Marilyn Singer

Three sisters, forced to spend the summer with their grandparents whom they don’t like, decide to form the Lightey Club. At each meeting, Henny, the oldest sister, recounts a new tale about Lightey the Lightning Bug and his insect pals. Henny’s stories help change a bad vacation into a magical one.

Chapter Eight

Plink  plink.  Plink, plink.  Flap.

“Uhhh…”

Plink plinkity plinkity.  Rat-a-tat-tat.  Flap flap.

“What the…” Bart sat up in bed, trying to focus his eyes in the dark room.  He turned toward the window.  The shade, buffeted by the wind, was flapping back and forth in rhythm with the rain hitting th window pane.  Don’t forget to close all the windows tonight if it rains as it’s expected to. Bart heard his mother’s voice in his head.  “Oh, great,” he grumbled aloud.  He slid out from under the covers and sat for a moment on the edge of the bed.  Jeez, what a night, he thought, remembering his friends filing out the door silently–well, not so silently, in Tony’s case–and himself sweeping up the shards of the lamp.  There wasn’t anything he could do about the ripped tutu.  He didn’t know how to sew.  He could’ve asked one of the girls to do it, he guessed, but at the time he’d just wanted all of them gone–even Lisa.  Why do they have to act so stupid, he thought.  You could’ve told Bob and Tony not to bring the beer, another voice whispered in his brain.  But that wouldn’t have been cool…

The shade flapped again.  He stood up with a groan and shut the window.  Then, opening his bedroom door, he went to check the other windows in the house.

He was down in the kitchen when he heard the bump.  He stood still and listened. There it was again.  A loud thumping.  It was coming from the rec room.  “Oh, jeez.  Now what?” he said.  He opened the basement door and flicked the light switch.  But the light didn’t go on.  He tried it again and a third time.  Then his mother’s voice echoed in his head once more:  The switch in the basement seems to be faulty. He signed and went back to the kitchen and fished a flashlight out of a drawer.  He turned it on as he reached the basement door and started down the stairs.

Boorump.  The sound came again.

A wave of cold hit him.  The hairs on his neck prickled.  He stopped dead, clutching the stair railing with one hand.  The logic that had asserted itself the week before in his bedroom was failing.  He shuddered.

King Bart.  Bark the Hawk.  Ha, he told himself.  You’re real brave, Hawkins. Wouldn’t the Phantoms love to see their star quarterback now.  He stood still another moment.  Then, setting his chin, he edged down another step.  It’s probably just the boiler acting up, he thought.  No, it’s not on.  The water heater then.  Another step.  There’s got to be a logical explanation.  Another step. There, I made it.  He turned right into the room that housed the boiler and heater.  He inspected them with the flashlight, but nothing seemed wrong.  He walked out and on toward the rec room.

It was dark and quiet.  He played his flashlight over the furniture, the bar, the stereo, the TV, the knickknack shelves.  Nothing was wrong here either.  Then he noticed a box in a corner lying on its side.  A bit of frothy pink tulle spilled from it.  It rustled gently.  The tutus.  Bart had put the box on a low table when he’d cleaned up.

It must’ve fallen off, he told himself.  See, a logical explanation.  And you let yourself get scared of…

Boo-rump! The noise was so loud the walls shook.  Bart’s flashlight flew from his hand and across the room.  It way in the middle of the floor, its feeble light aimed at the tutu box.

Bart didn’t know whether to pick the flashlight up or leave it and run.  After a few seconds, which seemed like hours, he moved toward the light and froze.

The tutu  was sliding slowly out of the box.  “Tony,” Bart squeaked.  “Is that you?  Bob?  Is this a joke?”

The only answer was a rustle of satin and tulle as the tutu began to rise, headless, armless, legless, and advance toward him.

He screamed and staggered backward, banging his leg on a chair.  Then he whirled around, stumbling toward the stairs.

He fled up them, through the kitchen, up another flight, and down the hall.  He flew into his bedroom, slammed and locked the door behind him, turned on one, two, all the lights, and shaking, crawled into bed, face to the wall.  I’m going crazy, he thought, panting.  Then, no, I’m dreaming.  That’s it.  I’m still asleep and I…

Squeak.

Cold enveloped the room.  Oh my God, what was that?

Squeeeeak…

Bart’s blankets were sheets of ice.  He didn’t want to turn around, but he had to.  He did it slowly, his eyes darting wildly around the room.  Finally, they hit on the closet door.  It was open about an inch.  As he stared, it slid open an inch further.

No.  Oh no!  Wake up, Bart.  Come on, wake up.  He slapped at his face.

But the door continued to move.  Soon it was open enough for him to see his dirty football uniform lying on the floor with the helmet on the shelf above.  He watched in horror as the uniform began to straighten itself out and come toward him.

“No!” he yelled.  “No!”  He scrambled as far back against the headboard of the bed as he could.  But the uniform kept coming.

Click! Now what, he thought, and almost laughed hysterically at himself.  His eyes flashed on his bedroom door.

Sure enough, it was opening.  He saw a blaze of hot pink, and behind it streaks of electric blue, red, purple, and green.  The tutus!  They’d found him.

“Mom!  Dad!  Somebody help me!’ he bellowed as the tutus and the uniform reached him.  The lights went out.  His arms and legs flailed.  Perfume and sweat clogged his nostrils.  He was being smothered by yards and yards of cloth.  He gasped for breath.

Suddenly, a voice rang out.  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Stryker, leave him alone.”

Bart gasped again, but he felt the tutus, the uniform slide away.  Panting and shivering, he lay with his eyes shut.  The room was silent now, but still cold.  Slowly he opened his eyes.

The lights were still out.  The room was dark, except for a faint glow at the foot of his bed.  it’s not over, something in his brain whispered.  Not yet.

He was right.  The flow brightened, pulsing silver.  It gathered, a roiling, shifting shape.

Terrified, Bart moaned.  He couldn’t move–he could only watch–as the glow trembled, wiggled, rounded.  A form began to emerge–the form of a tall, slim, and rather pretty teenage girl in a long, old-fashioned dress with a ribbon in her hair.  She smiled at him apologetically and said in a silvery voice, “I’m sorry about all this, Bart.  Truly sorry.”

He stared at her, blinked, and stared again.  And then he thought, Well, Hawkins, it looks like 1351 Hexum is haunted after all.

(excerpt from Chapter One)

Finally she came to a painting in the far corner of the room.  It wasn’t a particularly large painting or an especially bright one.  In fact it was rather dim and stormy.  It wasn’t painted by a famous artist, either.  But Mitzi didn’t care about any of that.

What she did care about was the figure in the painting.  It was a tall, strong woman with wild, dark hair that streamed out behind her.  She was riding in a chariot pulled by four horses.  Riding straight into battle.  Printed beneath the picture was her name: Boadicea–Queen of the Britons.

Mitzi had first discovered the painting on a class trip to the museum–one of the few class trips she’d thoroughly enjoyed.  The class was studying ancient Greece, so Mrs. Livetti and Mr. Morales, the art teacher, took them there to look at the collection of Greek vases.  Each vase had a different scene from Greek life or mythology on it.  All the students were to pick their favorite vase and write about what it showed.  Mitzi asked–and answered a lot of questions about the vases, the myths, and the history of Greece.  She chose a vase that showed a group of women dancing because she herself liked to dance.  Janet picked on in which were drinking wine, and everybody teased her about it, but she didn’t mind.

After they looked at the vases, the class got to tour the rest of the museum.   Mitzi had been there before, but she hadn’t really looked closely at many of the paintings.  When they got to the portrait gallery, Mitzi’s eyes wandered around the room until they landed on Boadicea.  Zap!  It was as if the queen’s own hand had reached out from the painting and pulled her over.  “Wow!” she said under her breath.

She stood, wide-eyed, staring at the fierce queen.  She was so captured by her that she nearly forgot she wasn’t alone in the gallery.

“Is that a relative of yours, Mitzi?” Diane Foster asked.

“Her mother, maybe?” said Bobbie Bolen.

“There is a slight family resemblance,” Tracey Dudeen added.

Mitzi didn’t say anything.  She didn’t want the Monkey Trio to know that she was thinking there actually was a resemblance.

“Let’s see what everyone’s staring at here,” Mr. Morales said, saving her from having to say anything at all.  “Why, it’s Boadicea, the Warrior Queen.  She nearly succeeded in freeing Britain from Roman rule.”

Mitzi listened closely to what Mr. Morales had to say about Boadicea’s exploits, but the Monkey Trio kept staring at her, so soon she sauntered away, trying to appear no long interested in the painting.  The truth was she was even more interested in it.  She went back to the museum the next day to look at it, and then a few days after that.

And here she was again.  Today was her fifth visit.  And she wasn’t tired of Boadicea at all.  She stared long and hard at the picture.  She could see the queen’s horses’ hooves pounding,  her chariot wheels turning.  On the spokes were knives, nasty, sharp knives to cut and slash the enemy to ribbons.  Clouds of dust blew up from under the wheels that turned faster and faster.  Boadicea’s whip cracked.

Suddenly, Mitzi felt the wind roaring all around her.  Her hair blew wildly about her head.  Instead of Boadicea, it was she who was in the chariot. the whip in one hand, the reins in the other.

“We will beat back the barbarians!” she shouted.  We will free the land!  We will never be Roman slaves!”

“Ha ha.”

“Ha ha?” Mitzi said.  She blinked.  Who was laughing?  It wasn’t Mitzi.  And it wasn’t Boadicea.  She blinked again.  She was no longer in the chariot.  She was sitting in front of a small painting on the cold, hard museum floor.  And standing next to her were two little kids pointing at her and giggling.

(excerpt)

“Take that!  And that!  And that!” I said.  My sword rang out against the Sheriff of Nottingham’s.  He was a good swordsman.  Too good.  I couldn’t hold him off much longer.  Suddenly, with a quick parry, he knocked my sword out of my hands.  He laughed a nasty laugh.  “Breathe your last, Maid Lizzie,” he said, pressing the sharp point of his sword against my throat.

Suddenly a flash of Lincoln green.  “First you will reckon with me, sir,” said a low voice.

The Sheriff of Nottingham spun around.  He was face to face with Robin Hood.  “Here, Elizabeth, catch!” Robin called, tossing me my sword, just as three of the sheriff’s men found us.  “Back to back!” ordered Robin.

I smiled.  It was our favorite strategy.  “Take that!” I yelled, striking out.  One of the sheriff’s men fell.  Robin struck down another.  We were evenly matched again.

And then Robin stumbled.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the sheriff raise his sword to deliver a deadly blow.  I whirled around to fend it off…

“What are you doing in that weird position, Lizzie?  Studying some new form of yoga?” my sister, Rona, said.

I dropped my arms and sat down on my bed.  “How many times have I told you not to come into my room without knocking?”

Rona ignored my question.  “I bet you were pretending to be Robin Hood again.”

“I don’t pretend to be Robin Hood,” I said.  “Robin Hood is a man.”

“Robin Hood is a make-believe character, like Snow White or E.T.,” said Rona.

“That’s not true!” I yelled.

We’d had this argument before, Rona and me, and I always got angry at her during it.  I don’t know why I couldn’t just ignore her.  But I couldn’t.  I love Robin Hood too much.

I found out about Robin Hood from Buster.  Buster is my best friend Tessa’s uncle.  She doesn’t like him that much, but I do.  He used to dress up as famous Busters, like Buster Keaton and Buster Brown.  He said it was to “wake people up,” to surprise them.  He doesn’t do that anymore, though; he says a person shouldn’t always stick to the same thing to wake people up–and besides, he ran out of Busters.  Anyway, Buster gave me this book called Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest.  I don’t much like books, but I sure liked that one.  I read it so fast, Buster promised to get me another book with more stories about Robin Hood.  I can’t wait.

Mom says that Robin Hood is my latest obsession.  I asked her what an obsession is, and she said it means when you never stop thinking of something or someone.  She said Ariadne was my last obsession.  Ariadne is my pet tarantula.  I wanted a tarantula for a long time.  I guess I did think about her a lot.  And I did all sorts of things to get her.  it was Buster who helped me in the end.  But I didn’t think about Ariadne all the time.  I don’t think about Robin Hood all the time either.  I don’t think about him when I sleep (except if I have a dream about him) or when I watch Ariadne (except sometimes).

Chapter One

It was all the talk at Rex King’s Bar.  Carlotta Bucks, president of the Purity Food Corporation, had finally kicked the bucket.  I’d like to be bighearted and say I was sorry about it, but the truth is, her company makes Peaceable Kingdom All-Vegetarian Pet Food.  The couple of times Barlowe fed that stuff to me I wished a fate worse than death to Carlotta Bucks.

Barlowe, by the way, is Philip Barlowe, famous detective.  And I, in case you haven’t figured it out, am Samantha Spayed, his all-too-loyal canine sidekick and the brains behind this duo.  Although you’d never know that if you read the newspaper accounts of our cases.  They always make it seem that Barlowe has done the work himself.  During our last case I’d resolved to let Barlowe do just that, but he almost got us in the soup, so I had to step in.  So much for letting him go solo.

To get back to Carlotta Bucks, crummy as the pet food is, her company raked in a lot of money over the twenty-two years she was its president.  But it was what Carlotta had done with that dough that the real excitement was all about. In her will, Carlotta Bucks had specified that she was leaving her money to none other than Snoogums, her “dearly beloved” cat.  There was talk that she had a nephew, a gambler, who’d contested the will, but without success.

“Twenty million smackolas to a cat,” said my pal and sometime employee Harry as we sat in our favorite dark corner of Rex King’s Bar.  As usual I was waiting for Barlowe.  “What do you make of it, Sam?”

I stared gloomily into the bowl of popcorn Barlowe had set down in front of me. “Not much,” I lied.  The truth is I was pretty depressed.  There I was, in a dingy bar with a bowl of stale popcorn, which might be the last meal I’d be having for a long time if the detective business didn’t pick up for me and Barlowe soon, while some overstuffed cat was sleeping on silk cushions and dining on smoked salmon.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Harry said philosophically.  “I think the world is made up of the haves and the have-nots, and right now you and I are in the latter category.  Which stinks.  But our luck could change any minute, so I’m not gonna let it get me down.  And neither should you, Sam.”

I didn’t bother to tell him I was already down.  So down, in fact, that this time I didn’t even care whether or not I got the credit on Barlowe’s and my next case just so long as there was a next case.

“Come on, Sam.  Time to go,” called Barlowe, sliding off his bar stool across the room.

I got up slowly.  “Thanks for the pep talk, Harry,” I said.

“Yeah.  Well, keep me in mind if anything starts shaking.”

“Will do,” I answered.  But I couldn’t help thinking the only things that would soon be shaking would be Barlowe and me when our landlord booted us out in the cold for not paying the rent.

“Raise or call, Barlowe?” asked Fat Bernie.

“Sloof!” I barked, meaning “Call,” but I knew it wouldn’t do any good.  I’ve never understood why whenever we’re broke, Barlowe goes out of his way to make us even broker.  Or why one of his favorite ways to land us in the poorhouse is poker, a game he has neither the luck nor the smarts to play well.

“You’re bluffing, Bernie,” said Barlowe.  “I raise.”

I let out a pitiful whine, shut my eyes, and wished once again we’d gone home from Rex King’s instead of straight to Fat Bernie’s Poker Parlor, which wasn’t a parlor at all but the grimy office of a crumbling parking garage in a lousy part of town.

“Okay, Barlowe, I’ll see you,” said Fat Bernie, matching Barlowe’s chips.

“I fold,” said Pumper Pete, one of the regulars.  He threw down his cards.

“Me too,” skinny Gladys Mernicki, another regular chimed in.

The third regular, Silent George, just put his hand down without a word.

“Well, Barlowe, that leaves you and me for the showdown.  What have you got?” said Fat Bernie.

There was a pause, and then I heard Barlowe say, “Three kings.”

I opened my eyes.  I’d been to Fat Bernie’s often enough to know a decent hand when I heard one.  I looked longingly at the chips, which represented a month’s worth of lamb chops.

“Okay, Bernie.  Let’s see you beat that,” Barlowe said.

Fat Bernie didn’t crack a smile.  He lay down his cards, but kept his big palm over them.  “How about…three aces,” he said, removing his hand.

Barlowe and I both groaned as Fat Bernie raked in the chips.

“I think I better qu-” Barlowe had started to say when we heard footsteps.

I jumped up from the corner where I’d been sitting to do my dog bit as a thin guy in a fancy suit with a newspaper until his arm appeared in the doorway. “Gentlemen–and lady–is this game closed, or can anyone join in?”

There was silence while everyone gave him the once-over.  I trotted up to him for a sniff.

“Depends on who that anyone is,” Fat Bernie finally said.

The man grinned.  One of his teeth flashed brighter than the others, and I guessed it was solid gold.  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of dough.

“Welcome, Anyone,” said Fat Bernie.

The man grinned again and brushed past me to take a seat at the table.  I didn’t mind.  I was finished checking him out, although I hadn’t learned much.  The guy wasn’t wearing any cologne or after-shave, and his own smell wasn’t particularly interesting.  But something made me want to keep my eye on him.  Something I call a Hunch.

“What’s your name?” Fat Bernie said.

The man laid the newspaper under his chair and flashed his tooth a third time. “You can call me…Hy Stakes,” he said.

“Okay, Hy.  Since you’re a newcomer here, we’ll let you choose any game you want–as long as it’s poker.”

“That’s a mighty friendly gesture,” Hy said. “All right, then, I choose Anaconda Seven-Card Stud.”

“Anaconda, huh?” said Fat Bernie, sounding none too pleased.

“Count me out,” said Gladys.  “I gotta get home and feed the old man.”

“Are you gentlemen still playing?” asked Stakes.

“I’m in,” said Pumper Pete.

Silent George nodded.

Say no, Barlowe, I thought.  Say no.

“Yes,” he answered.

I groaned again and sank back down into my corner.

This game was different than the other poker games they usually played.  There was a lot more movement and a lot more betting.  The players kept passing cards to their neighbors and tossing chips in the pot.  I could Hy Stakes was really enjoying himself.  He sat there relaxed, one hand holding his cards, the other resting under the table in his lap.

Barlowe, on the other hand, wasn’t enjoying himself at all.  In fact he looked like he does when he’s visiting the dentist.  I watched his small stack of chips get even smaller and contemplated getting up and going so I wouldn’t have to see my last chance at a square meal go down the drain.  Then all of a sudden I noticed a faint waxy smell.  I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed it, but they were all too busy passing their cards.  I took another sniff.  It was still there, and now I could tell where it was coming from:  Hy Stakes.  At first I couldn’t see anything.  Then as I watched, I saw him dip the fingers of his free hand into a little container resting in his lap.  Next he casually brought them up and touched them to the back of his cards.

Now, the finer points of poker may escape me, but there’s one thing I can recognize no matter what the game, and that’s a cheat.

I waited for the right moment.  Barlowe had just pushed the last of his chips into the pile in the center of the table.  Fat Bernie, giving a repeat performance, was asking what he had.

“Straight,” said Barlowe.  “You?”

Fat Bernie let out a sigh.  “Two pairs.”

They both turned to Hy Stakes.  He smiled again.  “Royal flush,” he said.  He reached for the chips just as I reached for him.  “What the–” he said, nearly falling out of his chair.

I growled, stuck my nose in his lap, and before he knew what was happening, grabbed the little container he held there.  Then I deposited it in Barlowe’s hand.

He held it up.  “What’s this, Sam?”

“Let me see that,” said Fat Bernie.  “Hey, that’s daub.  This guy’s been marking the cards!”

“Why you–” Barlowe stood up.

Hy Stakes backed away.  I let out a growl to tell him he wasn’t going very far.

“Get him, Barlowe!” yelled Pumper Pete.

Then a strange thing happened.  Stakes sat back down in his chair and started to laugh.  “So it’s true.  You’re as good as she said you were.”

I could tell Barlowe was confused.  To tell you the truth, so was I.  I sat down too.  Stakes reached out and shoved all the chips across the table toward Barlowe’s chair.  “Here’s the advance on your fee.”

“Hey, that’s my money,” said Fat Bernie.

Barlowe ignored him and said to Hy Stakes, “Huh?  My fee?  What are you talking about?”

I perked up, my Hunch buzzing like an alarm clock in my brain again.

“I’m hiring you, Mr. Barlowe,” Stakes said.

“Hiring me?  To do what?”

I knew the answer before Hy Stakes could flash his gold tooth again.  “To find my aunt’s real will,” he said.

I jumped to my feet, ready for action.  But Barlowe still hadn’t caught on.  “And just who is this aunt of yours?” he asked, not moving from his chair.

Stakes gave a little snort that suggested he was beginning to wonder if he’d made a mistake.  It didn’t seem that Barlowe would be able to find his way home, let alone a vanished will.  With a whine I grabbed the newspaper from under Stakes’ chair and nearly threw it in Barlowe’s lap.

He glanced down at it.  “What is this, Sam?  I already read the paper.  It’s all full of stuff about that Carlotta Bucks dame and her will…”  Then I saw his face change.  He looked up.  “Your aunt…”

“You got it, Mr. Barlowe,” said Hy Stakes.  “Carlotta Bucks, of course.”

Chapter One

She was small, blonde, and very confused.  I could tell that before she opened her mouth.  But just how confused was a surprise even to me, and it takes a lot to surprise Samantha Spayed.

I should’ve known it was going to be one of those days even before the confused blonde showed up.  All afternoon I’d had an itch on my nose.  That itch always means trouble.

Besides my itchy nose, there was Barlowe working on those slogans again. Whenever we get broke enough, Barlowe starts entering contests.  He’s always hoping to win big bucks.  The only thing he’s won so far is thanks from the post office for shelling out so much dough on stamps.

A word about Barlowe, in case his name doesn’t ring a bell, which it should because he’s been in the papers a lot.  Philip Barlowe’s a detective.  They say he solved a lot of cases, including The Fido Frame-Up.  But if you were smart enough to read my account of the story, you’d know who really did the job. That’s right–yours truly.

After The Fido Frame-Up, I decided that I was going to sit back and let Barlowe try to solve our next case by himself.  I was tired of not getting any credit.  I promised myself I’d hang around as a bodyguard just in case things got sticky, but otherwise I’d take it easy.  The problem is I figured we’d be on another case right away.  I didn’t guess we’d both be taking it easy for so long.  For two long months nobody banged on our door except the landlord.  Nobody called us at odd hours.  And nobody’d given us any money.  Hence, Barlowe’s contest binge. What contest he was entering this time I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to know.

But Barlowe told me anyway.  “What do you think of this, Sam? ‘Elegant ladies used Eggelant (Egg-Rich) Shampoos.’  Nah.  How about this one:  ‘Eggelant (Egg-Rich) Shampoo is no yolk.’  Ha-ha.  Get it?

I wondered if Barlowe used the stuff himself and it had scrambled his brains.  I left him laughing to himself and went to the kitchen for some chow–lousy, cheap stuff, but better than nothing.  Just then, the buzzer rang.  I immediately went into my watchdog act.

“Who is it?” Barlowe asked through the intercom.

“Me.  Roper,” a voice answered

I stopped the watchdog number.  Barlowe didn’t need protection from Mandy Roper.  She’s a pal, a zookeeper and, in Barlowe’s own words, “one swell dame.” Roper hadn’t been around in a while.  She took a trip to Europe and sent us a couple of postcards.  She’d wanted Barlowe and me to go with her, but he’d turned her down.  He’d said we needed a rest, and that traipsing around Europe wouldn’t be one.  I wouldn’t have minded going alone with her, but nobody’d asked me.  Roper was hurt that Barlowe refused.  She didn’t say she was, but I could tell.  Noticing things like that is part of my job.

When Barlowe opened the door for Roper, I gave her the Big Greeting.  I jumped up and down, licked her hands and face, barked happily, the whole bit.  I only do the Big Greeting for a couple of people, and Roper, knowing that, had the good sense to be flattered.  “Whoa, whoa, Sam, old buddy.  It’s good to see you, too,” she said.

Barlowe was cooler than me.  “Hello, Mandy,” he said.

“Hello, Phil.”

“Have a good trip?”

“Very good.  How’s work been?”

“It hasn’t.”

There they were, two old friends acting like near strangers.  Then, Barlowe said, “I missed you, Mandy.”

“I missed you too, Phil.”

They hugged each other.  I gave them a small woof of encouragement.

They broke apart and Roper handed Barlowe a pile of envelopes and said gruffly, “Don’t you ever collect your mail?  The postman said he couldn’t fit any more stuff in your box.”

“Who needs a bunch of bills?” Barlowe said.

An envelope slid to the floor.  I gave it a sniff.  There was something familiar about the smell.  Familiar and delicious.  One thing I knew, it wasn’t a bill.  I picked it up with my teeth and nudged Barlowe’s leg.  My nose was itching like crazy, but I tried to ignore it.

Barlowe took the envelope.  “What’s this?  La Maison de Beauté?  Never heard of them.  I sure don’t owe them any money.”

I’d never heard of them either, but I liked that smell, so I nudged him harder. Roper took the envelope from him.  “La Maison de Beauté.  They make cosmetics. I use their bath oil.  It’s good stuff.  She opened the envelope, took out a single sheet of paper, and read:

“Dear Mr. Barlowe,

“Word of your talent and discretion in solving cases has reached me via a mutual acquaintance, Lady Binghampton-Nuggets.  I require your assistance in a matter both urgent and delicate.  Please come to my office at 500 Garson Boulevard on Tuesday, June 4 at 5:30 P.M.  If you cannot make it, then call me at 555-1357.

“Thank you.

Sincerely,

Roger de France, President”

Tuesday, June 4 at 5:30!  I let out a howl.  I could almost smell real meat again.

“What’s eating you, Sam?” Barlowe asked.

“Barlowe, do you know what day this is?” Roper asked.

“Yeah, Tuesday.”

“Which Tuesday?”

“June fourth.”

“Right.  And what time is it, Barlowe?”

He looked at his watch.  “Five-fifteen.”

“Five-sixteen to be exact,” Roper said, looking at her own.  “It takes twenty minutes to get to Garson Boulvevard.  If you leave right now you’ll be only six minutes late.”

I howled in agreement.  I’d said I’d stay out of Barlowe’s next case.  But there at least had to be a case for me to stay out of.

“Five-thirty.  I have another appointment at five-thirty.”

I knew about Barlowe’s “other appointment.”  It was at Rex King’s bar.  I picked up a hard rubber bone some relative of Barlowe’s bought me for Christmas, and which Barlowe used as a doorstop, and pitched it at him.  It hit his shin.

“Owww.  Take it easy, Sam.  Okay, okay.  I’ll postpone my other five-thirty appointment.  Let’s go.”

Thinking about porterhouse steak, I bounded out the door ahead of him.

On the drive to La Maison de Beauté, Barlowe kept working on his slogans. And I kept my head out the window so I didn’t have to hear him.  We were just approaching Garson Boulevard when he stopped the clunker of a Buick dead in the middle of the street (at least, I hoped he’d stopped it; the Clunker, as I called it, which we bought with the money from the last case, has been known to die by itself at the worst possible moments).  I fell back onto the seat.  “I’ve got it!” Barlowe yelled.  “Sam, you’ll love this one.  Here it is:  ‘A man’s best friend is his dog, but a woman’s best friend is her Eggelant (Egg-Rich) Shampoo.’  Isn’t that great…”

I didn’t hear the rest of what he said because just then the blonde staggered into view.  And coming at her from the other direction was a big, black sedan.

“Whoo!” I howled, meaning, Watch out!  I leaped out the open window and heard Barlowe yell, “Hey!”  The black sedan screeched to a halt, and the car behind it smashed into its fender.  I dashed up to the blonde.

“Come on.  Follow me,” I said.

“Come on!” I ordered.

She gave me a blank look, but she followed me, weaving in and out of traffic that had piled up on Garson Boulevard.

We reached the Clunker.  Barlowe opened the door.  “Sam, are you okay?”  You could’ve been hurt.”

I gave him a quick woof to let him know I was fine.  Then we both looked at the blonde.  She was hobbling a little, but there wasn’t a scratch on her.

Barlowe opened the back door.  The blonde stumbled onto the seat.

I scrambled up behind her.

“What’s your name?  Your address?” I asked.

She gave me that same blank stare.  Then she opened her mouth and said, “Yoghurt.”

I stared at her, and then it hit me.  The blonde was more than confused.  The blonde had amnesia.  No good-looking, self-respecting blonde cocker spaniel would let herself be called Yoghurt.