Return to Howliday Inn by James Howe Page B

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.
    â€œJust what are you snooping around for, huh?” She sat down on a step and began patting him. Bob panted appreciatively.
    â€œGuess 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œGosh,” 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.
    â€œYou’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!”
    â€œThat’s it!” another voice echoed.
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œSix-one-one-one-five-two?” Chester cried. “That spells fakeb! Greenbriar is a fakeb?”
    â€œWould 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.
    â€œHamlet?” 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.
    â€œDid you know a dog named Rosebud?” he asked.
    A hush fell over the place.
    â€œWhy, 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?”
    â€œJust curious,” said Chester. “What kind of dog is she?”
    â€œA 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.
    â€œSo 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