by Nic Saint
“Hey, come back here and apologize, you jerk!” Gran shouted, but the cat was gone. “What a shmuck,” she said. “Did you hear what he said?”
“Um, no,” said Chase. “What?”
Odelia’s jaw was still on the floor. No cat had ever spoken to her like that. And when Gran had repeated the cat’s words, Chase agreed he was a jerk.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Gran. “I’m sick to death of this place already.”
“Max!” Odelia hollered. “Dooley! We’re leaving!”
When no response came, she quickly jogged to the side of the house, but when she saw no sign of her cats, and they didn’t respond to more yelling from her part, she finally gave up.
“They’re probably halfway home by now,” said Gran, who’d joined her.
“Yeah, probably,” she agreed.
She got into Gran’s car and waved to Chase as they drove off. She couldn’t help feeling a slight sensation of unease, though. The same kind of sensation she got when something not-so-good was about to happen.
“I don’t like this, Gran,” she intimated as her grandmother steered the car along the road back to Hampton Cove.
“Yeah, me neither,” said Gran. “No challenge, huh? Way too easy.”
“I’m not talking about the case. It’s Max and the others. Where are they?”
“Like I said, on their way home. They got a lot less patience than we do, honey. They probably decided half an hour into the thing that it was a big old washout and decided to skedaddle. Cats are a lot smarter than us humans.”
Odelia nodded distractedly. In spite of Gran’s words she had a very bad feeling. Her stomach was in knots, and not the good kind of knots either.
Chapter 9
Cats can be difficult. For one thing, we don’t like the cold, but neither do we like the heat. Which is why, after having spent an hour soaking up the rays, both Dooley and I felt we needed a change of scenery. So we got up and went in search of a touch of shade, which we found at the back of the house. As is customary in the homes of the rich and famous, we fully expected to find a pool back there, or at the very least a nice jacuzzi. Nothing doing, though. The only thing Mr. Leonidas Flake had indulged in was… a petting zoo.
“Oh, cool!” said Dooley as we found ourselves staring out across a sea of barnyard animals. Even at first glance I could detect a donkey, complete with long ears and a dumb expression on its face, a couple of rabbits, a goat, a flock of sheep, a horse, and even a cow. The whole thing would have excited Noah.
“It sure beats the celebrity penchant for orgies,” I said.
“Or drug parties,” Dooley added.
As you can well imagine, in the course of our investigations we’ve seen our fair share of celebrity depravity, and to find a dead celebrity who enjoyed spending time surrounded by barnyard animals was a nice change of pace.
And as we went in search of a place to spend the remainder of our strike, we discovered that one section of the petting zoo was empty. There was the nice little patch of grass, there was the sturdily-built wooden house, and there was the bowl of water, accompanied by a similar bowl filled to the brim with nuggets of food. What there wasn’t a trace of was its occupant, whether large or small. So Dooley and I shared a quick glance of understanding, and we moved as one cat into this enclosure, took a sip from the water, took a few bites from the frugal meal, and took a peek inside the little wooden house to see if the owners weren’t home by any chance, and when we’d determined to our satisfaction that they weren’t, stretched out on the grass and dozed off.
It wasn’t until I felt a tickle in my backside that I woke up again. Glancing back, I saw that we’d been joined by… the Siamese cat we’d seen earlier.
“You Max?” the cat asked gruffly.
I answered in the affirmative, happy in the knowledge that my reputation had spread to these faraway parts of Hampton Cove. For a brief moment I experienced what every celebrity must feel like when someone asks for a selfie.
“Just wanted to tell you face to face that your days are numbered, fatso.”
I blinked, rudely awakened from my roseate dream of selfie-loving fandom. “Wait, what?” I asked. “What did you just call me?”
“What’s going on, Max?” asked Dooley, also waking up from his slumber. I’d never before realized how comforting petting zoos can be. You have your own little space, you have plenty of food and drink, and you get adoring fans who gather round to give you all of their love and affection—apart from the occasional prod in the ribs with a stick from a wayward child.
“You heard me,” growled the Siamese. He directed a nasty look at Dooley. “And you must be Dooley. You look even dumber than I thought you would.”
We both stared at him. He wasn’t a large specimen, but what he lacked in size he made up for in venom. “Who are you?” I cried, greatly disturbed.
“Name is Tank, and I’m here to tell you that there’s a new game in town.” He tapped his own chest for some reason. “Move over, bozos. Tank is here.”
“Tank?” I asked. “Your name is actually Tank?”
“You don’t look like a tank,” said Dooley.
“Got a problem with my name?” Tank asked in a challenging, macho way. Like a bully looking for a fight, which I guess he was.
“Oh, no, just an observation,” said Dooley.
“Yeah, we never met a cat named Tank before,” I said.
“Well, you met him now,” Tank growled.
“What do you mean when you say there’s a new game in town, though?” asked Dooley. “What game? And which town?”
Tank grinned, displaying some very sharp teeth. “Oh, you are dumb.” He tapped my chest, hard. If he’d expected me to roll over, though, he was mistaken. Not because of my extreme courage and superior physical strength, but because of my unique body type. I’m big-boned, you see, and Tank’s paw merely disappeared into those big bones of mine, which made a gentle ploinking sound, then wrapped themselves around his paw. Much like Jell-O. Yes, I know most bones aren’t made of Jell-O, but mine are, all right?
“My God you are fat!” cried Tank, then tapped my chest again. There was more ploinking and quivering as my body adjusted itself to his touch, and after a while I got quite tired of the whole experience and got up.
He must have been impressed by my sheer size, for he stopped poking me. I may not be strong, or courageous, but what I lack in bravery I make up for in size. Twice the size of Tank, in fact. And even though I’m as docile as a butterfly, size does tend to impress.
He took a step back, and eyed me from beneath glowering brows. “Tell your cronies Harriet and Brutus that from now on I’m the bee’s knees, okay? Odelia Poole’s reign is over. The name to remember is Christopher Cross.”
“I thought it was Tank?” said Dooley, curious.
“Chris Cross and Tank! We’re taking over!”
“So who is this Chris Cross?” I asked.
“Don’t you play dumb with me, Max,” he said, baring his teeth once more. “You know who Chris is—and you know who I am, too.”
Dooley and I shared a look, then we both shook our heads. “Never heard of you, I’m afraid,” I said.
“Or this Chris Cross person,” Dooley added.
“Oh, I see what you’re doing. Clever. Very clever. But psyching me out won’t work. Chris Cross is the best pet detective in the county—maybe even the country. So it’s goodbye to Odelia and Max and hello to Chris and Tank!”
“Hello,” said Dooley good-naturedly. “Nice to meet you, Tank.” He glanced around. “So where is this Chris?”
“We’re taking over the investigation,” said Tank, ignoring Dooley. “Just so you know.”
“That’s all right,” said Dooley. “We’re on strike anyway.”
Tank gave Dooley a strange look, then held up a paw, extended his claws and pretended to slice his own throat for some reason. “Game over,” he said, and then he was off, leaving us to stare after him.
�
��What was that all about?” asked Dooley finally.
“Beats me,” I said. “Something about Chris Cross and some game.”
“Do you think he understood why we’re on strike?” asked Dooley.
“No idea,” I said, and I plunked back down again.
“I like this strike thing, Max,” said Dooley, closing his eyes.
“I know. You said it before.”
“No, but I really like it.”
“Me, too, buddy.”
“Very relaxing.”
“Very.”
And then we slept.
Chapter 10
The next visitor who swam into our ken wasn’t the strangely rude cat who called himself Tank, but a timid white cat who looked as if she’d just seen a ghost. I’d opened one eye at the sound of something or someone slithering through the low grass, and found myself face to face with this new arrival.
“Hey, there,” I said good-naturedly, for my mood always improves when I can get some quality shut-eye. Plus, I was happy Tank hadn’t returned.
The cat stared at me with fear etched across her furry features. She was a very pretty, smallish cat of the Birman variety if I wasn’t mistaken. She also had a little crown on her head and a pendant around her neck that could have been a diamond. My guess was that she lived on the premises. And that her name was Pussy.
“Nice weather we’ve been having,” I said by way of introduction. Always a nice icebreaker. It didn’t work on this cat, though, for she continued staring at me as if I were some monster from the deep about to devour her whole.
“Do you live around here?” I asked, going for my second most popular icebreaker.
This time there was a response, as the cat nodded twice.
“Hey, that’s great. We’re just visiting,” I said. “Our human is an amateur sleuth and she’s looking into the death of the owner of this place. Did you know him?”
Again a quick nod.
Dooley, who’d woken up from all of my chattering, also opened his eyes.
“Hey there,” he said. “Nice weather we’ve been having.”
“Already tried that, Dooley,” I said from the corner of my mouth. “No dice.”
“Do you live around here?” he asked next.
The cat opened her mouth and said, in a squeaky voice, “I live here. What are you doing in Samson’s pen?”
“Samson’s pen? Oh, you mean this pen belongs to someone?” I asked.
“Who’s Samson?” asked Dooley, deciding to go for the direct approach.
“Samson is Gabe’s pet chicken,” said the cat, surprising us with her sudden eloquence.
“Pet chicken?” I asked.
She nodded three times. “She ran away last night. I should have known it was a bad sign.”
“Chickens do tend to run away,” I said, as if I were the world’s greatest expert on poultry, which I’m not. I haven’t met a lot of chickens in my time, or made friends with our feathered friends. Chickens tend to make themselves scarce when cats are around.
“So where did Samson run off to?” asked Dooley.
The cat shrugged.
“And why is Samson running away a bad sign?” I asked.
“My human died this morning,” she said, and looked as if she were on the verge of tears. “And then my other human was arrested for murder, and now it’s just me and a dozen staff and who knows what will happen next?”
“I guess the human that’s dead will stay dead and the human that was arrested for murder will go to prison,” said Dooley. “But that’s just a wild guess so don’t pin me down on that.”
“Dooley!” I hissed. “Can’t you see she’s distraught.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Dooley, horrified. “I didn’t realize…”
“It’s all right,” said the cat, her eyes downcast and her lips trembling. “Like I said, I should have seen it coming.”
“You mean with Samson running off and all?” I asked.
“Yeah, and with Leo and Gabe fighting all the time.”
“Yeah, that’s usually a bad sign.”
She’d plunked herself down in front of us, and seemed more amenable to chatting now. Always good to get this kind of stuff off your chest. And without boasting I can tell you that both Dooley and I are excellent listeners. That’s what you get from living with Harriet and Brutus: they’re excellent talkers and we’re excellent listeners. And so the world keeps on turning.
“So you’re Pussy, right?” I said.
She nodded. “That’s me. Lady of the house. Only now I’ll probably be foisted off on some relative. I’m not sure I will like that.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will,” I said, more as a blanket statement of consolation than because I had a clue of the inner workings of the Flake family dynamics.
She gave me a strange look. “I’m worth a great deal of money, you know. So whoever gets me, pretty much wins the lottery.”
“Is that right?”
“Well, at least I think I am. Rich, I mean. Leo always said that when he died I would inherit. Not sure if he decided to go through with it in the end.”
“From what I heard you inherit the lot,” I said. “At least if no will turns up.”
“That’s… gratifying, I guess,” she said. “Though money isn’t everything. I’d rather have Leo and Gabe back than to be the richest cat in the world.”
“Oh, no, sure,” I said, though I had no idea. I’ve never been the richest cat in the world.
“You also inherit the company,” said Dooley.
“Not sure what I’m going to do with it.”
“Can cats run a company?”
“I think it might be a little hard. After all, you need to be able to delegate, or get your instructions across, and in this world it’s tough to get a human to listen to you, much less do as you say. And then there’s the fact that I don’t know the first thing about designing, whether for the fall or spring edition.”
“Yeah, there’s that,” I muttered, not a clue what she was talking about.
“Anyway, I’m very glad you decided to listen to me,” she said, getting up. “It’s nice to have someone to chat with.”
“Oh, any time,” said Dooley. “We’re on strike right now, you see, so we have all the time in the world to listen to all of your gripes and thoughts.”
“Thanks,” she said softly. “So what are your names?”
“Max,” I said.
“Dooley,” said Dooley.
“Very nice to meet you, Max and Dooley,” she said with a smile.
“Likewise,” I said.
“Stick around. I have a feeling Samson isn’t coming back, so this pen is yours.”
“Thanks for the offer, but we actually have a home.”
“Not for long,” said Dooley with a sad glance at me.
“Yeah, not for long,” I said. “Our human is getting married soon, and we have reason to believe she’s going to chuck us out when she does.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” said Pussy. “It seems to draw us even closer together, doesn’t it? I’m without a human right now, and soon you two will be, too.”
We thought about this for a moment, and I had to swallow away a lump. I’ve never been without a human before, and the prospect didn’t appeal to me.
“Maybe we will stay here,” said Dooley. “At least for the time being, until Odelia figures out what she wants to do with us.”
I nodded my agreement. “We’ll hang around,” I told Pussy. “We’re in the same boat now, and we might as well stick together.”
“That’s so nice of you,” she said, and I could see that the prospect of having a friend in this, her hour of need, greatly bucked her up.
And as she returned to the house, a nice swing in her walk, I thought about the things she’d said.
“Do you really think she’ll inherit the Flake fortune?” asked Dooley.
“I doubt it,” I said. “Humans may be crazy, but no human is as crazy as that. No, he’ll probabl
y have set up some kind of trust fund with Pussy as the beneficiary as long as she lives. She’ll be well-provided for.”
“Unlike us,” said Dooley sadly.
“Unlike us,” I agreed.
And as we placed our heads on our paws again, enjoying the hospitality of the absent Samson the chicken, the thought occurred to me that maybe whoever Pussy’s new owners were going to be, they might be induced to adopt Dooley and myself and Harriet and Brutus. Unless Marge and Tex and Gran were up to the task, of course. Then again, maybe they weren’t. Taking care of one cat is one thing, or even two, but four? Not many humans were prepared to take their love of pets to such an extreme.
And as I drifted off to sleep, the words of Tank came back to me: your reign is over. It very well might be, whatever a reign was.
Chapter 11
Lauren Klepfisch had been watching the house from afar for the better part of the morning, when her trained eye spotted a van arriving and being let through the gate. “Film this,” she told her cameraman Zak Kowalski. Zak had been standing slumped against their news van, checking his phone.
He immediately hoisted the camera onto his shoulder and directed it to where Lauren was pointing.
The van carried a decal indicating it belonged to Christopher Cross, Pet Detective, and had a logo of a mean-looking Siamese cat as an added bonus.
Lauren’s eyes sparkled as she watched the van drive up to the house, the gate swinging closed behind it. She was a vivacious blonde, and very photogenic, too, which had earned her this job as a correspondent for WLBC-9, Long Island’s premier news network—all the news that’s fit to broadcast.
Zak put his camera down again. “Pet detective?” he asked. “What the hell is a pet detective?”
“Technically a pet detective is a detective who hunts down missing pets,” she said. “But get this. Chris Cross claims he can actually talk to his cat, and has enlisted him in helping find the pets they’re looking for. The cat talks to other pets, and relays the information to Cross. They’ve been at it for years.”