by Nic Saint
Purrfectly Hidden
The Mysteries of Max 16
Nic Saint
Puss in Print Publications
Contents
Purrfectly Hidden
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
About Nic
Also by Nic Saint
Purrfectly Hidden
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Life had been going swimmingly, as life usually does in Hampton Cove, when suddenly disaster struck. Odelia had scheduled a surprise visit to Vena Aleman. Vena is our local vet, and a master at inflicting pain and suffering. And as it happens she was about to have a field day, for I’d been troubled by a toothache, and this fact had not escaped Vena.
So when those awful abductions happened I should have seen them coming, but I was still under the influence of my pain meds. Is it any wonder, then, that Dooley and I were captured by those awful catnappers? I blame Vena, to be honest, though of course that fiendish woman would deny all responsibility, and blame everything on the bad guys.
Add to that Grandma Muffin stomping at the bit to pick a fight with Tex, Odelia chasing the story of a lifetime when the local sausage store ran out of sausages, and you can see why I felt compelled to share these harrowing events with you, dear reader. Will there be a happy end, you ask? Well, that would be telling, wouldn’t it, and I’m not a spoilsport.
Prologue
Marge loved these quiet mornings when she had the house all to herself. Tex and Vesta were at the office, and so were Odelia and Chase, and the cats were probably next door having a quiet nap, or out in the backyard wistfully gazing at the flock of birds occupying the big cherry tree. It was a gorgeous morning, and she enjoyed it to the fullest. She’d vacuumed upstairs and downstairs, had put in a load of laundry and was busy in the kitchen, humming along with Dua Lipa’s latest hit blasting from the speakers, when suddenly the kitchen tap sputtered and hissed, then gurgled up a small trickle of brown water and promptly died on her.
“Dang it,” she muttered as she tried the tap again, with the same result. She stared at the recalcitrant thing for a moment, hands on hips, willing it to work by the sheer force of her willpower, but faucets are tough opponents, and it decided to stay dead instead.
She heaved a deep sigh and called her husband.
“Hey, hon,” said Tex as he picked up. “I’m with a patient right now. Can I call you back?”
“It’s the kitchen faucet. It’s broken.”
“Broken, huh? Okay if I take a look at it tonight?”
“Yeah, fine,” she said and disconnected. She thought for a moment, then went into the laundry room. It had been conspicuously quiet in there, and she now saw that the machine had stopped mid cycle. And when she opened the tap next to the washer, it was as dead as the one in the kitchen.
Ugh.
She returned to the kitchen and stood thinking for a moment, wondering whether to wait for Tex, but then her eye caught the pet flap Tex had installed in the kitchen door, the one that had cost him a week to put in place and for which he’d needed the help of her brother and Chase to finish, and she picked up her phone again and called her mom.
“I’m busy,” said that sprightly old lady. “What do you want?”
“I’ve got a problem with my plumbing,” she said.
“Ask Tex. He’s the expert. And wear adult diapers.”
“Not my plumbing, ma. The plumbing of the house.”
“In that case diapers won’t do you any good. And nor will Tex.”
“You don’t think Tex will be able to fix it?”
“Honey, that husband of yours can’t even change a lightbulb without taking down the entire grid. Why don’t you call Gwayn Partington? He’s a licensed plumber.”
“And an expensive one. What about Alec?”
“Forget about it. He’s in your husband’s league.”
“Chase?”
Mom was quiet for a moment. She might not be a great fan of Tex or even her own son Alec, but she had a soft spot for her granddaughter’s boyfriend. “Now I wouldn’t mind seeing that man in coveralls and a wrench in his hand. Or even without coveralls and a wrench in his hand. Though I’m sure he would do just fine without the wrench.”
Both women were silent as they contemplated the image of Chase Kingsley, dressed only in a wrench. Then Marge shook herself. It wasn’t right to think of her potential future son-in-law that way. “Is he any good at plumbing, that’s what I want to know.”
“No idea, honey. But he can always come and clean my pipes, if you know what I mean.”
Double ugh.
“Gotta go,” said Mom. “Some old coot is yanking my chain. No, the doctor won’t see you now, Cooper! You’ll have to wait your turn!” she cried, then promptly disconnected.
Next on Marge’s list of people to call in a case of an emergency was her daughter Odelia. Before she hired an expensive plumber and spent good money, she needed to exhaust all other—cheaper—possibilities, like any responsible homeowner would.
“Hey, Mom,” said Odelia. “What’s up?”
“Does Chase know anything about plumbing?”
“Does Chase know anything about plumbing? Well, he is pretty handy.”
“Yes, but can he fix the plumbing?”
“Honestly? That exact theme never cropped up in any of our conversations.”
“But what do you think?”
“I think you better ask Gwayn Partington. He’s a licensed plumber.”
A deep sigh. “Fine.”
What good was it to have three men in the family when none of them could fix the plumbing? Maybe Odelia should have dated a handyman, not a cop. But her daughter was right. Why postpone the inevitable? So she dialed Gwayn Partington’s number and was gratified when the man picked up on the first ring.
“Hi, Gwayn. Marge Poole. When do you have time to take a look at my plumbing?”
“I could come over right now, if you want. I had another job lined up but that fell through, so…”
At that moment, her phone warned her that Odelia was trying to reach her, so she said, “One moment please, Gwayn. It’s my daughter. Yes, honey?”
“I just called Chase and he says he doesn’t know the first thing about plumbing and you better ask an expert if you ever want to enjoy the blessings of running water ever again.”
“Thanks, honey,” she said, and switched back to Gwayn. “Harrington Street 46. Yes, I’m home.”
Ten minutes later Gwayn’s van pulled to a stop in front of the house and when she opened the door she felt she’d done the right thing. Gwayn Partington did look amazingly capable, with his blue coveralls and his metal toolkit. At fifty he was pudgy and balding and maybe not the image of male perfection Chase Kingsley was, but at least he would get her faucets all working again, even though he might charge a small fortune.
And as he got down to business in the kitchen, she watched with an admiring eye h
ow he didn’t waste time. He fiddled with the tap, then disappeared underneath the sink for a moment, messed around there for a bit, and finally muttered something incomprehensible, took his toolkit and stomped down the stairs and into the basement.
Moments later he was stomping up again, went to grab something from his van and when he returned, soon the sounds of a hammer hitting a brick wall could be heard. Like a regular Thor fighting the demon that had messed up her plumbing, Gwayn swung a mean hammer.
No. This was not a problem Tex could have solved, or Alec, or even Chase.
And as she picked up a copy of Women’s World, a holler at the front door made her put it down again. “You’ve got mail, lady!” the new arrival shouted.
She smiled as she got up to meet the mailwoman in the hallway.
“Hey, Bambi,” she said as she joined her.
Bambi Wiggins had been their mailwoman for years, and was never too busy for a quick chat. And as she talked to Bambi about the new baby, and Bambi’s husband Randi, suddenly a scream rose from the basement. Marge exchanged a look of concern with Bambi, and then both women were hurrying down the stairs. And as they came upon the licensed plumber, who was holding his hammer and chisel and staring at a hole he’d apparently made in the far wall, she asked, “What’s wrong, Gwayn?”
The man looked a little greenish, and stood gnawing nervously at the end of his chisel. Already she knew what was going on here. He’d been a little hasty and had made a hole in the wrong place, possibly knocking out a load-bearing wall or a vital part of the house’s plumbing system with one ill-advised blow of his hammer. And now, unlike Thor, he was too stunned and embarrassed to admit it.
And as she went in for a closer look, she suddenly halted in her tracks when her gaze fell upon a sight that couldn’t possibly be real.
There, sitting and staring at her with its big sockets for eyes, was… a skeleton.
“Oh, my God,” Bambi cried. “Marge. You’ve got a frickin’ dead body in your wall!”
And so she had.
Chapter 1
We were holding a war meeting in our war room. Well, maybe not a room, per se, but at least a war bush. Dooley, myself, Harriet and Brutus, the four cats that are part of the Poole family feline household, sat ensconced behind the tulip tree at the back of Odelia’s backyard for this most important meeting. As befitting a war meeting of the war cabinet in the war bush, there was only one item on the agenda. A very important item.
Mice.
Yes, you read that right. I had called this most urgent and all-important meeting to discuss rodents. You may have seen them scurrying around in your basement or your attic, or even, for the more daring ones, in your kitchen, where they try to steal a piece of cheese, or, let’s not limit ourselves to the clichés, a piece of beef or a slice of apple pie. After all, mice will eat almost anything their little hearts desire. As long as it’s not too heavy they will carry it between their tiny rodent teeth and make off with it before you realize it’s missing.
“We have to do it,” said Brutus now, though he didn’t seem entirely happy, just like the rest of us.
“I don’t know, Brutus,” said Harriet. “I don’t like the idea of murder. And let’s face it, that’s what this is: pure and inexcusable homicide.”
“Not homicide, though,” I said. “Homicide means the murder of a person. A mouse is not a person. It’s a rodent, so technically we’re talking about rodenticide.”
“I don’t care what you call it, Max,” said Harriet. “It’s still a crime against humanity.”
“Again, not a crime against humanity. Rodentity, possibly, if that’s a word.”
“I don’t like this, Max,” said Dooley, using a favorite phrase. “I don’t want to kill mice. Mice are living creatures, just like the rest of us, and we should let them live in peace.”
“Look, I’m all for letting mice live in peace and harmony,” I said, “but the fact of the matter is that Odelia has given us an assignment, and we owe it to her to carry it out.”
“First off, it wasn’t Odelia that gave us the assignment,” said Harriet. “It was Tex. And secondly, what can he do if we simply refuse to carry out his orders? Punish us? Hide our food? I don’t think he’ll do that, you guys. Tex is a doctor, not a monster.”
“It wasn’t just Tex,” I said. “It was Marge, too. And I didn’t hear Odelia or Gran or Chase complain when they told us to ‘take care of the mouse problem,’ did you?”
“If they want the mouse problem taken care of, they should do it themselves,” said Harriet stubbornly. “We’re cats, not hired assassins.”
“It’s common knowledge that cats catch mice,” I explained.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It isn’t!”
“I’m not a killer, Max,” said Dooley. “And I don’t want anything bad to happen to that sweet little mouse.”
“I don’t want anything bad to happen to the mouse either!” I said. “But it needs to go.”
“So what if some nice Mickey Mouse chose Odelia’s basement as its new home?” said Harriet. “Odelia should be happy. She should be glad. She should roll out the welcome mat! A new little friend for us to play with, and a source of joy for the Poole family.”
“The mouse has been stealing food,” I pointed out.
“Because it’s hungry!”
“Maybe Odelia could feed it?” Dooley suggested it. “I wouldn’t mind sharing some of my kibble with a sweet little Mickey Mouse.”
“It’s not a sweet little Mickey Mouse!” I said. “It’s a thief, and if there’s one there’s probably others.”
“I don’t see the problem,” said Harriet, shaking her head. “I really don’t.”
“Maybe we should go and talk to the mouse,” Brutus now suggested.
“Exactly!” cried Harriet. “If Odelia really wants that mouse to behave, we should talk to the mouse and make it see reason. Tell it to say no to stealing. Reform. But then we also have to talk to Odelia and make her see reason, too. Tell her to adopt the mouse.”
I rarely put my paws to my head but I did so now. “Adopt the mouse!” I cried.
“Why not? The Pooles love cats, why can’t they learn to love mice, too?”
I leaned in. “Because they specifically told us to get rid of them!”
“We could always ask that sweet little mouse to move,” Dooley now suggested. “That way we don’t commit mousicide, and the Pooles will still be happy.”
It seemed like an acceptable compromise, though I could tell Harriet wasn’t entirely happy. “I’m still going to have a crack at Odelia and make her see the error of her mouse-hating ways,” she said now.
“I think you’re wrong,” I said, drawing a hissed hush from Brutus. Never tell Harriet she’s wrong, he clearly meant to say. But I was getting a little worked up myself.
Harriet drew her nose closer to mine, her eyes like slits. “And when have I ever been wrong about something?” she asked now.
She was going full Terminator on me now, and I almost expected her to shed her white furry skin and reveal the metal exoskeleton underneath.
“Okay, fine,” I said, relenting. “But let’s first have a chat with the mouse. And then you can have a crack at Odelia and the others.”
“Great,” said Harriet, smiling now that she’d gotten her way. “Let me talk to the mouse first, though. I’m sure I can convince it to play ball.”
“What ball, Harriet?” asked Dooley, interested.
“Any ball!”
“You would expect that with four cats on the premises this mouse would have chosen another house to make its home,” said Brutus.
“Maybe mice are not that smart?” Dooley suggested.
“Oh, I think mice are very smart,” said Harriet. “Just look at Jerry. Jerry tricks Tom every time.”
We all fell silent. In feline circles mentioning Tom and Jerry is considered sacrilege. A cat consistently being bested by a silly little mouse?
That show has given cats a bad name. It has made people see us as lazy, dumb, vindictive, vicious and downright nasty. No, Messrs. Hanna and Barbera have a lot to answer for, let me tell you that.
We all moved back into the house, single file, then passed through the pet flap. As usual I was the last one to pass through. There’s a silent understanding among the Poole household cats that I always walk through the pet flap last. I’m big-boned, you see, and sometimes the flap refuses to cooperate with my particular bone structure. And as this impedes the free passage of my fellow cats, I’m always last. It was so now, and wouldn’t you know it? I got stuck just as I tried to squeeze my midsection through that darn flap.
“Um, you guys?” I now called out. “Can you give a cat a helping paw here, please?”
“Oh, Max, not again!” cried Harriet, sounding exasperated.
“It’s not my fault Odelia keeps feeding us primo grub!” I said.
We’d recently been catnapped, Dooley, Harriet, Brutus and I. In fact the entire cat population of Hampton Cove had been catnapped, and after that, to add insult to injury, we’d all been forced to eat vegetarian for a while, on account of the fact that the local populace had discovered they’d been fed cat and even human meat for a long time, an important ingredient in the local delicacy, the Duffer. The Duffer is—or was—a popular sausage, and its creators had taken a few liberties with food safety laws. As a consequence all of Hampton Cove had gone on a veggie kick, which hadn’t lasted long.