Mr. and Mrs. Bunny—Detectives Extraordinaire! (19 page)

He was trying to rip them in time to a little salsa ditty he had running in his head when the door opened and Mrs.
Ruskeebunny entered. She gave an ear-piercing scream and shouted, “What are you doing? What are you doing!”

“Ummm.” Mr. Bunny came to with a start and surveyed the mess about the shoppe. Well, maybe it wasn't such a good sport after all. It would probably never catch on like, say, tennis. “I think I may have gotten a little carried away. A little swept up in the moment. Anyhow, unimportant, what I came to tell you was that I would be driving Mrs. Bunny up to the parade if we come at all, so don't hold the bus for her.”

Mrs. Ruskeebunny looked at the torn-apart bonnets. “AAAAAA!” she screamed again.

It was at that exciting moment that Mr. Bunny, who was trying to figure out how to explain the complicated plot twists to Mrs. Ruskeebunny, froze completely; he wasn't quite sure he understood them himself—file cards and foxes and issues of
The Scientific Bunny
were jumbled in his head, not to mention the vision of himself standing on a podium receiving a large hero's medal from some hazy but important figure. His mouth worked, but no sounds came out.

He noticed that Mrs. Ruskeebunny was herself wearing a wholly intact rubber-lined bonnet. It occurred to him that if the rubber was the exploding type, it had had plenty
of opportunity to do so. They were probably safe with these bonnets after all. And yet, oddly, his fingers still itched to rip Mrs. Ruskeebunny's bonnet off her head and stomp on it. Perhaps he would need to join a support group.

“Um, nice bonnet,” he said, pointing to it. “Is it new?”

Mrs. Ruskeebunny just glared. Her expression was quite fierce. Mr. Bunny decided not to explain himself. He was short of time. He would leave the explanations to Mrs. Bunny. She was better at it anyway.

“I may have made, a, um, little mistake,” he said, backing toward the door. “But let me ask you this. I know you ladies enjoy making bonnets, but have you ever tried ripping them apart? It's strangely invigorating.”

“Little mistake?” Mrs. Ruskeebunny cried, advancing on him. “Look what you did to the parade bonnets! How do you suggest I repair them in time?”

“Krazy Glue?” asked Mr. Bunny, smiling nervously.

Then he decided it was time to go.

Mrs. Bunny was coming out of the hutch with some pancake batter when she spied a note on her door. Notes were
never good. She was getting sick of notes. She took it down and opened it with trembling fingers.

Since when, thought Mrs. Bunny?

“Rubber factory?” said Mrs. Bunny, and hopped like the wind across to Mrs. Treaclebunny's, where she banged on the door.

“Come in, come in,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “I'm just making myself some decent-tasting carrot loaf. Perhaps you'd like another cooking tip or two. Or a hospitality tip. Or a common decency tip. Or a good manners tip. Or …” She went on in this vein, calling out suggestions for tips over her shoulder as she hopped to her kitchen with Mrs. Bunny following.

No kitchen? Crackers by the bed? How Mrs. Bunny had been wrong!

Mrs. Treaclebunny had a kitchen larger than the Bunnys' whole hutch and filled with every appliance known to rabbits. A pasta maker and a KitchenAid mixer sat on the counter. There was a fancy Sub-Zero fridge, a restaurant stove and walls and walls of cabinets. There was a kitchen island with all kinds of built-in devices. There were bowls of fresh exotic fruit everywhere, and loaves of homemade bread, and windows looking out over the ocean.

“Rubber factory?” began Mrs. Bunny, and then something caught her eye. “Where did you get that?” She pointed to the bolts of rubber lining stacked in a corner. “Were you lining bonnets?”

“Oh no, I've been trying to get rid of this stuff for ages. Stinks. My dead-as-a-doornail-husband's company used to
make it, and it's been smelling up his factory basement forever. I sold the factory a few weeks ago on Craigslist. It couldn't have been easier until I got the email from the buyers insisting I remove the rolls of rubber from the basement. What a bunch of fussbudgets. I took it home but afterwards had a terrible time getting rid of the stuff. Smells so bad even the dump wouldn't take it. Then I heard the hat shoppe was calling for donations. Donations, I'll give them donations, I said to myself. Yuk, yuk, yuk.”

“
You
left the rubber at the hat shoppe?
You're
the anonymous donor?” asked Mrs. Bunny.

“Listen, take a few rolls with you. Can't beat it for wallpaper,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny.

“No, thank you,” said Mrs. Bunny, a tad icily.

“Line your pet's litter box?”

“Madeline doesn't use a litter box! The idea!”

“I hear it makes excellent soup.”

“Oh, now you're just being silly,” said Mrs. Bunny.

“It's delicious when sautéed.”

“Never mind that, does it explode?” asked Mrs. Bunny. She suddenly remembered the article Mr. Bunny was reading. Mr.
Bunny would never put two and two together like this. His brain was the size of a kidney bean.

“Do you
want
it to?” asked Mrs. Treaclebunny.

“Oh, for heaven's sakes, I take that as a no. Never mind. Listen, you didn't see the name of the new factory, did you?”

“Sure, it's not printed on the outside yet, but inside it says ‘Something something rabbit products and by-products.' Oddly, it's written in Fox.”

Mrs. Bunny leapt into the air. “You silly bunny!” she shouted. “Didn't you stop to think that you had sold your factory to a bunch of foxes who planned to TURN US INTO BYPRODUCTS? Wasn't the fact that it was written in Fox a
clue
?”

Mrs. Treaclebunny quivered. “I thought rabbit products meant products made by rabbits. And who the heck knows what by-products are? I did think it was odd that it was written in Fox. But, oh my, so much of life is inexplicable, don't you find? Oh dear.”

“Oh, you ridiculous bunny! Did you see a couple of humans tied up in the basement?”

“Like that wouldn't have gotten my attention. What do you take me for?”

“Let's not get into that now. There's no time to lose. We must get Madeline and go to the Bunny Council and press the panic button! I'm sure the foxes have hidden Flo and Mildred at the rubber factory.”

Mrs. Treaclebunny had always wanted to push the panic button. “Wahoo! I'll drive,” she cried.

“I didn't know you had a car,” said Mrs. Bunny.

“A scooter,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny.

“Get it and meet me at my hutch!” yelled Mrs. Bunny over her shoulder as she sped off.

“Who are Flo and Mildred?” cried Mrs. Treaclebunny.

“I'll explain later!”

Mrs. Bunny ran home and grabbed Madeline. “I know where the fox factory is! They've remade the old rubber factory. Your parents are sure to be there! Hurry!”

“Oh, Mrs. Bunny, if anyone were to find them, I was sure it would be you!” cried Madeline.

“Well, it wouldn't be Mrs. Treaclebunny, that's for darn tootin'! Now, let's just write a quick note to Mr. Bunny telling him where we have gone. Mrs. Treaclebunny is going to take us on her scooter. There is no time to lose!”

Out the door they flew to the road, where Mrs. Treaclebunny was waiting. Mrs. Bunny climbed into the scooter basket, and Madeline got on behind Mrs. Treaclebunny, who kept saying, “Who the heck is
this
?”

“We'll explain the whole thing on the way!” yelled Mrs. Bunny over the roar of the scooter. “There's no time to lose.”

Madeline lifted her knees high and off they zipped. Mrs. Treaclebunny was an intrepid driver. Mrs. Bunny's paws went right over her eyes. She and Madeline yelled the story to Mrs. Treaclebunny, who was very excited about her part in the rescue. She had visions of herself at a podium receiving a medal from some hazy but important figure.

When they got to the Bunny Council hall, all three of them leapt off the scooter. There was quite a skirmish over who would get to push the button first, but in the end they all pushed it, unwittingly setting off what was known in Bunny Emergency Preparedness as a Three-Push Alarm. Suddenly rabbits began pouring out of the police station, all suited up in hound costumes and donning large hound heads. Two fire trucks roared out of the fire station, their horns blaring the barks and howls of hound dogs. They went racing down
the road until they realized they didn't know where they were going, so they turned around and headed back to find whoever had set off the alarm.

“Where are they? Where are they?” called the heroic bunny hound patrol to Mrs. Treaclebunny, Mrs. Bunny and Madeline.

“Follow me!” said Mrs. Treaclebunny, who was intent on leading the rescue.

“Just give us the address, ma'am. We're professionals,” said the chief of the SWAT team.

“Turnips to you, mister,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “This is my case.”

“Technically this is my case,” said Mrs. Bunny.

“Will someone please just RESCUE MY PARENTS!” wailed Madeline.

“Wait a second,” said the chief. “We can't use the emergency teams to rescue a human.”

“She's my pet,” said Mrs. Bunny.

“And besides,” said Madeline, “the foxes are starting a rabbit products and by-products factory.”

“What's a by-product?” asked a SWAT team member.

“NEVER MIND WHAT A BY-PRODUCT IS!” yelled
Madeline. “CAN WE JUST GET GOING? THEY'RE AT THE RUBBER FACTORY!”

“TO THE RUBBER FACTORY!” shouted the chief, and off they all started again, hounds howling and barking from the loudspeakers and hound heads securely over bunny ears.

“Hey, you weren't supposed to give the address! This was my rescue operation! I want to be in front,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny to Madeline as she zoomed down the road, passing police cars and fire trucks and driving between cars and on the shoulder of the road until finally she was once again leading the way.

“Oh my saints, oh my saints,” chanted Mrs. Bunny through gritted teeth. She had her paws over her eyes, but she kept peeking out to find herself between a truck and a speeding car coming from opposite directions. “Mrs. Treaclebunny, nobody should drive like this. Even Mr. Bunny wouldn't drive like this.”

Mrs. Treaclebunny gave her a withering glance and gunned it.

Down in the factory basement, the Grand Poobah had been advancing toothily upon Flo and Mildred when a bevy of fox
waitresses appeared with trays of finger food that the Grand Poobah had forgotten he had ordered.

“Ah! Tea!” he said. And then, because breeding will tell, he had offered the trays to everyone, including Flo and Mildred, whom he still aspired to teach at least one word of Fox. By now it had become a personal challenge.

They were all having a delightful munch when suddenly there was the sound of dogs howling and barking.

“What's that sound, man?” Flo asked the Grand Poobah.

“Not ‘What's that sound,' you idiotoman. I said
‘Zamboosidoey
,' which means ‘Have a sandwich.' Now try it again.”

“No, I mean the barking,” said Flo.

“There is no barking. There are no dogs for miles around. Do you not think we would check before buying a factory? Now try it again,
‘Zamboosidoey.'
 ”

“I hear it, too,” said Mildred. “Dogs.”

“You wish,” said the Grand Poobah.

Just then, Frederick came barreling down the stairs, knocking foxes and their trays of finger food over in his haste. “Poobah! Poobah! HOUNDS! A FOX HUNT!”

“Curses! Frankie Fox, pack up the food in Tupperwares and let's GET OUT OF HERE!” yelled the Grand Poobah. “ME
FIRST!” and he ran up the stairs, followed by all the foxes except Frankie, who was frantically putting sandwiches into containers, until at last he fled as well.

“Now we'll never learn Fox,” whined Flo.

But then something even more astonishing happened. Dozens of hounds jumped out from every door and window. And oddly, they were all hopping. Leading the way down the stairs was Madeline!

“FLO!” she shouted. “MILDRED! You're alive!”

“Yeah, but man, like I said, I think I was just on the verge of a breakthrough in Fox. Like ten more minutes and I would have had it, man.”

“How did you know we were here?” asked Mildred, glaring at Flo. They had been tied back to back for several days and she had just about had it with him.

“It's a long story,” said Madeline, running over to untie her parents, and told them about Uncle Runyon's coma and the Bunnys. “But are you sure you're okay? I've been so worried!”

Then, remembering how worried she had been even a couple of hours previously, Madeline began to cry in relief. And once she started she couldn't stop.

Flo looked at her as if she were from the moon.