison de Wallpaper came into view, “wouldn't she be asleep now?”

“Making it all the easier for us to find her,” said Chester, a satisfied smile creeping across his face. “Who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky and find more than one sleeping vampire rabbit! There, that must be it!”

VICIOUSLY VEGGIE, the sign on the restaurant read. POWER FOOD FOR THE POWER HUNGRY. I was learning a lot about the people who lived in Upper Centerville.

A narrow passageway ran between the two buildings. We could make out a glimpse of garbage cans and what looked like a Dumpster at the far end.

Chester went into his skulking position.

“Oh, do we
have
to?” I whined. “You know I hate to skulk.”

“You're a hunter!” Chester snapped. “Now let's go!”

Chester began to slink along the building's edge, his body tight and as focused as a missile homing in on its target. I would have taken him a little more seriously had I not seen him assume this same position stalking a butterfly the week before.

Howie was directly behind Chester, imitating his every move. For sheer entertainment value, there's nothing quite like watching a dachshund try to slink like a cat.

But who am I to judge? After all, was I not soon third in line? If I wasn't exactly skulking, I was doing some sort of vague interpretation of your basic hunting stance. Not that I've ever
been
a hunting dog, mind you, regardless of what Chester may think about my canine instincts. The Monroes don't believe in hunting, for one thing, and as for me, just the thought of carrying something dead and uncooked between my teeth . . .
brrr.

As we got closer to the back of the buildings, Chester slowed to a near halt.

“I see something,” he hissed. “Look there, between those two garbage cans.”

I didn't see a thing until the sun bounced off something shiny. Was it metal? No, it glistened and moved as if it was alive.

“I'm going to go in for a closer look,” said Chester. “Cover me.”

“Okay,” Howie said. “Do we have a blanket, Uncle Harold?”

“I don't think that's what Chester has in mind.”

“Oh.”

Chester was moving as cats do when they're closing in on their prey, which is to say I could have napped between steps. When he got close, however, his demeanor—and his tempo—did an abrupt change.

“Run!” he shouted as he turned and sped past us back up the alleyway.

“What is it?” I cried out.

Well may you ask why I cried out instead of following Chester's (for once) wise advice. Suffice it to say that those three little words kept me in the wrong place for three little seconds too long.

And then it was all over. All over Howie. And all over me.

We hightailed it out of there as fast as we could, but the damage was done. My eyes were stinging. My throat was burning. My nostrils were begging for mercy.

“Chester!” I shouted. “I'm going to get you for this!”

But Chester couldn't hear me. He was far off in the distance, heading for home. So was Howie. And so was I.

And so was the stench of a
skunk.

I
F
Pete said “Gross!” once, he said it a hundred times.

I tried not taking it personally. After all, it was pretty gross. Not to mention humiliating. Especially when Mr. Monroe bathed Howie and me in tomato juice. Chester had managed to escape the skunk's assault, but Mr. Monroe considered giving him a regular bath just to be on the safe side. Knowing how much Chester hates baths, he spelled it out.

“I think I should give Chester a b-a-t-h, too,” he told Mrs. Monroe.

To which Chester's response was, “I'm out of h-e-r-e,” and he was gone.

The Monroes haven't figured out that Chester can spell.

Cats, in case you don't know it, do not care to be bathed by anything other than their own tongues. Dogs, on the other hand, have an entirely different philosophy of life. Simply stated, it's this: Never do for yourself what you can get others to do for you. I call this “conservation of energy.” Chester has a less exalted name for it. “Laziness,” I believe it is.

In any event, after our tomato juice baths, Howie and I were plunked in the tub for a nice long soak. Howie got to practice his backstroke and I got to practice my lifesaving skills each time he sank to the bottom.

It was after Mr. Monroe had left us swathed in towels to dry off that Chester poked his head around the bathroom door, looked to the left and right, sniffed the air to be sure we no longer stank, and cautiously entered the room.

“Chester,” I said, “I'd like a few words with you.”

“All right, all right,” he said, “so Plan A didn't exactly work out.”

“It didn't exactly work out?” I repeated. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

“No,” said Chester. “I also want to tell you about Plan B.”

I am not normally prone to violence, but at that moment I might have been tempted to tie Chester's whiskers in a bountiful array of knots had I not been so tightly wrapped in my towel. At the very least I would have pressed for an apology, but I was beginning to see that there were more similarities between Chester and Pete than I'd ever noticed before. Being a cat or an eleven-year-old boy, I surmised, must mean never having to say you're sorry.

“Okay, lads, here's what I'm thinking,” Chester said as he began to pace in front of us. Howie loves it when Chester gets going like this and he panted appreciatively. I, on the other hand, tried rolling my eyes but only succeeded in noticing that my bangs needed trimming.

“Let's say I'm right about Bunnicula's mother,” Chester said, “which of course I am. My guess is that Bunnicula hasn't figured out where she is. Maybe he hasn't even made the connection between his mother and the movie theater. Otherwise, he would have broken out of this joint a long time ago.
So he's still waiting for her to come to him. Fine. Here's what we've got to do.”

He paused to look at us.

“Why do I feel like I'm addressing the Roman Senate?” he asked.

Howie and I looked blankly at each other.

“Is that a trick question?” Howie said.

Chester shook his head wearily. “Togas,” he said.

He should have known better than to ask.

“I read a book about ancient Rome!” Howie piped up enthusiastically.
“Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh's Tomb.
FleshCrawlers, number twentyeight. There were these twins, see, Harry and Carrie Fishbein, and they found this time-travel machine in their grandfather's attic. They were just fooling around with it, but before you knew it—
poof!
—they were in ancient—”