♫I wake up every morning♫
♫Stumble out of bed♫
♫Stretchin' and yawnin'♫
♫Another day ahead ♫

♫This Whigle takes the morning train♫
♫He works from nine till five and then♫
♫He takes another home again♫

High Stakes

Chapter 9

    I did have a plan, and I was sure it was a good one, but it was going to have to wait.  My belly was full and I was feeling pleasantly tired.  We headed back to my office where I settled in for a little nap and Morgan began to type up notes on the day’s progress.
    Morgan’s tap at my door roused me.  “Is there anything else you need me to do today?” she asked.
    “Shoving off early?” I yawned, stood up and stretched my legs.  I blinked a few times but couldn’t quite bring my eyes into focus.
    “Early?  It’s six-thirty.  I’ve been typing for hours while you…” she paused and I waited patiently, scratching my ears.  “Worked,” she concluded. 
    “Don’t you want to hear my plan before you go?” I queried.
    She shuffled her feet and glanced at the clock and the door.  She always seemed intimidated by my greatest ideas.  After a moment, she sighed and said, “Sure.”
    I patted the couch and motioned for her to sit.  As I paced the room, I explained how we would proceed with the investigation.  The problem was that we had no idea if anything was actually going on behind the scenes at Miss Steak.  So our first task was reconnaissance.  I intended to explore the kitchen while Morgan surveyed the wait staff.
    “How am I going to do that?” she demanded.
    “Simple,” I replied.  “You’ll apply for a job as a waitress.”
    Her jaw dropped and she stood up abruptly.  “You want me to do what?  Are you kidding?”
    I had an idea about her true concerns.  In an effort to reassure her, I said, “Don’t worry, Morgan.  I really think you could pass for a flewsie.”
    She stood there for several minutes, her mouth opening and closing silently, truly speechless.  Every now and then she would stop, look straight at me and shake her head.  Finally she found her voice. “I wish you were kidding.”
    “Make no mistake,” I said, and paused for effect.  Smiling, I continued.  “Now that was a joke.  Really, Morgan, you need to lighten up.  Mistake…Miss Steak?  Get it?  Don’t be embarrassed to laugh.”  I slapped her on the shoulder affectionately.  “Go on home.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning and we’ll get started.”

Chapter 10

    I arrived at the office early the next day and was rummaging through my disguises when Morgan arrived.  She was carrying a mug of coffee roughly the size of a wastebasket.  She looked exhausted.  Without a word of greeting, she flopped into one of my guest chairs and took a long draw on her java.  I gave her a once-over, determined her to be fit for service, and offered her a rawhide stick, which she readily accepted.
    “Long night?” I asked, and she shook her head dismissively.  She was obviously not in a mood for conversation, so I got straight to business.  “Okay then, when you are fully caffeinated, I want you to head to the restaurant and apply for a job as a waitress.  I’ve made up a resume detailing your experience.”  I smiled and handed it to her.  “Turns out you’re very well qualified and you have excellent references.  Tell them you want to start as soon as possible, that your rent is due or something.  Start tonight if you can.”
    She took another long pull on her coffee and sat up straighter, with a determined set to her jaw.  “Okay, give it to me.  What do I have to wear?” she asked, looking as though she’d resigned herself to something, what, I had no idea.
    “Wear?  What you have on is fine,” I replied.
    “No costume?  No stinky disguise?”
    I had known she’d be disappointed, but I hoped she wouldn’t take it too hard.  Staying in character was obviously stressful for her, so I’d decided that it would be safer for her to apply for the position as herself.  Of course her resume was fabricated, and if they called any of her references, they’d get me.  If for some reason she wasn’t hired, she could always try again as a border collie.
    “My role is a little more complicated,” I said, as much to myself as to Morgan.  “I want to convince Bullet that I’m a chef visiting from a foreign country.  I don’t want him to think I’m a competitor; I want him to be flattered that I’m coming to observe him.  But what would be the most convincing disguise?”  I donned a hat out of my box and opened one of my scent vials.  “Ut-way oo-day oo-yay ink-thay of iss-thay?”  I asked Morgan.  She sniffed the vial and squinted at me.  I made a mental note to remind her to make that appointment with her eye doctor.
“What the h-h-“ she coughed and continued, “are you supposed to be?  Was that Pig Latin?”  She looked at her coffee as though it might have been contaminated with something.
    I smiled winsomely and explained, “Italian Greyhound.  Italians are good cooks.”
    Morgan spoke very slowly and deliberately when she said, “Italians speak Italian.  No one speaks Pig Latin.”
    I didn’t bother to ask her to provide her source for that little nugget of information, and decided to let it go.  I had a better idea anyway.  I opened another little bottle and said, “Ma cherie, zee French are zee finest chefs.  Zurely even the madame cannot doubt zee French Poodle, ooh la la.”
    She didn’t have the chance to agree with me, because at just that moment, the door burst open and Samantha rushed in, shouting, “Mr. Lyle!  Mr. Lyle!”  Her eyes were wide and her fur disheveled.  She stopped abruptly and sniffed the air.  She glanced wildly around the room as though she couldn’t see either of us.  “M…m…Mr. Lyle?”
    “I’m right here, Samantha,” I reassured her, directing her to the chair opposite Morgan.  “What’s the matter?”
    She was breathing heavily and still appeared disoriented.  Suddenly, she looked me straight in the eye with an uncomfortably intense gaze.  “There’s been an attack at the restaurant.”