The Great Cat Nap

by A M Bostwick

  Or showpiece?

  What was the life of a show cat like? A bustling, busy reporter, I was lucky to find the time to groom my ears and shoulders every morning. My claws were often long and sharp, and I was rarely given a bath. Max would be a glutton for punishment to give me that kind of treatment.

  A cat who was on parade, on the other paw, was shampooed, groomed, clipped, glossed, exercised, and primped day after day after day. It sounded exhausting. Could a cat like that chase flies? Eat whatever he or she liked? Run down a mouse? Loll on the window for the afternoon? I wasn’t sure, most of my friends were house cats.

  Except for Angel of course. I remained friends with the high-class Persian after I brought her case to a close. Not only because she began to see a new light on cats who didn’t wear diamond collars, but because my two other good friends now resided in her expensive building—Ally and Peter. Formerly homeless sister and brother felines at a rundown trailer park, Ally and Peter were key in cracking this summer’s murder mystery. I adored the pair. I made a mental note to put Angel on my list of those I should interview about the case. I mean, story; she might know Ruby from the high-class pet salons.

  A loud bark broke me out of my trance; I immediately and instinctively arched my back like the traditional Halloween cat. My mental musings carried me well into the residential district, and I wasn’t paying proper attention. The homes here looked like they housed your typical two parent, 2.5 children families. Yards were neat and trim, sidewalks devoid of weeds.

  “Ace, is that you?” a gruff voice asked.

  “Farfel? Yes, it’s me.”

  Farfel was a large Saint Bernard. When I say large, I mean roughly the size of a small car. Farfel’s stature was intimidating and his near constant drool slightly nauseating, but his demeanor was friendly and kind. He often had the scoop on this neighborhood near downtown, and wasn’t surprised to see me wander into his territory once every few months for the lowdown.

  “It’s cold out for a guy like you,” Farfel said, coming to the gate of his fenced-in yard. Behind him, the Victorian house of his companions glowed warmly with lights and a television set. I could catch a waft of a late dinner cooking—Swiss steak and baked potatoes?

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said through the slats. “But I’m on official newspaper business.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Farfel’s ears pricked up with interest, his eyes glistening.

  “Have you heard anything about Ruby the Russian gone missing? A prize-winning cat, I understand.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have—” Farfel began.

  We were interrupted by the insistent yapping, however, of Fifi and Fluffi, two white miniature poodles from the house next door. The two were just let out of their own home and they ran across the yard, squeezing through the gate into Farfel’s enclosure. Farfel let out an audible sigh and looked towards the heavens as the two pink-sweatered pooches barreled toward us, competing for the lead.

  “What is it? What is it? What is it?” cried Fifi, leaping up and down.

  “Yeah, huh? Yeah, huh? Yeah, huh?” yipped Fluffi.

  They then commenced yipping in ear-splitting unison.

  “SHUT IT!” Farfel let out one, deep growl-bark, and the yapping ceased.

  “You don’t have to yell,” Fifi snapped.

  “No bones, Farfel,” Fluffi agreed.

  “We were having a conversation...” Farfel began saying, exasperated.

  “About what? What? What? What?” Fifi squeaked, jumping in place.

  “ZIP IT!” Farfel barked again. “Do you want your companions to call you in before you’ve gotten the scoop?”

  That shut them up.

  The three dogs looked at me.

  “I was just asking Farfel if he had heard anything about Ruby the Russian going missing.”

  The poodles exchanged glances, visibly let down the “scoop” involved a feline, not a canine. They’d much rather have heard the Collie down the street had gotten a cosmetic ear lift.

  Farfel ignored them, nodding grimly.

  “As I was saying—before being interrupted—I have,” the great dog said, casting a dirty glance at the nosy poodles. “It was just a few hours ago when my companions arrived home, and there was a knock at the door. I, of course, barked like the devil was there. Pam answered, and I noticed the woman at the door looked frazzled and upset. Pam asked how she could help, and the woman gave her a flier about this Ruby the Russian you speak of. The lady said her beloved cat had gone missing today, and it wasn’t like her to go anywhere because she’s an inside cat. Pam took the flier and said she’d be sure to call if she saw Ruby or heard anything.”

  “Did this lady give Pam her name?” I asked.

  “Yes. But I can’t quite recall it. It was something like Melanie or Marissa.”

  “I see.”

  “Pam did ask an interesting question,” Farfel offered.

  My ears twitched. “What was that?”

  “She asked the woman if Ruby had a microchip for tracking. Unfortunately, I guess Ruby just has the type of microchip that can be scanned at the vet or pound if she were found. It can’t actually be tracked,” Farfel explained.

  “How unfortunate, those chips are rare and pricey. Do you know if the lady went door to door?”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” quipped Fifi.

  “Uh-huh! Uh-huh! Uh-huh!” competed Fluffi.

  “She came to your house as well?” I asked the whining poodles.

  Fifi jabbed Fluffi in the ribs before pushing her face in front of her sister’s to command all of my attention.

  “That’s right. She came to our door just after Farfel’s and gave the housecleaning staff a flier, too!” she cried.

  Fluffi fought back and stuck her face in front of Fifi, nudging her aside.

  “FIFI! FIFIFIFIFIFIFI! FLUFFI! FLUFFIFLUFFIFLUFFI!” called a shrieking woman’s voice.

  “Gotta go!” they cried in tandem as they raced side by side, trying to beat each other through the gate and to their back door.

  “Isn’t that a shame,” I mumbled.

  “They give me a headache,” Farfel agreed. He let out a long breath. “Does that help you, Ace?”

  “It does. I’m much obliged, Farfel.”

  “You know, normally I wouldn’t give two dry dog biscuits what happens to a hoity-toity cat—no offense—but there was something in that woman’s eyes today that made me feel sorry for her. Let me know if I can help you in any other way. The owner loves that cat something fierce.”

  “That’s just why I’m out to find her, Farfel,” I said, turning back into the night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Inside the warm newspaper office, I clicked on Max’s computer. I waited as it groaned to life, then entered an online phone number directory site. I navigated my way to the reverse look-up section. Working on a keyboard with claws and paws was not altogether easy, but I managed. I poked out each number as though each key was a rodent I wasn’t quite sure was dead or just pulling my paw. Without too much fuss, I entered the entire phone number from Ruby’s flier into the search box, maneuvered the electronic mouse, and clicked the command “Go.”

  There was one hit: Horace and Madeline McMahon, 2479 Arbor Vitae Lane, Lakeville. Farfel had been nearly right when he said Melanie or Marissa was her owner. I clicked on the “Map” option to better see their location. Their home was near the Wisconsin River, not far from The Heights where Angel resided. These homes, however, were more like estates. If my memory served correctly, houses along Arbor Vitae Lane were located on at least five-acre lots with lush gardens, carriage houses, pools, and guest quarters. One wouldn’t find pink plastic flamingos stuck in their lawns. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Showing cats was a hobby for any level income, but the wealthier residents here in Lakeville were especially favorable of this craze.

  Next, I performed an online search of Ruby the Russian. An overwhelming amount of hits popped up, many from cat shows around the Midwest. Ruby ha
d taken first place at cat shows in Chicago, Madison, and Minneapolis. Images of Ruby showed her from demure and modest to playful and mischievous. I knew it was the mark of a great model to have so many convincing faces, but did Ruby enjoy life on the road?

  A website dedicated solely to Ruby the Russian featured a complete profile with her owners. A photograph depicted the happy family. Smiling, the man and woman were dressed in suits and holding their Russian Blue in a loving embrace. Ruby, stared into the camera, eyes unreadable but they looked content and serene. The profile went on to say she was born to two state championship-winning cats and came from a long family line of winners. At four years old, she was already a three-time national champ in her category. She’d also won six local and state titles during her lustrous career. Ruby was even featured in national cat ad campaigns promoting pet shampoos and fancy cat food. I shook my head. I was over five years old and hadn’t even won a journalism award yet. This cat was making tracks.

  Ruby had been shown since she was just six months old, I read. Acknowledged for her thick, velvety coat in shades of blue-gray, the regal Ruby had all the classic features of the coveted Russian Blue breed. The tips of her fur were slightly brushed with silver, almost like a sprinkling of powdered sugar. Her eyes were a signature dark green with gold flecks. She was truly a beauty, and I could understand why the judges lined up to pin ribbons on her idealistic appearance.

  I glanced at some of the prize categories. These cats won not only ribbons and prestige, but checks for hundreds, and sometimes thousands of dollars. Others, like Ruby, were offered photo spreads in national magazines or even television ads. For a feline like this, the offers likely poured in show after show.

  I scribbled down Ruby’s address with my dew claw before yawning and turning off the computer and desk light. I curled into a ball by the keyboard next to the still warm computer screen and questioned my motives. Was this just a story on my to-do list?

  Or something more?

  ***

  When I woke the next morning, drooling on the letters S and D, sunlight was spilling through the window. There wasn’t a cloud in the cornflower blue sky. It was setting up for a nice day, I knew I had best take advantage of the sunshine and venture to Arbor Vitae Lane. Weather could be a fickle lady in Wisconsin; shining one day and pouring rivers the next, or icing you out one minute then heating up the next.

  I shoved aside a stack of papers on Max’s desk. Neatness was not a strong suit of my fellow city editor. After unearthing and noshing on part of Max’s discarded day-old, sugar-coated donut, I left it all behind and darted out the extra large front mail slot. I stretched and breathed in the autumn air, its crisp tang filling my lungs. Slowly, I walked down the street to Sloan’s apartment. It was early, and I had my doubts he’d be awake at this hour after his romantic dinner date, but sure enough, there he was in the window, gazing out at the bustling downtown. I waved, and he grinned before disappearing. He came out around the side of the building and joined me alongside a crabapple tree still clinging to a few brown leaves and shriveled fruit. A robin, late in his winter departure, picked away at the remains.

  “I didn’t expect to see you this morning,” I admitted.

  “My date ended quickly last night. Whew. I don’t know. She’s a great cat and everything, but she wants to settle down. Have a few litters. I just don’t think I’m ready for that kind of commitment.”

  Getting attached to any of Sloan’s girlfriends was like getting attached to teenagers in a Friday the 13th movie. Within minutes, they’re gone.

  “You’d probably gain eight pounds and never touch your cat scratcher again,” I joked.

  “That’s one of my fears,” Sloan said with feeling. “I’m just too young for all this family talk. Anyway, tell me about you.”

  I lightly pulled my whiskers, clearing my thoughts. “I’m on a story. Going to check out Arbor Vitae Lane to continue looking into the unexplained disappearance of Ruby the Russian. Want to tag along?”

  Sloan sportingly agreed, and we set off. Along the way, I filled him in on the brief details I knew from the flier, the Internet, and from my discussion with Farfel, Fifi, and Fluffi.

  “Do you think Ruby was cat-napped then?” Sloan asked.

  “That’s what my instincts are telling me,” I said. “Here we have a rich house cat with no reason to leave the house other than her next grooming appointment or show. She only would have left crated with her companions. Why would she run away?”

  “Good point,” replied Sloan. “But it’s kind of a sinister notion, isn’t it? Why would someone steal a cat?”

  “I suspect Ruby is valuable. She is, after all, a prize-winning cat. Some of these larger cat shows garner thousands of dollars in prizes,” I explained. Sloan lifted an eyebrow. “Plus, the option of ransom. Perhaps she was stolen, not for her reputation, but to blackmail the family themselves. It’s the ideal motive.”

  “Now I follow. Is the family rich?”

  “Judging by where they live, they must have a sizable checkbook. I’m hoping we find some other friendly animals living there when we arrive so we can get the full story. Ruby went off the grid yesterday. If she was indeed stolen, I would expect a ransom note sometime today.”

  It took just under an hour for Sloan and me to reach our destination at a leisurely pace. Turning down Arbor Vitae Lane, we heard birds chirping, a leaf blower running, and the Wisconsin River gushing past. Small cities like Lakeville were known for their community members—members like these who lived and breathed the simple life that came with intimately knowing your neighbors, trusting them as your friends, and lending a hand when they needed you. Certainly this neighborhood, and Lakeville as a whole, would step up to help the McMahons in their time of need. I had to believe there was more good in these small cities than bad.

  “How are we going to do this, Ace?” asked Sloan, coming to a halt and breaking my thoughts. “We can’t just stroll down the sidewalk and up the driveway of Ruby the Russian. Her owners are up in arms about her mysterious and possibly criminal disappearance. We’ll be hauled off to the pound!”

  For such a cool guy, Sloan sure could lose his poise in a hurry.

  “Don’t fret, Sloan. We’ll stay hidden by sticking to the hedges until we get to the house. Then we’ll take cover in the landscaping until we can find some animal with information, or until we can enter the house.”

  “Enter the house?” screeched Sloan, looking at me like just suggested we board the doomed Titanic. “Perhaps I should explain some of the finer points of the American justice system to you, Ace?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “You didn’t mention this B&E back on Main Street! I’m too handsome to be behind bars.”

  “Come on, Sloan,” I grinned. “You agreed to come along. We’re best buddies.”

  “I’m afraid that’s just what a jury of our peers will think.”

  I ignored his panicked plea and took off under the guise of the abundant cedar bushes, well clipped and easy to run under nearly the entire way to McMahon’s mailbox. Gold numbers told us we’d arrived at our destination of choice.

  Ruby’s house was an expansive two-story: cream with green shutters and peach trim. The front door was entirely stained glass, a screened porch encircled the south side of the home, and the perimeter of the house was still flush with evergreens and late blooming flowers. Hardy white Shasta daisies, blushing mums, and butter-yellow marigolds lined the paved sidewalk. An extra large garage sat beyond the long, winding driveway. The backyard was neatly clipped and somewhat resembled a golf course. Taking in the scene, I considered our options: We could dart across the grass and take cover under the shrubs near the front door, then walk around the house to look for a point of entry. We could scurry a bit further and see if the garage held any clues.

  Or we could go home.

  I didn’t dare ask Sloan, still nervous about an impending criminal charge and animal lock up. For a cat so excited to embark on
another detective case, he was as nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof.

  “Let’s shoot for that large mum, the red one. We’ll take cover there, then circle the house for clues,” I told him. He nodded in reserved acceptance.

  Looking both ways, assured the coast was clear, we streaked across the lawn and tumbled under the flowering mum. This close to the house, we could now hear the hum of a woman as she worked, sweeping the floor. I believed we were near the kitchen, as I could also hear—and smell—an egg and bacon breakfast frying on the stove. I glanced up and saw a screen was open three windows down, letting in the clean autumn air. If voices were inside, they’d carry outside to our eager ears. I nudged Sloan and pointed to the window.

  “Let’s try to listen under it,” I suggested in a whisper. “We might get ourselves some answers.”

  “Or a lawsuit,” he muttered, then, finding his resolve, said, “Okay, got it. Let’s go.”

  Sitting under the window, we stared upward and waited. After about 10 minutes of clanking and clashing, a woman called, “Madeline? Breakfast is ready. Would you like it in the study?”

  Madeline evidently did not want the meal in her study.

  “I’ll take it here. Is there coffee, Tess?”

  “Of course. Sit, sit. Don’t worry so much, dear. Ruby will come home.”

  I exchanged an excited look with Sloan.

  “I didn’t sleep a wink all night. This is just awful,” the voice that was Madeline groaned.

  “Don’t pick at your food; eat it,” the maid, apparently named Tess, encouraged warmly. Was the term “maid” out of date? Perhaps it should be domestic assistant or something.

  “Ruby would never go off on her own like this. I’ve called all of the neighbors, been to nearly every home on the east side. Today I’m going to the west side,” Madeline said. I had a feeling it wasn’t the first time she’d gone over this statement.

  “Is that wise, Madeline? I don’t think Horace would—”

  “I’m going,” Madeline said resolutely. “I cannot just sit idly by and wait for a phone call.”