CHAPTER 16 THE PROBLEM WITH THE POOL

THE PORCHES CLUNG to Millicent as they soared through the sky on the back of her aircraft, a machine that they would soon come to know as THE FLYCYCLE. It was a sort of flying motorcycle in the shape of a housefly, with an abdomen of bolted black steel and translucent wings that were made of, ironically enough, flyswatters. The Prismuth cage dangled below, catching on the tops of oaks and pines as they buzzed past.

“Please forgive the state of my Flycycle!” Millicent screamed into the whipping wind. “I know it needs a good vacuuming, but there was no time to waste!” Millicent reached into her side bag and handed the Porches their lab coats. “Here! You’ll need these!”

“I’m sorry we didn’t come this morning—we were trapped!” screamed Gertrude.

“I figured!” Millicent shouted through the swirling air. “Well, first I thought that you had abandoned me and hated me! Then I wondered if perhaps something had gone wrong and you didn’t completely hate me after all! So I thought I’d come see for myself!”

“I went to see the mayor! I made it worse!” Gertrude shouted into the wind.

“I know! It’s okay!” Millicent shouted back.

And that was that.

Gertrude was petrified of falling off, of course—Flycycles lack seat belts and other general safety features—but she allowed herself to unsqueeze her eyes just long enough to look down on the whole of Antiquarium.

Look at me. I am actually flying, she thought, and smiled wide to greet the sky. For how often can a young person say that about themselves?

But this was no time for wonder. There were dogs to rescue, vaults to keep locked, towns to save.

A moment later, over the ridge of a battalion of pine trees, the Antiquarium Fairgrounds came into view. An emerald Ferris wheel kissed the clouds. A cerulean swimming pool rippled gently in the warm breeze. A brass marching band beat their drums and blew their tubas as they weaved through the cheering crowd. A bandstand was flanked by rolling flags bearing the town bird of Antiquarium, the white dove.¹

Millicent turned to her pupils. “I’m going to land in that forsythia bush across the street. I’ve piloted this Flycycle dozens of times but have never once landed it without a major accident. I’m sure it will be fine, right?”

The Porch Sisters were still plucking forsythia buds from their hair when, across the street, the marching band played its final note, at which time the boys banging the bass drums all took it upon themselves to do long, mismatched solos.

Gertrude surveyed the scene through the branches of forsythia: hundreds of Antiquarians were shouting gaily, packed like pickles around the bandstand, which sat just to the right of the main attraction…

THE DOG SHOW RING…

… a circular pen surrounded by a high wrought iron gate. The bars were just far apart enough that you could watch a dog beauty pageant through them, but just close enough to prevent the contestants from escaping, should a giant dog-eating worm happen to crash the party.

Suddenly, the crowd erupted into thunderous applause, and Majestina DeWeen took to the stage. She wore a long, luxurious overcoat of white fluff so reminiscent of a bichon frise that one had to wonder if the coat was perhaps, in fact, made of them.

“I know, isn’t it fabulous!” she said, running her hands over her coat while the crowd roared. “When at a dog show, dress as the dogs do, yes?!”

The crowd laughed at their glamorous mayor. Gertrude hung her head. Why hadn’t Majestina believed her?

“Thank you all for coming to this fabulous affair, organized by the Bichon Frise Enthusiast Club of Antiquarium. They asked if I’d emcee—and how could I say no to my favorite dogs that happen to also be the only dogs allowed in Antiquarium? Why, I love them so much, I’m wearing them!”

The crowd laughed nervously.

“Kidding! Obviously! No bichon frises were harmed in the making of this gorgeous garment!”

“Poodles, on the other hand…,” Eugenia murmured.

“We’re going to get started soon,” Majestina continued, “so would all our canine contestants and their handlers please enter our show ring here…?”

The Porches watched in horror as the thirty or so contestants, Aunt Desdemona and the seven Lavinias and their seven bichons among them, filed happily into the pen, whereupon Ashley Cookie, Esq., closed the gate and fixed it with a heavy iron padlock.

“I can’t believe we’re going to all this trouble to save the Lavinias’ dogs,” Eugenia griped, though of course she knew that they were also going to the trouble of saving the Lavinias, and the rest of the town besides.

Lavinia-Steve clutched her bichon and looked around in bewilderment, sensing that something was not right inside that pen. Why, for instance, did a show ring need to be padlocked shut?

“Alright,” Millicent said, “let’s load up the Flycycle. Pupeels, take up your ropes. We must be ready with our Prismuth cage at a moment’s notice.”

Dee-Dee was distracted by a rustling behind her, and she turned to find a black-cloaked figure hauling her precious Prismuth cage toward the swimming pool.

“Stop!” Dee-Dee cried. “My baby! My rainbow baby!”

The cloaked figure’s hood blew off, and Gertrude saw a clear plastic bathing cap underneath—DR. WATERS’ TREATMENT FOR CHRONIC LICE—CAUTION—TOXIC—and knew in an instant who had run off with the cage:

It was of course

none other than…

… you guessed it…

… say it with me…

… all together now.…

Three…

Two…

One…

MRS. WINTERMACHER.

Member Number Five hurled the Prismuth cage into the pool and laughed maniacally as it sank to the bottom.

Gertrude paused to consider her joke. What was so funny? Why would Millicent and her pupils be thwarted by having to pull a featherlight cage from the bottom of a pool that was only three feet deep?

But then again… why was Millicent sinking to the ground and screaming “Noooooooooooooo!”?

Gertrude thought maybe she was being sarcastic—but then Eugenia did the same, banging her fists on the sidewalk and crying. Even Dee-Dee, who had never been angry in her life, clutched her cowboy hat to her chest and screamed in agony. What was Gertrude missing? She stared pleadingly at Mrs. Wintermacher.

“Chlorine! Hahahahahaha!” laughed the lice-ridden villain.

Gertrude was still lost. “Yes, but, um, what about it?”

“Look at what’s happening to your precious cage in the chlorine!”

Gertrude watched as the strong right angles of the Prismuth rectangle crumpled listlessly into a limp pile on the bottom of the pool.

“Chlorine makes Prismuth as limp as spaghetti! Remember?”

Now, if you’ll recall, earlier I did mention that chlorine changes the molecular structure of Prismuth and makes it ultra-malleable. (See here if you don’t believe me.) How malleable, exactly? Though it doesn’t sound very technical, it has been determined that Prismuth soaked in chlorine has the exact malleability of cooked spaghetti.

This is the tragic flaw of a Prismuth cage: Any run-of-the-mill municipal pool can spell its instant demise.

“I did my research on Prismuth last night,” said Mrs. Wintermacher. “After I heard you’d be here with a Prismuth cage.”

Gertrude stiffened. “Who told you that?”

“My friend Majesti—” Mrs. Wintermacher stopped herself. “I mean, my friend Susan.”

Gertrude’s knees buckled.

She had told Majestina about their plan to trap the Kyrgalops with a Prismuth cage.

And Majestina had told Mrs. Wintermacher.

And Mrs. Wintermacher was part of the KRA.

Did that mean… could it mean… that Majestina DeWeen was… was…?

There was almost an audible whoosh: the sound of the bottom falling out of the world.

Dizzy with confusion and disbelief, Gertrude stumbled through the crowd to the edge of the bandstand, where Majestina DeWeen was belting a big-band number:

Tiny little dogs

White and fluffy dogs

Thank gourdness they’re not bats or cats

Or rats or mice or frogs

We love their perfect fur

Whiter than a dove

Trim them like a topiary

Shower them with love

And shampoooooooo.…

Gertrude collapsed onto the lip of the stage and bellowed with all her might.

“STOP! THE! CONTEST!”

The crowd went silent. Majestina stared down at the young troublemaker. She smiled and waved her finger back and forth.

“Now, now, Miss Porch. Don’t be a Silly Sally.”

Gertrude knitted her brow. I thought that was just something Grantie Lettuce says.

Gertrude was about to shout again when a single piercing scream erupted skyward from the crowd like a Roman candle.

Then another.

Then the frantic clacking of heels.

Then the frantic barking of dogs.

Then the frantic wailing of Antiquarians—

Then a roar.

THE KYRGALOPS HAD ARRIVED.

Footnote

1 One really ought to know that the technical term for this bird, bred specifically to look fancy when let out of boxes at weddings, is “the albino release pigeon.”