by A M Bostwick
“Making friends with a weasel and orchestrating a jailbreak at the shelter was evidently entirely without benefit,” I mused. “Was I ever scratching up the wrong tree.”
The city around us appeared dark and vacant. Windows, like eyes without anybody home, sightlessly watched our plight.
“Honestly, Ace. What are we going to do next?” Sloan asked. I could hear the dejection in his voice. It mirrored my own feelings, which I kept closed off inside.
“I don’t know, pal. I just don’t know.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After the futile stake out at the alleged hideout of The Moustache, I hung around home like a lazy housecat and still didn’t feel any closer to solving my crime as I was to launching a successful detective franchise. I went to work Thursday.
Addled and confused, I laid low in the newspaper office, assisting Max with stories focusing on the recent election. New faces elected onto the Lakeville City Council distracted me only for a moment before my thoughts drifted right back to the stunningly cold eyes of Ruby the Russian’s photograph, still staring at me from a “Pending Story” file atop Max’s desk.
She was still missing.
I had not been in contact with Aero, Sloan, or anyone. I had not stalked Ellin, and I had not pursued a Mr. X with a motive. It was unlike me, one minute hot on a story, and the next to let go so quick. There was only one explanation, and I had a hard time coming to terms with the reality of it: I was out of clues.
Normally I would revel in a quiet day at the office. I’d lounge on Max’s lap with my head in the crook of his arm while he typed, or I’d spread out in my bed atop the filing cabinet for a long nap while the day went on without me.
I felt too useless to enjoy such luxuries today.
There was a gentle knock at the door.
“Sorry to disturb you,” Linda apologized as she gave Max an early copy of tomorrow’s paper and a stack of letters.
I was already seriously disturbed.
The mail stack contained no indication that a ransom letter for Ruby’s return was out there. It wasn’t coming.
Max scratched behind my ears and made another keen observation on some of the missing fur from my tail.
“I wish I knew your adventures, Ace,” he sighed.
Sometimes, I wish he knew, too.
***
It was late in the night and I was asleep at home. Dreaming. Dreaming wearily of stacks of newspapers falling down all around me. I darted in and out of the newsprint, avoiding the ever-increasing stacks that grew by the minute. The newspapers were angry with me for not doing my job and threw insults at me. Squirming in my slumber, my dream continued, and I ran to the half-full bag of Kuddly Kitty Krunchies to try and escape inside but ended up in the always overflowing recycling box alongside Max’s desk instead. Crouching down, I tried to avoid the accusing tone of the newspapers that hollered at me to be a more responsible reporter. Just as I was about to be buried in articles of new building projects and city leaders taking charge, I spotted something.
It was a clue.
My eyes popped open. I may be a good reporter outwardly, but my reporter skills were awful in my own life. I ran all the way to the newspaper office. Through the mail slot, I jetted and skittered into Max’s office. Jumping to his desk, I slipped on a few stacks of paper before pawing on the lamp. Squinting against the sudden glow, I leapt down to the recycling box, then moved over to a forgotten and discarded letter.
The letter from Mrs. Bigg.
It took me until this moment, but now I remembered; Mrs. Bigg was not a dog person. She was a cat person. So much so that she was often referred to in whispered tones as “The Kooky Cat Lady” during Commission on Aging Committee meetings. It was at these meetings that she would occasionally appear to register an opinion, her flowered housecoat covered in cat hair of every color and texture. It was rumored she took in each and all strays that came her way, that she cared for each feline as though it were her own child. So why would Mrs. Bigg scold us for attempting to reunite Ruby with her own dear family? Why, indeed.
Why? Unless Mrs. Bigg had already fallen in love with her?
***
The next morning dawned cold but bright. I left the office through the backdoor mail slot before Max and the front office staff arrived, anxious to follow my new lead. Before leaving the back parking lot, I noticed that Farfel had been by, the scent of his furry head rubbed on my mail slot as a message. I made a mental note to fill him in at a later date. Hopefully, by then, I’d have solved the crime.
I had Mrs. Louise Bigg’s address from her envelope and knew that she lived in a tiny house near the library, just five blocks away from downtown in one of the older housing districts of Lakeville. She often spoke of her abode to the Commission, reminding them that independent seniors living on their own could use some help every fall and spring with yard clean up. I held my tail high and trotted like a detective hot on the trail.
This was it; this had to be it.
The usual morning traffic filled the streets as people left their homes for school and work. A Friday, everyone seemed to have an extra burst of energy in their step as they looked forward to the weekend. A renewed feeling of determination filled me as well.
Nearing Mrs. Bigg’s neat, mauve-colored home, I rested beside a plastic pinwheel in the neighboring yard. Her house was homey-looking. Flower boxes were filled with decorative fall leaves and gourds. The sidewalk leading to her front porch was neat and trim and the porch itself had cushioned wicker furniture flanking the door. Her mailbox featured a striped tail in back, a painted cat’s smiling face in front. Through the living room window I spotted several tabbies on the wide windowsill, languishing in the morning sunshine, their bodies no doubt limp and relaxed in the warmth. Behind lace curtains, I detected movement. Mrs. Bigg was likely awake and busy with the morning feedings of her many cats. I idly wondered if the roles were reversed, would cats with houses take in stray old ladies? Hmm. Probably not.
Approaching Mrs. Bigg’s humble home, I was careful not to be seen. I had to decide how to approach the situation at hand. The back porch was uncovered, a trough-sized bowl there overflowing with Kuddly Kitty Krunchies with salmon-flavored x-bites. There must have been a sale on the stuff; Max recently stocked up as well, much to my dismay. On the other side of the porch was a dog-house sized box, lined with straw and flannel. It occurred to me that this was an outdoor shelter for homeless cats, perhaps for feral felines that she could not yet coax inside. It was kind of her, I thought tenderly.
“Okay, babies! Momma has to visit the pharmacy and market! You behave while I’m gone.”
The high-pitched call of Mrs. Bigg’s voice alerted me to take immediate cover under the porch, lest I be taken in and force-fed. I heard her light footsteps above me, followed by the sharp thump of her cane. I looked up through the slats and saw her orthopedic shoes shuffling across, aided by her rubber-tipped walking device. Her flowered purse, clashing wildly with her cat-pattern housecoat, swung from her other arm. Her blue hair was teased into a rounded poof on her head, and fuzzy earmuffs protected her ears from the cold. Entering the carport, I heard her boat-sized sedan roar to life. This was no hapless old lady. I admired her for her strength, stamina, and independence at such an old age. Watching her carefully back out of the short driveway, she took off down the street at a speed exceeded only by passing butterflies.
With Mrs. Bigg safely out of sight, I ventured onto the porch landing. The door did not have a dog or cat flap. Looking from side to side, I observed two windows low to the ground. One was the kitchen window while the other led to a bedroom that was being utilized as a small sewing room. While the sewing room was empty, the kitchen was not. I leapt with grace to this ledge. A Kooky Cat Lady she may have been, but Mrs. Bigg was not untidy. Against one wall were dozens of tiny dishes—converted butter and sour cream containers now serving as cat feeders. Filled with fresh water and dry food, several cats lined up to have their breakfast
. Anxiously I looked from face to face, seeking that unmistakable thick, velvety blue-gray fur that Ruby bore. Spotted and calico, white and black, but no gray. I tapped lightly on the window with my claw. I caught the eye of a wider-than-tall white cat with brown spots, cleaning his paws and ears in a patch of sunlight. He cocked his head, then jumped up to the window, shouldering open the glass but not the screen.
“Hey, pal. You need a home or something?” he asked in a slight Chicago accent.
“No. I’m looking for someone. Name’s Ace. I’m a reporter,” I told him.
“I see. I’m Boots. Who you lookin’ for then?”
I felt my stomach tighten. “Ruby.”
He eyed me curiously, his mouth slightly agape. I couldn’t help but notice that he had no boots. “Who did you say?”
“A Russian Blue. Gray coat, green eyes flecked with gold.” Who was I? A poet? “I thought her name was Ruby but maybe not. Any cat here by that description?”
“Who did you say you were?” If I wasn’t mistaken, there was a shred of irritation in his voice. Other cats were beginning to look, curious and about our conversation. Boots was hiding something, I could feel it.
“Name’s Ace,” I repeated more loudly. “This is a matter of utmost importance.”
“What? To exploit?” spat Boots. “I know you media types.”
“I’m not here to cause trouble. This cat wants to go home. That’s all I want to do, get her home...” I began, but Boots was already shutting the window in my face. A group of other cats gathered in the kitchen, all gazing at me with suspicion.
“Wait! Wait! Boots!” I called desperately as the window gap grew smaller.
“Boots,” another voice said. “Wait.”
I peered around Boot’s massive shoulder.
I caught my breath.
It was Ruby the Russian.
***
Boots glowered at me before plummeting to the floor and stalking off in a huff. Ruby, far more stunning in person than in any of her photographs, sat tall and beautiful in the center of the kitchen floor. Her silver, velvety coat gleamed in the sunshine. Her collar was her signature pink. The Kit-Cat Clock above the stove swung its tail and eyes in opposite directions. Tick, swish, tick, swish.
“Leave us, will you?” she implored of the other cats. They obliged, exiting the kitchen door with whispers and glances back at my precariously perched body. Ruby’s dark green, glowing eyes, indeed rich with dots of gold, examined me without prejudice. It felt like she had been waiting for this moment, waiting for me. Seeming to brace herself, she elegantly walked to my window and easily shouldered up the glass.
“Who are you?” she asked. Her clipped tone told me I needed to shoot straight.
“Name’s Ace. I’m a reporter, and recreational detective. I was hired a few days ago to find you. By Aero.”
Again, I left out the part about being fired.
While her expression remained stoic and unchanging up until this point, she seemed to startle at the mention of Aero. But only momentarily. She recovered quickly.
“Aero?” she echoed nonchalantly.
“Yes, your good friend Aero. He’s worried sick about you,” I disclosed. Behind Ruby, I could see a gaggle of kittens hunting each other’s tails in the living room. A high-backed arm chair sat in front of a tiny television set, where Mrs. Bigg most likely sat each evening. “Ruby, what’s going on? How did you get here? We’ve been all over Lakeville, trying to figure out how you were stolen, how you disappeared!”
Ruby looked down, breaking her mind-bending eye contact. She said nothing. I inhaled.
“I can help you,” I told her. She looked up sharply, her jaw tight. Evidently, she was not impressed that I had tracked her down to offer said help. “Ruby, I’m here to get you home.”
“This is my home.”
I hesitated. “No, Ruby, I don’t know how this happened to you, but I am going to get you reunited with your family. With Aero. With Madeline, Ruby,” I pleaded with her stony face. Had I been aiming to speak to her heart, however, I was failing.
“This is my home,” she repeated.
For a second, I was at a loss for words. This was not how I pictured finding Ruby the Russian. A bone-crushing hug, yes. A smattering of charm and over-zealous thanks, yes. A pat on the back, yes; but this, no.
“Ruby, I don’t understand,” I whispered. I could hardly fathom Ruby being held against her will; it made no sense at all. But then again, neither did her attitude.
“And you couldn’t. You couldn’t possibly understand,” her voice cracked. I realized she was near tears. She slammed the window shut, sending me into an acrobatic jump. Ruby leapt from the window and ran from the room.
I stared at the shut window, and the shut window stared back.
Ruby was gone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I had her, and I lost her.
My tail hung low as I slowly walked back toward The Daily Reporter. My mind was a jumble of racing thoughts. What just happened? How did this happen? I solved the crime...yet I hadn’t. Somehow, I made it all worse.
The enigmatic Ruby the Russian was found, yet still lost. How was I supposed to reconcile this situation? I couldn’t get through to her. It was like she had broken, her spirit crushed.
Lost in my thoughts, wandering near the post office dumpster down the street from The Daily Reporter, I hardly noticed when I walked into a big, fuzzy wall.
“Aero! What are you doing here?” I exclaimed, picking myself up and brushing off my fur.
“I wanted to apologize, Ace,” the giant German Shepherd said, his eyes sincere. “I wasn’t nice the last time I saw you.”
“Uhhh,” I muttered, at a loss for words. And complete sentences, apparently.
“I just miss Ruby so much. I hate to admit it, but it’s true. The house isn’t the same without her sassy attitude. It’s wearing on all of us, Madeline especially,” Aero told me, sitting down and staring off into the deep blue sky.
“Ummmm,” I attempted to speak. Well, what was I supposed to say? I found your cat, but she hates you all?
“She just sits around all day, chewing antacids and calling neighbors. Trolling the streets, looking for Ruby. It’s depressing,” the dog went on. I kept my trap shut. It seemed better that way. I’ve always been a terrible liar. Perhaps that was why I found companionship with a journalist, not a politician.
Aero heaved a great sigh.
“This has been such a difficult situation, for all of us.”
That was a gross understatement.
“But something happened yesterday, Ace. Something that gave me hope, and I knew I needed to find you. Ace? Ace? You look weird. Kinda sick. Do you need me to perform the Heimlich Maneuver?”
“Good grief! No!” I exclaimed as Aero stood up, worry spreading across his face. One more sentimental statement out of Aero, and I was going to fold like a lawn chair.
“Aero, you don’t have to apologize to me. Look, I’m sorry, but I’m on deadline,” I began, using the ultimate reporter excuse as I backed away from him. “Can we discuss this later?”
“Is something the matter, Ace? You seem strange,” he repeated, standing and cocking his head to one side as though to hear me better. It was my turn to heave a great sigh.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” I conceded. My conscience pulsed with guilt.
“I have to tell you something first,” Aero insisted, putting his paw up.
“Well, okay,” I hedged.
“We received a ransom letter,” he said. Noting my bewilderment, Aero went on, “$5,000 in exchange for Ruby’s safe return.”
I was speechless. I felt as though I had slipped into The Twilight Zone. Mrs. Bigg? Blackmailing the McMahons? It couldn’t be.
“I don’t understand,” I mumbled.
“Isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for? You told me all along it would come to this. I’m sorry I stopped believing it was true. Ruby didn’t leave of her own accord
. I don’t know how someone managed to steal her from under my nose, Ace. But they did. Maybe you were right. Maybe Ellin took her and wants money now.”
Ellin’s thievery didn’t make sense anymore. Why would Ellin nab Ruby just to give her to an old lady? She couldn’t exchange Ruby for ransom if she didn’t have her. “Do you have the ransom letter, Aero?”
“No, Madeline has it. But I heard them talking about it. You should know she hasn’t given it to the police. It specifically stated not to contact the authorities, or Ruby would be harmed.”
Mrs. Bigg! I scolded mentally. Maybe she was ill and needed funds. Perhaps her budget had run dry for shortbread cookies, hard candy that stuck together in a clump, and 75+ women’s multivitamins. What other explanation could there be?
“What kind of time limit are we talking?” I asked.
“Tonight. The McMahons are supposed to leave unmarked bills under the mailbox downtown by midnight,” Aero reported.
Here? Downtown? Wasn’t that risky with so many eyes? Then I realized a quiet business district indeed had fewer eyes than a residential area. There were only a few apartments above the stores, and by midnight those apartments would be filled with nothing but sleeping people, as good as dead to the world. Friday nights were not wild in Lakeville, Wisconsin. Aero went on, “If the exchange goes well, we can expect Ruby in a carrier at our mailbox later tonight.”
What was with all the mailboxes? I pondered, my mind reeling, trying to process all of the information. Trying to fit together this mismatched puzzle.
“Did you smell this letter?” I asked.
“No. I tried, but Mr. McMahon locked it in his safe. I only heard them discussing it.”
“Darn,” I cursed.
“Why?”
“You may have picked up a scent, the scent of the thief,” I explained. The true thief. There was no way it was the elderly and frail letter-writing Mrs. Bigg. It wasn’t Ellin. So who was it?
“Right. I wish I had, Ace. You’re a much better spy than I am,” he said, shaking his great head.
Something else was going on here. There was some tiny bit amiss that was just out my reach. If only I could think of what it was...it was maddening.