Rabbit Down the Hole

Having spent so many years in show business, Benny had seen worse elevators than this dumbwaiter. Still, he was worried. As a rule, he avoided kitchens. And the Hauntington kitchen was, according to the rat, notorious.

Benny hid in the basket of petals. If someone saw him, he’d be camouflaged—as an Easter Bunny. He gagged at the thought. Easter Bunny?! Never get him started on the Easter Bunny.

It wasn’t long before the dumbwaiter landed with a thud and Benny could see into the bustling kitchen.

In the center of the room stood the chef, a tough-looking woman in stiff chef’s whites, holding a cleaver high above her head.

Uh-oh.

The cleaver slammed down on the counter.

Then Benny saw it: the largest bowl of salad he’d ever encountered. It had everything: carrots, cherry tomatoes, water chestnuts, broccoli, cauliflower, bok choy. He was in heaven. Or fifteen feet away. He just had to get across the kitchen without being noticed.

“AAAAHHH!” a caterer screamed. “There’s a rat in the dumbwaiter.”

Benny thought about correcting him. In his line of work, the worst thing you could be called was a rat. However, explaining would likely make it worse.

He hopped over to the salad. If he was going down as a rat, he’d eat like a rat first.

The catering staff was so scared of this giant, elevator-riding rat that they all ran away. But not the chef. And she was fully capable of making rabbit stew all by herself.

The chef pointed her cleaver at Benny. “Don’t even try it.”

Just as the chef was about to pounce on the rabbit, Oliver threw himself between them and pulled Benny away from the salad bowl.

And Benny didn’t get a single bite of bok choy.

Worse yet, he had to suffer another hug.

“Everyone gets so emotional at weddings,” Benny complained.

Oliver was just glad to have his bunny back.

The chef put down the cleaver and clapped her hands to get Oliver’s attention.

“You! What are you doing in my kitchen? And why are you hugging that rat?”

“Aaack! A rat?” Oliver jumped back and scanned the room.

“Psst, she’s talking about me, dummy,” Benny whispered.

“Oh, you mean Benny,” Oliver said, relieved. “My bunny.”

“Well, he scared my crew half to death,” the chef said. “Now I’ve got to go collect those big babies. Don’t touch anything! Especially not the cake. I know how you kids love cake.”

As the chef walked out, Oliver could see the massive cake, in all its frosted glory, sitting in the open fridge.

“I guess nobody will notice if I take one bite . . .”

Oliver walked as if in a trance, not stopping until his nose was almost touching the multitiered, multiflavored mountain of his dreams. He decided he would take a sliver—just the tiniest morsel—from the bottom, where no one would ever look.

Cupping his hand, he attempted to scoop a handful of cake. He hoped the layer would be chocolate.

But it wasn’t chocolate—or any other flavor. Under the frosting, the cake was rock solid.

It was a fake cake.

Why bake a fake cake? Did someone make a mistake?

He stepped back and examined the cake with a critical eye.

“Benny, how many tiers was this cake supposed to have?”

“I don’t know,” grumbled the rabbit. “But if you don’t hurry up, I’m going to start shedding tears of boredom.”

Oliver wiped away a circle of frosting where he’d tried to get his piece. Underneath was a shiny black surface. He knocked on it. It sounded hollow. He knocked again. This time something very strange happened.

The cake knocked back.

Oliver’s eyes lit up. “Benny, I figured it out!”

He had cracked the case. Now all he had to do was crack the cake.