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“No,” I said. “Fake what?”

“I don't know that yet. Maybe Greenbriar's a fake. Maybe he forges documents, makes counterfeit money in the cellar. Whatever it is, my guess is that Chateau Bow-Wow is nothing but a cover for some sleazy, shady operation. Rosebud must have found out. And then Hamlet.”

I gulped. “And now you.”

“Correction,” he said, “now
us.”

I gulped again. This time it stuck in my throat.

Dashing to the door, Chester said, “Excuse me, Harold, but I've got some bones to talk to.”

And he was gone.

How like a cat. They stop by long enough to tell you you're a dead dog, then rush off to talk to an even deader one.

Well, I wasn't about to spend my evening sitting around worrying what terrible fate lay
in store. No, I would figure some things out myself.

I sat down and began to think.

Fake.

What did it mean?

After several seconds, my head started to hurt from thinking and I was getting nowhere. I decided to drop in on Howie. Maybe if he did half the thinking my head would hurt only half as much.

I told him what Chester had told me.

“Do you think Dr. Greenbriar is a quack?” I asked him.

“You mean a vet who specializes in ducks?” Howie said. “That's what I call a fowl practice. Get it, Uncle Harold, get it?
A fowl
practice.”

For some reason, my head began hurting more instead of less.

“A quack is a doctor who doesn't have a license, a phony. If Dr. Greenbriar is found out to be a quack, he could go to jail.”

“That would be terrible,” Howie said.
“There aren't any ducks in jail. Who would he take care of?”

I had the feeling I'd lost Howie.

Just then, Chester appeared at the door of Howie's bungalow. “Harold, Howie,” he said, “hard as it is for me to admit this, I need you.”

Howie scampered over to Chester. “Aw, Pop,” he said, “we need you too, don't we, Uncle Harold?”

The Weasel suddenly popped up next to Chester. “I couldn't help overhearing and if you don't mind my saying so it's about time you three lovable guys told each other how much you cared. What a beautiful moment. There's a little song I could sing—”

“Rosebud's not talking,” said Chester, not giving The Weasel a chance to finish his sentence, let alone break into song. “I thought maybe she'd talk to a dog. Harold?”

“I'll try,” I said.

“Me too,” cried Howie.

“I'll sing backup,” said The Weasel.

And off we went.

It was no good. A half hour of calling Rosebud's name, of asking her the meaning of the word
fake,
of telling her what happened to Hamlet—all to no avail. She was as silent as, well, as silent as a bunch of bones and an old collar.

“Here, Georgette, here, girl! Here, Georgette, that's a girl!”

We all turned toward the office window. The light had come on and Ditto was squawking in her cage.

“Here, Georgette, out we go!”

“Georgette,” Chester said under his breath. “Surely not—”

“We'd better get back,” said The Weasel. “Someone's coming.”

Just before we hurried off to our bungalows, I heard a female voice behind me say, “Someone's coming. Maybe this will be our chance.” I glanced over my shoulder. In the darkness, I couldn't tell if it was one of the cat burglars who had uttered those words or Linda talking to Bob.

Once inside our bungalows, I whispered through the wall to Chester, “Did you hear that?”

“Very interesting,” he said.

In the distance, the office door clicked open.

“Very interesting,” Chester repeated softly.

There in silhouette stood Jill with a leash in her hand, at the end of which was a small, curly-haired dog. A poodle. The aroma of lilac and honeysuckle wafted through the air.

Her name was Georgette.

“Harold!” she cried as she spotted me on her way to Hamlet's former bungalow. “What're y'all doin' here?”

“The usual,” I said. “Solving mysteries. Talking to bones. Fearing for my life.”

Georgette giggled. “You're such a tease,” she said. “We'll talk later, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“Who was that?” I heard Howie ask Chester.

“Her name's Georgette,” Chester answered. “She was boarded here the last time we were.”

As Jill helped Georgette settle into her bungalow, I heard a soft rustling sound and caught a blur of movement across the way. Bob's door was slightly ajar; his bungalow was dark.

“He's gone,” I murmured.

He
was
gone, but he didn't get far.

Jill turned and spotted him just as Bob was almost inside the office. “Now where do you think you're going?” she called out light-heartedly. “And how did you get out? My goodness, Dr. Greenbriar's right. We
are
going to have to do something about these locks.”

Making sure Georgette's door was shut tight, she trotted across the compound and caught Bob by the collar.

“Just what are you snooping around for, huh?” She sat down on a step and began patting him. Bob panted appreciatively.

“Guess it gets kind of lonely out here, doesn't it? It's not like you can talk and keep each other company. Do you miss Tom and Tracy?”

Bob yipped excitedly at the mention of their names.

“I know you do. But they'll be back soon. I don't know why they stopped sending postcards, but I wouldn't worry. I'll bet they miss you just as much as you miss them.”

A clock somewhere struck the hour.

“Gosh,” Jill said. “I've got to get home. I only stayed late because Georgette's owners had to drop her off tonight and I convinced Dr. Greenbriar he should let me take care of it. He's been working too hard. I worry about him sometimes.” She yawned and stretched. “Listen to me ramble on. I'm really tired, aren't you, Bob?”

Bob woofed. Jill smiled at him.

“You're a good dog, Bob,” she said. “And I like your hat.”

She led him back to his bungalow then, closed the door, checked the latch, and went back inside. As careful as she was, however, she apparently was too tired to remember to cover Ditto's cage—which, as it turned out,
was a stroke of good fortune for the rest of us.

No sooner had the light gone out than Ditto began to squawk:
“Oh, what is it again? What is it again? Six-one-one-one-five. Six-one-one-one-five . .
.
two! That's it, two! That's it, two!”

“That's it!”
another voice echoed.

“My goodness.” Georgette's voice floated through the air like a dandelion fluff on a summer breeze. “What all is going on here?”

Whoever had yelled, “That's it!” fell silent.

“Six-one-one-one-five-two?” Chester cried. “That spells
fakeb!
Greenbriar is a
fakeb?”

“Would someone pretty please tell me what's going on?” Georgette said again. “I'm as mixed-up as an acorn on a dogwood tree.”

At that, everyone began talking at once. I don't know how she heard anything, but somehow she pulled one name out of all the yammering.

“Hamlet?” she said. “Why, I knew him. I stayed here about a month ago and he was here too. He just left, did you say? Oh, I'm so glad.
Archie must've come for him at last. That's all Hamlet was livin' for, y'know.”

Before anyone disillusioned her about Archie, Chester thought to ask about someone else.

“Did you know a dog named Rosebud?” he asked.

A hush fell over the place.

“Why, sure,” said Georgette. “She and I got to be best friends. And the funny thing is we live right around the block from each other back home. In fact, I just saw her this morning. We had a nice little game of Rip-the-Rag before lunch. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” said Chester. “What kind of dog is she?”

“A Yorkie.”

The next sound I heard was someone panting furiously. Whoever it was sounded terrified. I was less than thrilled to realize it was me.

Chester's door opened as he stepped out into the compound. “There's something I'd like to show you, Georgette,” he said.

One by one, all the doors opened. We followed Chester to the familiar mound of dirt in the far corner next to Georgette's bungalow. Chester pawed at the ground until the bones shone in the moonlight. Georgette gasped at the sight, but when Rosebud's collar came into view, she laughed.

“So that's where it went,” she said. “That was Rosebud's favorite collar. She lost it one day during a game of Food-Dish-Food-Dish-Who's-Got-the-Food-Dish and we never could find it.”

“But it spoke to us,” The Weasel said.

“We all heard it,” said Bob.

“Those bones, that collar,” Linda said.

“She said her name was Rosebud,” I explained. “She told us she was a Yorkshire terrier and that she'd been, well ...”

“Terminated,” said Howie. “All because she knew the secret of Chateau Bow-Wow.”

“Well,” said Georgette with a shrug, “I don't know beans about any secret of Chateau Bow-Wow, but I can tell you this. Rosebud
went home weeks ago in the arms of a little girl named Trixie Tucker and she's alive and well. I think y'all are the victims of a hoax.”

Chester nodded his head slowly. “I think perhaps we are,” he said. He looked around at all of those gathered. Linda averted his gaze, while Bob defiantly stuck out his chin. Felony and Miss Demeanor stared at him with eyes as blank as windows in a house where nobody's home—except you had the feeling somebody was lurking behind the curtains. As for The Weasel, well, he looked so innocent you couldn't help wondering if it was real or just a very good act.

Back in the privacy of our bungalows, I asked Chester, “Who would do such a thing? And why?”

Chester didn't have an answer for me. He just sat, looking out into the dark night, perhaps wondering whether the secret—or the hoax—would reveal itself before the break of day.

V
OICES
again. I had been dreaming about steak tartare, which is really strange because I have no idea what steak tartare is. But it sounded good and I decided I was going to have to have some just as soon as I got home.

My stomach rumbled.

And then I heard the voices again.

“Don't do it for us, do it for Hamlet.”

I strained to listen, but all I heard was the click and shuffle of a door opening and the soft rustle of something moving.

“Chester,” I whispered.

“Shh.”

Chester, apparently, was already awake and listening.

I inched forward to see what I could see. The moonlight was sufficient to make out three shadowy figures scurrying across the compound. I knew in a flash who they were. Chester knew too.

“Just as I suspected,” he said. “The Weasel is nothing but a weasel. And those two cats aren't worthy of the name
Felis catus.”

What a night. First steak tartare and now this.

“‘Domestic cat,'” Chester explained, anticipating my befuddlement. “I've got to go after them.”

“But why? Maybe they're just sneaking inside to watch a little late-night television.”

Chester snorted. “‘Don't do it for us, do it for Hamlet.' That's what they said, Harold. It's a conspiracy, don't you see that? What if Hamlet is the ringleader? Greenbriar himself
could be involved. Our nation's freedom may be at stake!”

I had the feeling Chester the reader was through with horror novels and had moved on to spy thrillers.

Gingerly, I inquired, “Chester, would you consider the possibility that you might be blowing this thing out of proportion?”

“Not a chance.”

“Well, no harm in asking.”

In the distance, we heard a soft
beep!
followed by a slightly louder creaking.

“If that's what I think it is . . .” Chester said.

I looked toward the office. The door was wide open.

Suddenly, Ditto squawked,
“Quiet! Do you want to wake everybody up!”

Chester was out of his bungalow like a hot dog out of a bun with too much mustard.

Howie and I weren't the only ones fast on Chester's heels. In a matter of seconds, Bob and Linda and Georgette had joined us at the office door.

“Stupid bird,” we heard someone mutter just inside.

“You may as well give up!” Chester cried. “We've got the place surrounded.”

Felony's face appeared at the door. “I shoulda known you'd turn copper,” she said to Chester.

In the background, we heard The Weasel crooning, “I'm a poor little weasel who has lost his way.”

Chester shook his head.

“It's not what you think,” a husky voice said from within. Miss Demeanor sashayed into view. “Come on, Felony, let ‘em in. Cute Whiskers thinks he's on to us, huh? Well, what does he know?”