The Secret Laundry Monster Files Read online

  The Secret Laundry Monster Files

  John R. Erickson

  Illustrations by Gerald L. Holmes

  Maverick Books, Inc.

  Publication Information

  MAVERICK BOOKS

  Published by Maverick Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 549, Perryton, TX 79070

  Phone: 806.435.7611

  www.hankthecowdog.com

  First published in the United States of America by Viking Children’s Books and Puffin Books, members of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2002.

  Currently published by Maverick Books, Inc., 2013

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  Copyright © John R. Erickson, 2002

  All rights reserved

  Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-139-1

  Hank the Cowdog® is a registered trademark of John R. Erickson.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Dedication

  For Dedicated in loving memory to Ellen Erickson Sparks, my friend and sister, who died May 15, 2001. She liked old Hank.

  Contents

  Chapter One Flapping Sounds in the Night

  Chapter Two Unauthorized Rats in the Laundry

  Chapter Three We Discover the Ghost from Kalamazooooo

  Chapter Four The Laundry Monster

  Chapter Five The Case Goes Plunging in a New Direction

  Chapter Six The Mysterious Lost Candy

  Chapter Seven Okay, Eddy Tricked Me

  Chapter Eight It Was a Pickup, Not a Liberian Freighter

  Chapter Nine The Lovely Miss Trudy Arrives

  Chapter Ten Fresh Evidence of a Raccoon Attack

  Chapter Eleven The Toad Factor

  Chapter Twelve You’ll Never Guess the Ending

  Chapter One: Flapping Sounds in the Night

  It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. Being Head of Ranch Security is a full-time job and this time the call came in the dead of night. But before we get to that, I must pass along a very important piece of information. Please listen carefully.

  A dog should never fight a raccoon in the water. You know why? Because raccoons are excellent swimmers and pretty good fighters and terrible cheaters, and if they ever catch a dog in the water, they will try to drown him. No kidding. I mention this because it will come up later in the story.

  Just keep it in mind as this mystery unfoils.

  Now, where were we? Oh yes, the call came in the dead of night. I was in my office, as I recall, yes, in my office under the gas tanks. I was going over a stack of . . .

  Okay, I was asleep, might as well admit it, and there’s no shame in that. Most ordinary dogs sleep at night, and while I’ve never thought of myself as ordinary, I do require sleep from time to time. Even your Heads of Ranch Security need sleep.

  So I’ve admitted that I was asleep when Drover turned in the alarm. “Hank? Hank? I hear something out there. You’d better wake up.”

  I’m not in the habit of responding quickly to Drover’s “alarms.” He’s scared of the dark, don’t you see, and if I responded every time he got scared, I would never get any sleep.

  Let’s be blunt. He’s a little fraidy cat. Most of what he sees and hears in the night comes from his own imagination.

  So I said, “Leave me alerp. Go awonk. I’m in the midst of a snorking sassafras.”

  “Yeah, but I hear something out there, honest, and I think you’d better check it out.”

  “You go cherp it out. I’m bonkers . . . uh, busy. We can tonk about it in the honk. Morning. Go away.”

  There was a moment of silence. I thought he had given up. He hadn’t.

  “Hank, there it is again!”

  I raised my head and glared at . . . well, I couldn’t actually see him, it was so dark, but I glared into the darkness. “Drover, is this another one of your falsely phone alarms . . . phony false alarms?”

  “No, this one’s real. Listen.”

  I cranked up Ear Number One and opened the outer doors for Sound Gathering. At first, I heard nothing, but then . . .

  “Okay, Drover, I’m picking it up now. It’s a scratching sound.”

  “I’ll be derned. What I heard was more of a . . . a flapping sound.”

  “I hear scratching, not flapping.”

  “I’ll be derned. Can you hear it now?”

  I listened. “No. It quit.”

  “Oh, okay. That was just me. I was scratching.”

  “Stop scratching! Be still. Silence.”

  I moved Ear Number One back and forth. Sure enough, there it was—an odd flapping sound in the night. I cranked up Ear Number Two, opened outer doors, and set both ears to Maximum Gathering Mode. The sound came in loud and clear.

  “Drover, I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m picking up a sound out there in the darkness.”

  “Yeah, I know. I heard it first.”

  “It doesn’t matter that you heard it first.”

  “Well, that’s why I woke you up.”

  “You didn’t wake me up. I was going over some reports.” I pushed myself up on all fours and peered out into the darkness. “Where are we? What day is this?”

  “Well . . . I think it’s night, and that’s why it’s so dark. And we’re right here under the gas tanks.”

  “Yes, of course. It’s all coming back to me now. Were we just talking about something?”

  “Yeah. Those odd sounds out there in the dark.”

  “Ah, yes.” I cocked my ears and listened. There it was again. “Is that the sound you heard?”

  “Yep, that’s it. Are you proud of me?”

  “Oh yes, of course, very proud. And since you’re the one who turned in the alarm, maybe you’d like to check it out.”

  “Yeah, or maybe not.”

  “What?”

  “I said . . . maybe we could go together. I’d like that better. You know, teamwork and stuff.”

  “Drover, I haven’t slept in days. This job is wearing me down.”

  “Yeah, but I just woke you up, so you must have been asleep.”

  “I grabbed a tiny nap, Drover. I fell asleep over this huge pile of reports. This Ranch Security work never ends. Be a nice dog and go check this one out. I’ll be right here.”

  “Well . . . okay, I can try.” When I heard him take two steps, I collapsed into my gunnysack bed. But he didn’t go far. “Hank, there it is again, that sound, and I’m getting scared.”

  I lifted my exhausted body up from its former resting place. “Okay, spare me the muttering mum­ble. We’ll grumble together on this one, but I’m warping you, Drover. If my health bonks because of this, it will be on your consequence. Conscience, I should say.”

  “I can handle that.”

  “What? Speak up.”

  “I said . . . I just hope I can live with the guilt.”

  I yawned and stretched. “Okay, this will be a Silent Run. Stay behind me and rig for Night Vision. Let’s move out.”

  And so it was that we, the Elite Troops of the Security Division, left our warm beds and the comforts of home, and moved out into the screaming blizzard.

 
Wait. This was May. Forget the blizzard. No blizzard. It was a warm night but pretty dark, and into the darkness we crept—the Elite Troops of the . . . I’ve already said that.

  Did we describe the sound? Maybe not. Okay, here’s the scoop. Most of the sounds we pick up in the night fall into three categories: Your Howls (usually coyotes), Your Clanks and Bangs (usually raccoons in the trash cans), and Your Unclassi­fieds (usually monsters).

  This was sounding more and more like a Cate­gory Three: monsters. I’m no chicken liver when it comes to patrolling headquarters, but those Cat Threes cause me some . . . well, concern. Monsters are something to be concerned about, right? You bet they are, and right away I was feeling the little pinpricks of fear that often come with Category Three Monster Sightings.

  I didn’t dare mention any of this to Drover. It would have ruined him for the mission.

  We plunged on into the inky black darkness. My eyes and ears were on Full Alert by this time. We followed the sound in a northward direction, bearing two-three-three-zirro-zirro, up the caliche hill and toward the yard gate. By this time, I was getting more complete readings from our sensing devices. The sounds began falling into Subcategory One of Category Three: flapping.

  Flapping? That was odd. Sometimes we pick up a Sub One Cat Three during the daylight hours, and it always comes from one source: clothes flapping on Sally May’s clothesline. But this was the dead of night. I knew for a fact that Sally May never left her clothes on the line at night. Do you know why?

  I don’t. She just doesn’t do it, that’s all I can tell you, and I knew for sure that this mysterious flapping sound was not coming from her clothes. It had to be something else.

  We continued our stealthy march through the inky blackness, until I suddenly realized that we had . . . BONK . . . arrived at the yard fence. I, uh, picked it up on Smelloradar, don’t you see, when I . . . Okay, maybe I ran into the fence with my nose, but the point is that the fence was there and I found it, just in the nickering of time.

  I turned to my assistant. “Shhhh!”

  “I didn’t say anything. I think you ran into the fence.”

  “I know I ran into the fence, and I don’t need you to tell me. What do you suppose is causing that flapping noise?”

  “Well, let me think. Could it be clothes on the clothesline?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Sally May never . . .” I cocked my ear and listened. “It certainly sounds like clothes flapping, doesn’t it?”

  “It does to me.”

  “Hmmm. Very strange, Drover. It appears that we have no choice but to go in and check it out.”

  “In Sally May’s yard?”

  “Of course in Sally May’s yard. That’s where the clothesline is, so that’s where we must go.”

  “Yeah, but dogs aren’t allowed in the yard. We might get in trouble.”

  “That’s all changed, Drover. I’m putting the entire ranch under Marshal’s Law.”

  “Who’s Marshal?”

  “How should I know? Marshal Dillon. Marshal Art. Marshal Mellow. Take your pick. Do you want to sit here and discuss marshals, or get to the bottom of this mystery?”

  “Number one.”

  “Too bad. Saddle up, son, we’re going in. I’ll go in the first wave. You come in the second wave and guard the rear.”

  “I wish my rear was back in bed.”

  “What?”

  “I said . . . oh boy, oh goodie, guard the rear.”

  “That’s the spirit. Now remember, we’ll have to jump the fence. Can you do it?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Good, and make as little noise as possible. See you on the other side. Good luck.”

  Right away Drover started whining. “This leg’s killing me.”

  I ignored his complaints and began the Fence-Jumping Procedure: face fence, coil back legs, spring upward, hook front paws on fence, scramble up and over. I did it without a hitch, then paused and waited for Drover to . . . CLUNK . . . land on top of my head, the little goofus.

  I stuck my nose in his face. “Never land on your commander’s head, Drover. It’s very bad for morale.”

  “Well, you were in my way.”

  “It’s my ranch, Drover, and I’ll stand anywhere I please. We’ve got six thousand acres here. You’re free to land anywhere on the ranch except on top of my head. Is that clear?”

  “Well, it was dark. I couldn’t see.”

  “That’s not an excuse and this will have to go into my report.” I cut my eyes from side to side. “Drover, what did we come here for?”

  “Well, let me think. I can’t remember.”

  “This is ridiculous. We went to a lot of trouble to get over the fence. Surely one of us can remember why.”

  “Not me. I was happy in bed. Wait, hold it, I remember now. I heard flapping but you heard scratching, but it was only me and then you heard flapping too, and we decided maybe it was Sally May’s clothes on the clothesline.”

  “Not likely, Drover. As you may know, she never . . . Did we hold this conversation earlier in the evening?”

  “I think maybe we did.”

  “Ah. That accounts for my feeling of déjà voodoo.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It means that we have already discussed this, only we were both half-asleep.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Exactly. There are no flapping clothes, Drover, and we have entered the yard on a fool’s errand.”

  At that very moment, we both heard a sound that was clear and distinking. Without a doubt, it was the flapping of clothes on a clothesline. The mystery had just taken a turn in a new and sinister direction.

  Chapter Two: Unauthorized Rats in the Laundry

  By this time my head was clear of Post-Sleepal Vapors and my ears were alert to every tiny sound in the night.

  Flap, flap, flap.

  Those were not tiny sounds. They were loud, sharp reports that perfectly matched our profiles of flapping clothes. I turned to Drover. I could barely make out his profile in the starlit darkness.

  Hold it. That wasn’t Drover’s profile. It was a fence post, which meant that I couldn’t make out his profile in the starlit darkness. At last we were making some progress.

  “Drover, are you there?”

  “No, I’m over here.”

  I whirled around. “Okay, are you there?”

  “No, I’m here.”

  “Here, there, it’s all the same, as long as you’re where you are.”

  “Well . . . I am where I am . . . I guess.”

  “Great. Nice work. Okay, listen up. It appears that Sally May left her laundry on the clothesline overnight. At this point, we don’t know why, but I’m beginning to smell a rat.”

  “They must have been pretty dirty.”

  “What?”

  “The clothes. She had rats in her clothes.”

  “She did? Why wasn’t I informed? Drover, I can’t run this ranch without a constant, reliable stream of information. Do you realize what this tiny clue has done?”

  “Not really.”

  “It explains why she left her clothes on the line all night. She found rats in her laundry basket. Don’t you get it? She’s airing out her laundry. That explains everything.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a cat.”

  “Wrong, Drover. They were rats—unless you’re changing your report. You said they were rats. Make up your mind. Were they cats or rats?”

  “I’m all confused, but I see a cat.”

  I squinted into the darkness. It was very dark. I decided to try a trick question. “What color is the cat?”

  “Let’s see. Dark.”

  “Ah! I’ve exposed an inconsistency in your argu­ment. For you see, Drover, it’s impossible to see a dark cat on a dark night.”

  “Yeah,
but I see one. And listen. Now I can hear him . . . yowling.”

  I probed the dark yard with my Earatory Scan­ners, until . . . “Holy smokes, Drover, it’s a police siren! Someone must have called the cops and they’re coming to back us up. Boy, we’ve blown this thing wide open.”

  “I think it’s the cat . . . yowling.”

  “Quit talking nonsense. I know a police siren when I . . . Wait a minute, hold everything. Unless I’m badly mistaken, the sound we’re hearing is actually the yowling of a cat!”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You see, at certain stages and levels, a cat yowl is indesquishable from a police siren. That’s a cat you’re hearing, Drover.”

  “Yeah, I know. I wonder who it could be.”

  “Exactly. And now all we have to do is determine who it might be—and find out why he or she is lurking in the yard. Step aside, son, I’ll handle this.” I pushed Drover out of the way and marched straight . . . “Uh . . . where was this cat? I seem to be having a little trouble . . .”

  “Over there. To your left. Follow the yowl.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do. Of course I’ll follow the yowl.”

  I followed the yowl, using a technique we call Yowl Folleration. You home in on the sound, don’t you see, and follow it to the source. At the end of every yowl is a yowling cat. To dogs with very sensitive ears, it’s as easy as following a piece of string.

  I followed it, and sure enough, at the end of the string of sound, I discovered . . . a cat.

  Pretty impressive, huh? You bet. I not only dis­covered an unauthorized cat lurking in the yard, but within seconds I had given the little sneak a positive identification. You’ll be shocked.

  It was Pete the Barncat.

  I marched up to him. “Okay, Pete, your little game’s over.”

  “Well, well, it’s Hankie the Wonderdog. What took you so long?”

  “We do thorough investigations, Kitty, and they take time. You can leave now. We know all about the rats in the laundry.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes. Go back to bed and stop yowling. We’ve got this case under control.”