The Great Cat Nap

by A M Bostwick

  “Great lead, Lily. Thanks,” I said, rueful that I’d never met this alleged great source before.

  She smiled proudly.

  “Angel thinks Ellin had a real jealous streak when it came to Ruby,” I told my friends. “She said Ellin looked at Ruby with nothing but contempt. That’s a direct quote.”

  Lily looked worried, and Sloan’s expression reflected the same.

  ***

  Just before the downtown clock struck six times, Sloan and I followed the back alley in the direction of the quilting store. I knew most of the dogs and cats within the vicinity of downtown, but I never met Birdie. According to Lily, she enjoyed anti-hairball cat treats, catnip mice, and only ventured outside the confines of her apartment in a carrier for routine vet check-ups. We came to the steps leading to the back apartments—there were three—and looked at each other.

  “Do you think it’s safe to awaken an older cat at this hour?” asked Sloan. “It didn’t go so great the last time we woke up a few cats.”

  “Sure. Older cats need less sleep, right?” I reasoned.

  “Since when?”

  “I’m just trying to make sense of why we got up so darn early.”

  Padding up the steps, we pushed open an entry door and were faced with two doors and a hallway. Apartment 2A was on the left. A recently-delivered copy of The Daily Reporter sat waiting outside the door, its fold still crisp. I pawed lightly on the door, then we waited. And waited. I pawed louder. Silence. I could have knit three potholders in the time we spent sitting there.

  “Maybe she’s not home,” Sloan finally suggested.

  “Where would an elderly cat go this early in the morning?”

  I was considering rescheduling this unannounced visit when the door knob jiggled a few times and popped open. On top of a hall table sat a plump calico cat with soft, graying eyes and a short, stubby tail. Her focus narrowed in on us and widened with interest.

  “May I help you?” she asked loudly.

  “Hello, ma’am. Name’s Ace, and this is Sloan. Our mutual friend, Lily, said it would be okay to visit you this morning,” I said.

  “Speak up, boy. What about a space loan?”

  Birdie’s ears were angled towards us. She must be hard of hearing. I exchanged a look with Sloan.

  “NAME’S ACE. THIS IS SLOAN. LILY SAID WE COULD TALK TO YOU.”

  “Oh, Lily! Yes, such a dear, she is. Come in, come in. You should have knocked,” Birdie purred in a broken tone, hurdling down from the table, grabbing the newspaper with her teeth, and pulling it inside.

  “Let me help you with that,” I said, taking a corner and eyeing Max’s byline on the front page, above-the-fold article regarding a recent city council vote. This article would incite the mayor—but like Max always said—if the government was happy with you, you weren’t doing your job.

  The apartment was decorated with stylish, modern pieces. If it were 1950, that is. Birdie’s companion was also getting on in years. She had a near indecent amount of crotchet doilies, covering practically every imaginable surface. The place smelled of stale bread and peppermint tea.

  “I like your writing, dear,” Birdie said to me.

  “I didn’t know you knew me,” I said, surprised.

  “What? You have a flea? Because if you do...”

  “I DIDN’T REALIZE YOU KNEW ME,” I shouted, patting my chest in a poor attempt at sign language.

  “Oh! Yes, yes, Ace. I know everyone. Especially the animals and their owners,” she replied smugly. “Can I offer you an armchair to scratch? A drink from the water bowl? It’s fresh this morning. I only drink my water fresh—”

  “NO THANKS. I WAS HOPING YOU COULD HELP ME WITH A STORY I’M ON,” I hollered.

  “No need to yell, darling. What kind of story? Is it scandalous?” she asked, leaning in my face. Her breath was hot and smelled of mushy, wet senior cat food.

  “Ruby the Russian, a prize-winning cat, has gone missing. It’s possible she was cat-napped. I’m trying to establish an alibi for a possible suspect. This is all off the record, ma’am,” I said. Beside me, Sloan nodded. “I never reveal a source.”

  Birdie squinted and said, “What about Russian spies gone swimming?”

  I sighed. This was going to be a long conversation.

  “RUBY THE RUSSIAN IS MISSING. I NEED TO CONFIRM AN ALIBI,” I relayed at the top of my lungs.

  “Ruby! Yes, that lovely feline. I heard about her disappearance days ago—” Birdie began.

  “Yes, as did I,” I tried to cut off what I felt was headed towards a long story.

  “—I follow all the lovely cats in those fancy feline magazines and what with Ruby being local and all—”

  “Yes, yes, so—” I began again.

  “—in my day, I could have won a few blue ribbons myself, I have no doubt—”

  “DO YOU KNOW ELLIN FROM DOWNSTAIRS?” Sloan interjected.

  “—I wasn’t always this large around the middle...” Birdie paused, mid-pat of her ample tummy, and looked at Sloan, her eyebrows crinkling. “Don’t think I don’t know about you and your many dates, young man.”

  Sloan’s eyes widened in abashment.

  “THE QUILT STORE OWNER, ELLIN. WAS SHE WORKING OCTOBER 8TH BETWEEN 7 AND 11 A.M.?” I shouted, coming back to the matter at hand instead of Sloan’s late night trysts.

  “Is that the day Miss Ruby went astray?” Birdie asked me.

  “Well, I never,” Sloan huffed. I ignored his indignation.

  “We feel Ruby may have been stolen,” I ventured to the aging cat.

  “I’m not stalling, dear. Now I asked you a question. Is that the day Ruby was misplaced?”

  “YES. ELLIN IS HER COMPANION’S SISTER. WAS SHE HERE THAT MORNING?” I yelled.

  Birdie may have been darn near deaf, but her mind and memory seemed intact. She thought for a moment, seeming to reel back her recollection of that fateful morning. Watching the comings and goings of downtown was this cat’s life.

  “No.”

  “NO? ARE YOU SURE?” My voice was starting to go hoarse.

  “Sure as the feathers are yellow on a goldfinch in summer,” Birdie said. “I awaken every day at 5 a.m. and sit on my cat perch to watch the people leave their apartments for work, and others who arrive for work downtown and to open up shop. October 8 was an unusual day for one reason, and one reason only.”

  Birdie paused dramatically.

  “Tell me,” I urged.

  “What about a tree? I’m telling a story here, shush,” Birdie scolded. “Ellin did not arrive at 7:45 as she usually does. No, siree. She did not arrive until 11:45. I remember because I had fallen asleep on my perch waiting, and her car door slammed, waking me up.”

  “I can’t believe a car door would wake her up,” Sloan whispered to me.

  Birdie squinted at him but apparently had not heard his comment. I could tell she wanted to, but couldn’t, reprimand him.

  “Oh, I don’t hear everything, but loud, sharp noises, I do. Ellin slammed that door that morning like she was mad at it,” Birdie assured us, nodding. “Her hair was out of place, and she had a right mean scowl on her face. Something had gone amiss in her day. Now, I don’t like to gossip like those canines down the way, but if I am to answer your question honestly, Ace, Ellin was not where she should have been that day.”

  The information troubled me. Ellin was late. Ellin was never late. Ellin had no alibi. Ellin had a bad morning October 8th. The only question now was the question reporters asked everyday: Why?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sloan and I were not able to leave Birdie’s apartment politely without first hearing of her early kitten-hood followed by a series of fortunate events that led her to live in Lakeville’s finest Main Street apartment overlooking all of the city’s best action. She then went on to introduce us to her prided hand-sewn catnip mouse collection provided by her owner each holiday. The threadbare and well-worn mice had names like Teensy, Weensy, Oopsie, and Poopsie. My mind was numb a
nd reeling by the time we shut the door to Apartment 2A.

  “That cat could talk the ear off a yak,” Sloan sighed as we quickly slipped down the steps.

  “I’D HAVE TO AGREE WITH YOU THERE, PAL,” I screamed. “BUT AS DETECTIVES WE HAD TO REMAIN RESPECTFUL TO OUR SOURCE.”

  “Hey! You can speak at normal volume now, Ace,” Sloan recoiled.

  “Oh, sorry.” I coughed. “That’s hard to get used to.”

  “What do we know now, Ace? Ellin was late and disheveled. She’s guilty.”

  “Not necessarily, Sloan. She just wasn’t where she usually was,” I countered. “Though it’s not looking up for our prime suspect. We need more facts. It’s time for a stakeout.”

  Sloan nodded. “Right. You want me to tail Ellin? I’ll take the first shift and stake out the quilting store.”

  “Roger that, Sloan. I’ll finish up at the office, check for a ransom note, and meet you around quitting time. If I have to trail Ellin home, I will.”

  “Whoa, you sure? Ellin’s is a long way from home at dark.”

  I shook my head.

  “Dark, Sloan, is the perfect place to hide someone. Ellin could lead me right to Ruby.”

  Sloan looked uncertain, but agreed.

  ***

  Ducking into The Daily Reporter, I found Max with the phone to his ear, humming along to the hold music. At the same time, he was packing up his work bag to head out for an interview.

  “There’s my assistant city editor,” Max said, patting my head when I leapt on the desk. “I have to go cover an event at the school district. You better sit this one out. I won’t be gone long.”

  Fine with me. Kids liked to pull my whiskers and try to make me wear their scarves and socks.

  “3 p.m. Friday? Okay, I’ll see you then,” Max said into the phone, resetting it back into its cradle. He scribbled his appointment on a spare piece of paper, which he stuffed into his overflowing bag.

  With one last pat, Max left the office. I pawed the door shut and began poking around the mess on my coworker’s desk. Among a stack of fresh faxes, I found several county committee agendas and one news release about an upcoming Thanksgiving parade. No ransom note. I hit the refresh button on the computer to bring up new email, but it contained no new clues. I scowled. I couldn’t help but feel dejected. I was so certain there would be a letter to the McMahon’s demanding an absurd amount of cash in exchange for the award-winning cat’s release. I put on the speakerphone and dialed Aero’s number. With any luck, he’d be nearby. The phone rang without answer.

  I walked the newsroom and investigated the desks of other co-workers and graphic artists—they hated when I left filthy cat prints on their mouse pads—before returning to my office with empty paws. No ransom notes. Sighing, I jumped onto my filing cabinet and curled into a ball on my bed. Until this evening’s stakeout, I could do nothing but sleep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  How did these professional sleuths do it, I wondered? I’d watched a few crime shows from Max’s lap over the years. They understood the crime by first daylight, were swept into unbelievable passion with a lovely woman by midday, caught the villain by nightfall, and were home in time for dinner. Without a hair out of place.

  I loved my job. When I wasn’t gripped in the high pressure of the public eye, or obsessing about being a good reporter, I managed to enjoy myself.

  I wasn’t so sure about being a detective.

  At least not when I awoke at a quarter to 5 p.m. on a frigid autumn evening. It was so cold, in fact, I could have sworn I saw outside my window the county board chair with his hands in his own pockets. Max was at his computer, a bulky and unflattering sweater around his shoulders, seemingly unperturbed about Ruby the Russian, unlike myself. It was day two of my investigation, and already I was second-guessing myself. Had I been right this summer? Should I just stick behind my byline and keep my nose out of affairs I had no qualifications for?

  Munching down a mouthful of Kuddly Kitty Krunchies while Max typed a few finishing touches on his school-themed feature article, I tried to find my resolve. Ruby was lost. Ruby needed finding. The humans were doing all they could and coming up with zip. It was my feline duty to help if I could, even if it meant using a hodgepodge of journalism skills I figured could apply to an alleged cat-napping. Nothing bad had to happen here.

  The door to our office opened, and Randy the sports reporter dropped a copy of tomorrow’s paper onto the desk in front of Max.

  “Your story about the missing show cat made front page,” Randy alerted Max. Max picked up the paper and glanced at the edition. Ruby’s green eyes glowed, even on the dull, recycled newsprint.

  “I hope they find her. Madeline sure was worried about this cat,” Max mused. Maybe he was more concerned than I had been led to believe. “Though I think it’s going to take more than fliers and ads.”

  Randy leaned on the doorframe. “You suppose someone took that cat? To like, show and make money or something?”

  “I don’t know, Randy. Something about the whole disappearance just seems shady to me, I guess. Maybe I write too many crime stories and spend too much time on court reports,” Max replied.

  Maybe I did, too. But it wasn’t going to stop me from following my instincts. Not tonight. As I slipped out the office door, Max wondered out loud why I was out catting around so much lately, but I ignored him, as I often do. Off through the mail slot I went, into the starless night to find Sloan.

  ***

  My best friend’s fur was puffed and bristled against the frigid air when I found him hunkered down by the back door of Ellin’s Cozy Quilting and Supplies.

  “Brrrrrrr,” he purred coldly. “I wanted to get some hot milk and cream from Lily’s but was afraid to leave my station.”

  “Sorry, pal. Why don’t you head on home and warm up while I take over? Has anything interesting happened?”

  “No. I wish I could say it had. Ellin took out a bag of garbage and put it in the dumpster, a mourning dove sat on that wire and stared at me for much longer than was comfortable, and a vehicle that sounded more like a jet than a car drove by twice.”

  I nodded. “All part of the stake-out risks, I suppose.”

  “It was about as much fun as watching a cat shed,” Sloan said.

  “Right. I’ll call you tomorrow with anything I find out tonight.”

  “You aren’t going to stay with her all night, are you?” Sloan asked, standing and stretching.

  “Only as long as her lights are on, and she’s active.”

  “But how are you going to follow her home? You can’t possibly keep up with her car.”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  ***

  After Sloan took off for the comfort and heat of his home, I circled the quilt shop and looked inside from the front window. The store was empty, but there was a woman, closing up. Ellin. Folding a few reams of material, her pale face was pinched with fatigue and her dull blonde hair hung limp and lifeless like two tired curtains over her face. Ellin’s frame was tall and thin, her clothing hung like oversized garments on too tiny hangers. She held little resemblance to her sister. As she counted down the till, dropping coins noisily into their proper slots, I relocated to the back of the building. Ellin’s car was a small, blue, four-door sedan. If I could ride along one way, getting back wouldn’t be such a burden. Trouble was I had no opposable thumbs to pick a lock and open the car door. A window was cracked despite the chilly weather, but not nearly wide enough to cram through my furry behind. Time for resourcefulness.

  The alley stank of week-old garbage and decaying leaves. I shook an abandoned straw wrapper off my paw and paced alongside the car, thinking hard and fast. Ellin would be finished inside and back here any second. Taking a deep breath, I dove into an aluminum trash bin and rummaged. Yuck. Papers that should be recycled, an old banana peel, rotting flowers. All in all, about as useful as a watchdog distracted by a steak.

  Panicked, I ducked for cover under th
e trash lid as the back door of the quilt shop opened and slammed shut. Ellin had left the building. Fumbling with her keys, she breathed a long sigh and wiped her forehead, heavily perspiring despite the chilly air. I needed her attention. Now. At the exact moment she opened the car door, I sprang from the garbage can, sending the cover flying and crashing to the pavement behind my intended victim. Ellin startled and gasped just as I hoped, spinning around and clasping her hand over her chest. A black streak in the night, I ran away from the sound, darted under the sedan, turned hard left, and shot into the open car door. Ellin evaluated the non-threatening trash lid, still clanking to the ground. Composing herself, she stepped away from the vehicle to retrieve the lid and replace it while I silently thanked my lucky stars a heavy car door hadn’t slammed on my tail. I gained an additional diversion, allowing me time to hide in the back seat.

  Attempting to blend in under the driver’s chair, I held my breath as Ellin entered the car and revved it up. I could feel the motor running under my tense body while the car rolled down the alley towards Arbor Vitae Lane.

  Country western tunes played softly on the radio. A man with a deep, twangy voice sang about his estranged wife, sick dog, and repossessed trailer home. Ellin hummed along quietly, oblivious to her furry backseat passenger. I relaxed just a little, taking in the car. The upholstery was clean and smelled like fake pine trees. Besides a non-threatening box of pink tissue, the car was devoid of any cat-stealing evidence, and I couldn’t smell Ruby.

  The drive took just over ten minutes, long enough for the country star to reclaim his wife and dog, though not his former residence on wheels. I heard tires pop over loose gravel. As the sedan slowed and pulled into the garage, I pondered; how was I going to exit the vehicle? I certainly hadn’t brought along any extra trash can lids to aid in my transition as I had moments earlier. The garage light came on. I bit my nail. Now what?