Return to Howliday Inn by James Howe Page A

much.
    I told him what Chester had told me.
    â€œDo you think Dr. Greenbriar is a quack?” I asked him.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œThat 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—”
    â€œRosebud’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?”
    â€œI’ll try,” I said.
    â€œMe too,” cried Howie.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œHere, 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.
    â€œHere, Georgette, out we go!”
    â€œGeorgette,” Chester said under his breath. “Surely not—”
    â€œWe’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?”
    â€œVery interesting,” he said.
    In the distance, the office door clicked open.
    â€œVery 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.
    â€œHarold!” she cried as she spotted me on her way to Hamlet’s former bungalow. “What’re y’all doin’ here?”
    â€œThe 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?”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œWho was that?” I heard Howie ask Chester.
    â€œHer 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.
    â€œHe’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