Now what do I do? I wonder. If Leo were here, he’d bravely climb the fence to snoop into the backyard. If Becca were here, she’d go boldly up to the front door and ask questions.
But I’m scared to climb into a strange yard, and talking to strangers makes me nervous. I ride my bike past the house, so slowly I might as well be going backward. It’s a dead-end street, so when I reach the end, I turn around and bike past the blue house again. I can’t just keep riding back and forth, but there aren’t any willow trees to hide under.
So I hide in plain sight; a clever spy strategy I learned in Surveillance Techniques and Strategies. I stop two houses away across the street, and fiddle with my bike chain like it isn’t working right.
As I wiggle the bike chain, my hair falls over my face and I study the blue house. No open curtains or activity outside. But what’s happening inside? Has Ali Baba been returned or is the pet-napper on his way? All I can do is wait and watch. But after ten minutes, I’m tired of waiting.
It’s time for bold action. I push my hair from my face and get ready to bike across the street. But the front door suddenly opens and a stocky man in a big western hat steps out of the blue house.
“Glad I could help, ma’am.” His deep voice has a Texas twang that carries across street.
“You were so kind to bring him home,” a middle-aged woman with black hair piled high on her head says. She follows the man down the porch steps, a chocolate-brown dog wagging his tail after her.
Ali Baba! I think excitedly.
The man moves toward the brown Toyota with a rolling stride like he spends more time on a horse than in a car. I look down when his gaze shifts over to me. I let my hair fall over my face again, a convenient camouflage for sneak-watching.
Don’t act suspicious, I remind myself. You’re just a kid out riding and you’re checking your bike chain.
“I wish I could do more for you,” the woman calls from the porch. “Thank you so much.”
“I should be the one thanking you,” he says humbly with a pat on his pocket—right where a man usually keeps his wallet.
“Money can’t replace a family member.” She pats the dog beside her. “It’s wonderful having Ali Baba back.”
“Mighty glad to help out, ma’am.” A Texas-sized bunch of keys on a silver key chain jangles as he unlocks his car. He turns back to wave and I gasp at the web of spider tattoos trailing down his right arm.
He’s part of the pet-napping ring—and he’s driving away!
Hopping onto my bike, I follow that car.
I pedal faster than I ever have, maybe even faster than Gran Nola when she competed in that big race in France. I focus on the bright red frame around his license plate. When Tattooed-Guy slows to make a right turn, I read his license plate: 3UWG382. I repeat it over and over in my head since I don’t have a pen or paper. What kind of spy am I? I should have thought this through.
The Toyota gains speed, leaving me in his exhaust. I choke on fumes and my chest burns. The car slows into another right turn, blending into busy traffic. I’ve lost him.
“Drats,” I mutter. At least I know what he looks like and I have his license number. But I have no clue how to track him down.
I consider going back to the blue house and explain that Spider Tattoo Guy is a pet thief. But what if Ali Baba’s owner doesn’t believe me? She might even slam the door in my face.
No one would slam a door in Becca’s face. And Leo would know ways to track someone down with a license plate number. I miss my friends.
Sighing, I turn my bike around and head back to Gran’s.
Dad’s waiting for me when I roll up the driveway. I put the bike back in the garage, hug Gran Nola and Handsome good-bye, then follow Dad out to the car. I’m surprised he’s not mad that I wasn’t here when he showed up, but he’s whistling to himself—something he hasn’t done since moving to the apartment.
“Have a nice bike ride?” he asks as he starts up the car.
“Um … yeah, I guess.” I click on my seatbelt. “Sorry I took so long.”
“Oh, I didn’t mind. I always enjoy talking with Nola. She has a great idea for improving my cream croissants and she gave me a lead on a bakery job.”
“She did?” Instantly my mood shifts to hopeful. “If you get it, we could leave the apartment and buy a new house where we can keep Handsome.”
“Whoa, Kelsey.” Dad tousles my hair. “I don’t even have an interview yet. I’ll find out on Monday. Keep your fingers crossed.”
“I’ll cross my fingers, my toes, and everything.”
“Even your eyeballs?” he teases. “I’ll call you Cross-Eyed Kelsey.”
I groan but he just chuckles.
He’s reversing out of the driveway when I hear a shout and look over to the porch where Gran Nola is waving her phone.
“Call for Kelsey,” she hollers.
“I’ll just be a sec,” I tell Dad and hop out of the car.
“Who is it?” I ask Gran, taking the phone from her.
“She didn’t say.” Gran Nola shrugs. “All she told me was that she’s returning your call about a calico cat.”
- Chapter 21 -
Mysterious Mama Cat
“Hello,” I say, pressing the phone to my ear. “I’m Kelsey.” My heart pumps so fast I’m dizzy.
“You called about my cat?” an elderly woman asks in a suspicious tone.
“I found your lost cat flyer and recognized the cat. Well, not her exactly … but her kittens.”
“What kittens?”
“Your cat … Violet’s … kittens. I know where they are,” I add, aware of Gran’s curious look.
“There aren’t any kittens,” the woman states with such certainty that for a moment I’m not sure if I have the right cat. But I remember Violet’s topaz eyes and know I’m not mistaken.
“I’ve seen them and they’re supercute,” I insist in my kindest voice. When I tell her I think Violet is dead, it’s going to be a shock for her. “There are three kittens and one of them looks just like Violet.”
“Is this a new trick to con money from me?” she demands.
I reel back like I’ve been slapped. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“That’s what the man said too, until he asked for a reward. He told me he had my cat and her kittens—but I knew he didn’t have my sweet Violet. I didn’t believe him when he said there were kittens and I don’t believe you.”
“But your cat was pregnant when she went missing,” I point out. “She would have had her kittens by now.”
“If she did, they were born dead because Violet showed up last week alone. And my cat would never desert her own kittens. Don’t call me again.”
The woman hangs up.
Gran has a questioning look when I hand her back the phone.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” she asks, slipping her arm around me. “I won’t interfere if you don’t want me to, but I’m here for you.”
“Thanks, Gran. But this isn’t about me. A friend of mine found some kittens.” Close enough to the truth. “And I thought they belonged to the woman on the phone but she doesn’t agree.”
“What do you think?” Gran Nola asks.
“I think the kittens are hers. But she doesn’t believe me so I can’t do anything about it.”
“You and your friend will think of something,” she says, giving me a hug.
Unlike my grandmother, Dad believes he should know everything about his kids.
“What was that all about?” Dad demands as I join him in the car.
I have secrets to keep so I tell him the short, mostly true story about trying to help a friend find the owner of some lost kittens. When I finish, he says he’s proud of me for trying to help a friend. Then he goes back to whistling.
When we get to the apartment, I rush for th
e phone. I may not be in a club anymore but I need to let Leo and Becca know that Mama Cat is still alive—unless I have the wrong cat.
But the clues add up:
The ages of the kittens fit.
Violet was missing when they were born.
She returned right before we found the kittens.
Her topaz eyes are identical to Honey’s eyes.
According to my calculations (as Leo would say), I’m 99.9% sure Violet is Mama Cat. Besides, this gives me a good reason to call Becca. Once we’re talking, I’ll apologize for telling Leo she kissed Skeet.
But then I think about the kittens and anger rises up again. How could Becca give them to strangers? She didn’t just break up the CCSC—she broke her promise to keep our kittens a secret.
So I call Leo.
He answers right away but I can’t hear what he’s saying over the loud voices in the background.
“Leo, turn down the TV,” I say, raising my voice.
“I can’t …” I hear a door open then shut, and the background noises stop. “Is this better?” he asks.
“Yeah. What were you watching?”
“Actually, it wasn’t the TV.” A pause. “It’s my parents.”
There’s something troubling about his tone. “Are you okay, Leo?”
“Yes, it’s just hard to hear you when they’re yelling, so I had to go into the closet to talk.”
“Oh, Leo. I’m so sorry. My parents argue sometimes but then they make up and are closer afterward.”
“Mine argue more than sometimes. They’re like two objects with net electric charge that repel each other,” Leo says. “That’s why they work long hours—to avoid each other.”
“But they’re avoiding you too, which is just wrong,” I say angrily. I understand even more why the CCSC meant so much to Leo.
“I’m used to it,” Leo says sadly. “So, why did you call?”
I tell him about my day: finding out about Mama Cat, spying on Spider Tattoo Guy, and chasing after him on my bike.
“It’s physically impossible to catch a car with a bike,” Leo says. “But it’s cool you tried.”
“And now my leg muscles hurt. It was crazy to follow a car on a bike.”
Leo laughs. “If that was on video, you’d get over a million hits.”
“And die of humiliation. But I was able to get the license plate. Can you track down a name or address from a license plate?”
“Not without breaking all kinds of laws by hacking into the DMV.” He pauses. “I’ll look into it.”
“And I’d like to look at your bird-drone photos again. I have a feeling there’s a clue there I missed.” I hesitate, trying to connect the thoughts bouncing around in my head. But the memory is like a bubble that’s already popped.
“I’ll email the photos since it’s like a war zone here right now.”
“Maybe you should come over here,” I offer, feeling bad for him.
“I can’t leave my parents alone or it could get ugly,” Leo says like he’s joking but I worry he’s serious.
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You’ve already done it.” I can hear a smile in his voice. “You called me.”
I print out Leo’s photos, and bring them to my room. I spread the aerial photos out on my desk. I’m like a giant looking down at a dollhouse world of tiny yards, roofs, patio furniture, cars, barbecues, sheds, and even a few people. There’s a clue in here somewhere, I think, tapping my fingers on the pile of photos. But I don’t see anything unusual. What am I missing?
Since I’m trying to solve two mysteries, I make two lists in my notebook.
PET-NAPPING CLUES:
• There are at least three thieves in the pet-napping ring: Spider-Tattoo Guy, an old lady, and a Santa look-alike.
• 3UWG382 is the license number on the brown Toyota.
• Only pets with rewards are returned quickly.
CAT-DUMPER CLUES:
• Violet disappeared five weeks ago.
• Kittens were born four to five weeks ago.
• Violet returned a week ago.
• The kittens were found in dumpster a week ago.
• A man called wanting a reward for Violet and kittens.
I read through the list a few times, sorting through facts and suspicions. One event jumps out at me—the man asking for a reward for Violet. I have it under facts about the kittens but it would also fit under my list of pet-napper clues.
That’s when it hits me—I don’t have two separate mysteries.
I have one. And Mama Cat is the connection.
Piecing together my clues, I try to imagine what happened.
A man—who might be part of a ring of pet thieves—stole or found Mama Cat. He hoped for a reward but instead—surprise! A litter of kittens. The kittens were about four weeks old and healthy when we found them, so they hadn’t been away from their mother for long. But why would pet thieves raise kittens instead of returning them? Or were they waiting for the owner to offer a big reward? Only Mama Cat found her way home.
“And the pet-nappers dumped the kittens,” I mutter angrily.
I’m more determined than ever to track down the pet thieves.
Leo’s photos are the key, I think as I flip through them again. I don’t see anything unusual but the feeling of missing something is stronger than ever.
So I go over to my closet and pull down my spy pack. Unzipping a side compartment, I pull out my magnifying glass. Feeling a bit like Nancy Drew, I hold the glass over each photo, studying each object: flowers, a swimming pool, barbecues, swings, bikes, toys, ponds, cars, garages … wait a minute!
What’s that black shadow?
Holding the photo in the light, I can clearly see the shadow is actually a black tarp. And it covers a large round object as big as a car. It is a car! Silver glints from a bumper peeking out below a brown dented trunk. I can’t read the license plate but it’s framed in bright red—like the Toyota I chased today.
Could it be the same car?
- Chapter 22 -
What Kelsey Found
I don’t need to ask Leo who lives in that house. I’ve biked past it so many times I recognize the blue Honda in the driveway and the empty spot reserved for a white animal control truck.
But why is Spider Tattoo’s car hidden in Officer Skeet’s backyard? I can’t think of an innocent explanation, only a terrible suspicion. Is Officer Skeet part of the pet-napping ring? An animal control officer knows all about missing pets. Officer Skeet’s too nice to be a suspect. I’d rather suspect his no-good nephew.
Still, I can’t be sure the brown car is the same one I followed.
There’s only one way to find out—return to Willow Rose Lane.
It’s too late tonight, so I plan to go in the morning. And a smart sleuth knows it’s safer to bring back-up, so I zip off an email to Leo.
Spying in the morning. Meet under our tree.
Leo will be excited when I tell him about the hidden getaway Toyota.
I should tell Becca too, but I’m sure she’ll hang up if I try to call her. And if I email her, she’ll probably delete it. And when she finds out I suspect both Skeet and his uncle, she’ll really, really hate me. But she needs to know who owns the kittens. She may hang up, delete me, and post online that I’m her worst enemy ever. But I send an email to her anyway.
It’s hard to sleep that night, ideas and clues racing through my mind. I dose off then wake up again after midnight. The next time I wake up it’s almost two o’clock. Finally at five fifty, I give up on sleep. I have places to go and people to spy on—so I dress quickly and grab my spy pack.
My family always sleeps in on Sunday morning so there’s no one to question me when I tiptoe down the hall wearing a black hoodie over a black T-shirt and
black jeans. I stop by the computer to check my email, fingers crossed there’s one from Leo. But nope. I email him again, urging him to meet me soon.
A stakeout is more fun with friends.
The morning air is chilly and I shiver inside my hoodie. I unlock my bike from the rack outside our apartment then head toward Willow Rose Lane.
Dawn casts a grayish haze over the streets like I’m riding into a cloud. As I pedal, I think about the photo with the brown Toyota. Was it really the same car? The photo was taken from a distance so all I could see was a corner of a brown trunk, silver bumper, and a red-framed license plate. Did I leap to the wrong conclusion? Maybe because I dislike Skeet and want to prove he’s guilty? Because with proof of his guilt, Becca would have to forgive me and admit I was right.
But what if I’m wrong?
I’ll find out with the help of my spy pack.
The biggest problem will be getting close enough to see the license plate. I’ll have to climb up on the fence and lean over really far. What if someone sees me on the fence? That’s why I need Leo as a lookout.
Only when I reach the willow tree, no Leo.
I wait and wait and wait. Finally, I give up.
Leo isn’t coming.
I’m on my own.
A blue Honda and county truck are parked in Officer Skeet’s driveway. If I’m lucky he’s still sleeping. I only need a quick look over the fence, then I’m out of there. Easy-peasy.
A porch light shines golden across the driveway and lawn. I don’t see any lights from inside the house, so I hide my bike between the two vehicles on the driveway.
I scan the area to make sure no one is watching, then I creep over to the high wall surrounding the yard. It’s formidable and the gate is locked. I’ll need to climb on a section of wall that’s covered with spiraling star jasmine vines to get a look at the license plate.
Getting a hold of the vines isn’t easy. My hands scrape on the prickly branches that aren’t sturdy enough to support my weight. I dig my feet into the vines, inching my way up. I grit my teeth to keep from crying out when a sharp branch jabs me. I don’t let go, though, and cling to the branches. My foot slips and I start to fall, flowers spilling around me, one into my mouth that I spit out. I keep grasping at flowery vines, pushing up until I feel solid wood beneath my stinging hands.
The Curious Cat Spy Club Page 11