Mr Bigelow Smells a Rat

by Leigh Selfman

  “The painting dammit! Where is it? I’ll kill you and that stupid cat if you don’t show me where it is. Now.”

  I look back to see Mr. Bigelow stuck in the glass atrium, clawing at the door trying to get out. But at least he’s safe in there.

  I, on the other hand…

  His hand cocks the trigger.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll get it for you.”

  I head into the living room, finally realizing exactly what’s happening. The masked man is Rafe – it has to be. He’s come for the thing he’s been trying to get this whole time. The thing that was going to save my house and my future.

  “The painting’s in there,” I say, defeated, motioning with my head towards the dining room.

  “You first,” he says, and I have no choice but to obey. I head into the dining room and he follows. And there on the table is the Monet in its gold frame.

  He stares at the painting for a long moment and I wonder if I could hit him over the head with something while he’s distracted.

  But as I look around for a heavy object, I realize it’s too late. He’s already picked up the painting and is carrying it out under his arm.

  Upset as I am about the painting, I’m relieved that he’s leaving, and that Mr. Bigelow and I are safe and unharmed. Which is when he turns and says “Oh yeah. One more thing.” Then he raises his gun and aims it.

  MR. BIGELOW

  I see him pointing the gun at me. I quickly leap up onto one of the plant shelves in the atrium and from there I hop onto the roof and scurry away.

  I make my way over to Ben’s house and in through the doggie door and up to Ben’s bedroom.

  There I jump on him and paw at him until he wakes up and looks at me in confusion.

  “Mr. Bigelow?” he says, sounding surprised. “Is something wrong?”

  I hop back down and make my way back downstairs and - after checking that Ben is indeed following - I head outside and over to our front door.

  Ben (and, of course, Choxie as well) are close behind and when I get to the front door I stand there and wait. Ben rings our bell and then pounds on the door calling out, “Penelope! Penelope, are you in there?”

  When no one answers Ben goes over and looks in the window. “Penelope!” he calls out, panicked. “I’m coming.”

  I jump up on the window ledge to see what he’s looking at and see her there, lying on the floor on the other side of the sofa.

  Pawing at the hole I made in the corner of the screen, I hop into the living room, followed by Ben who jimmies the window even higher and removes the screen altogether. Then he climbs in after me.

  Sadly, Choxie, who is unable to jump in an agile feline fashion is forced to wait outside.

  “Penelope, what happened?” Ben asks as he hurries over and unties her.

  “It was Rafe!” she says, shaken. “It had to be him. He stole the painting and hit me over the head. He almost killed Mr. Bigelow!”

  Ben continues untying her hands and then her feet. “He could’ve killed you too.” He helps her up, looking more upset and shaken than she is. “Thank goodness you’re okay,” he says. “Who knows what he could’ve done. We have to call the police. Right now.”

  She nods and brushes herself off. “Right,” she says as she grabs her coat and her car keys. “We’ll call them on the way.”

  “On the way? On the way where?” Ben stops in his tracks and looks at her.

  “To Rafe’s. I’m getting that painting back.”

  As she hurries out the front door, Ben follows behind her and I slip out as well, ready to jump into the car along with the humans and Choxie. But she grabs me and puts me back into the house. “Sorry, Mr. Bigelow,” she says, “But you’re staying home. It’s safer for you here.”

  She closes the door behind her, locking it with a sharp click.

  That’s what you think.

  If Rafe is about to get sent down the river, I for one, am going to be there to see it.

  I head to the open living room window and make my escape.

  PENELOPE

  Ben speeds towards Rafe’s building, driving fast as I dial the police and report the crime. The police officer on the other end warns me not to go inside the building and confront Rafe on my own. I tell them I don’t intend to – he did have a gun after all.

  By the time we get to our destination, I’m steaming mad. How dare Rafe scare me and Mr. Bigelow that way! And how dare he steal my valuable Monet.

  Ben parks across from his building and we walk over on foot, leaving Choxie in the car with the window cracked open. While we wait for the police to arrive, we go to the parking lot behind the building to make sure Rafe’s car is there.

  It is.

  I touch the hood which is still warm. “That proves it,” I say to Ben. “Rafe clearly just got home and parked, after robbing me.”

  Not two minutes later, Officer Brady arrives - a heavy-set man in his fifties. And when I explain to him about my stolen painting – he says, “Okay. Let’s go find this guy and see what’s what.”

  The problem is, the building directory doesn’t list anyone named Rafe Sanders.

  “Well, his car was parked in space 32,” Ben says, “So maybe that corresponds to his apartment number as well.” Ben runs his finger down the directory and lands on apartment #32. “Andrew Bronson.”

  “I bet that’s him” I say. “I bet he told me the wrong name when I met him. He used an alias.”

  “Could be,” Officer Brady admits as we walk into the building – catching the open door just as a man and his dog head out.

  Upstairs at apartment #32, Officer Brady pounds on the door in an official fashion.

  “Who is it?” a male voice calls out from inside – and unfortunately I can’t tell if it belongs to Rafe or not.

  “Police!” Officer Brady calls back. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  My heart pounds as I hear the door unlocking from inside. Then, it slowly swings open. And there stands Rafe.

  “That’s him. Arrest that man!” I say. “That’s the man who stole my painting!”

  “Your painting?” Rafe says looking half-asleep, his face a mask of innocent puzzlement. “Is this a joke? Penelope, what’re you doing here?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind,” Officer Brady says.

  Rafe nods and we all step inside.

  MR. BIGELOW

  Finally. I make it inside the building and up to Rafe’s apartment. And luckily, they’re all so busy talking and accusing each other of various things, that they don’t even notice me as I slip inside the door and listen.

  “Your painting?” Rafe says, in all innocence. “Penelope, I don’t know anything about any painting.”

  “He’s lying!” she protests loudly. “He’s lying about everything. Even his name!”

  “Rafe is my nickname.” He smiles smugly. “That’s not a crime, is it?”

  “No,” the policeman admits. “It’s not.”

  “Look,” Rafe says with another fake yawn. “I get that someone may have broken into your house and stolen your painting. And for some reason you think it was me– but did you even see the guy’s face?”

  They all look at her.

  “No,” she says slowly. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t him! Look at the scratches on his arms and neck. Those came from my cat Mr. Bigelow.”

  Sure did. I sit up a little straighter.

  “These scratches…” Rafe sighs and lowers his voice as though embarrassed. “I was with another girl tonight after I dropped Penelope off – which is why she’s accusing me. She was jealous and upset that our date didn’t work out so well.”

  “He’s lying!” she yells. “You can see it on his smirky face!”

  I sure can.

  “Look, if you’re innocent, you won’t mind if we look around, right?” Ben suggests. And we all wait for a response.

  Rafe’s beady eyes go from the cop to his apartment and back to t
he cop again. “Okay. Fine,” Rafe sighs. “But be quick. I have work in the morning.”

  He backs away and spreads his arms wide, as if to say “have at it” at which point the policeman goes in and starts looking around the living room.

  “It was a Monet painting, about 12 inches by 24 in a gold frame,” she tells him.

  “Uh huh,” the cop says as he looks behind the couch and under the couch cushions and all through the TV cabinet. Then he heads into the bedroom and bathroom where he searches every conceivable hiding place.

  Finally, he winds up in the kitchen and after checking every cabinet and even the refrigerator, he turns to her and says, “Sorry. Don’t see any paintings here.”

  “But it has to be,” she frowns, on the verge of tears. “I know he took it.”

  Rafe gives her a smug smile and says, “I’m really sorry it didn’t work out between us and I hope you’ll get over it.” He turns to the policeman and says, “A woman scorned, huh?”

  Luckily Ben holds her back because at that point she seems ready to add to the scratches on Rafe’s face herself.

  “Well, sorry for the trouble,” the policeman says, ready to walk back out of the kitchen.

  Which is when I sniff the air and realize where he’s hiding it.

  I jump onto the counter and sniff around.

  “Mr. Bigelow? Is that Mr. Bigelow?” Ben says as if suddenly becoming aware of my presence.

  “Mr. Bigelow?” she says, sounding equally surprised. At which point Ben comes over and picks me up and carries me out of the kitchen. As I struggle and meow and yowl, he carries me out into the living room and to the front door.

  I look into Ben’s eyes, trying convey the direness of the situation, but he’s not even looking at me. He’s looking back towards her.

  “It just has to be here,” she’s saying to the policeman. “I don’t understand. Maybe you could check his car?”

  The officer shakes his head ‘no’ like he doesn’t believe her anymore.

  She sighs and joins us at the door. We’re all about to leave when I look over and see the irritating smile on Rafe’s face. With a mighty effort, I dart out of Ben’s arms and run back toward the kitchen.

  “That cat!” Rafe growls, trying to grab me as I run past him. I slip away from him and into the kitchen where I hop back up onto the counter.

  Rafe storms in looking ready to kill me.

  But she hurries in just in time. “Don’t touch my cat,” she says.

  As they both stare at me, I jump onto a glass of nearby orange juice and knock it onto the floor.

  “Darn it!” Rafe yells. “Now would everyone please leave! NOW!”

  “Sorry for the disturbance,” the cop says, having joined us in the kitchen. “We really shouldn’t have troubled you. Here I’ll get that.” He reaches for the paper towel dispenser on the counter. But when he tries to pull a towel off, the roll won’t turn. “Hmm. It’s stuck,” he mumbles.

  “Just leave it! Just leave it and go,” Rafe yells, sounding very angry. And very nervous.

  Very nervous. And very angry.

  Even the policeman seems to notice the change in Rafe’s demeanor. He studies Rafe’s face through narrowed eyes.

  “Ha ha,” Rafe laughs, trying to sound like his usual relaxed self. But he’s not fooling anyone anymore. Not even the humans. And his eyes keep darting nervously to the paper towel dispenser.

  The cop reaches for the roll again, and this time, he looks more closely into the cardboard tube in the center. “Huh,” he says, pulling the roll off the holder. “I think I see why it’s getting stuck. There’s something inside here.” Reaching into the cardboard tube, he pulls something out of it: a rolled-up canvas.

  He unfurls it and holds it up.

  “My Monet!” she says, bursting into tears. The policeman hands it to her and she takes it, giving him a hug and thanking him repeatedly.

  Seeing his chance, Rafe tries to make a run for it. But I dart in front of him and he trips and falls onto the floor with a satisfying THUD. And as the policeman pulls out handcuffs and tells Rafe that he has the right to remain silent, Rafe glares at me and I can feel his murderous thoughts.

  I just give him one of my cool, superior, unblinking stares and swish my tail in his face.

  And that as they say, is that.

  PENELOPE

  “Can you believe it?” I say to Ben. “I just can’t believe it. I got my Monet back and it’s Christmas Eve morning and we’re all safe and sound!”

  We stand in the hallway outside Rafe’s apartment, watching as Officer Brady leads him away.

  Just then, the door to my left opens and an older woman comes out of the apartment. She wants to know what all the commotion is, and I explain to her that Rafe stole my Monet painting and is under arrest.

  She smiles and says, “Well in that case, it’s extra nice of you to keep his cat for him.” Then she comes over and pets Mr. Bigelow and coos at him, saying, “Hello again, darling. I missed you.”

  Mr. Bigelow nuzzles into her hand and starts purring like a machine. Like they’re old friends.

  “Oh, no, this isn’t Rafe’s…er…Andrew’s cat,” I tell her. “Mr. Bigelow is mine.”

  “Really?” she says, “Then why was he here earlier? Trying to get into Mr. Bronson’s apartment?”

  I look at her, about to tell her that she must be mistaken, but then I notice how friendly Mr. Bigelow is acting towards her. And I wonder.

  “You say he was here earlier?” I ask.

  “Oh yes. He was meowing outside Mr. Bronson’s door after he left for his date. So I brought the little guy inside with me…and I think he must have jumped from my balcony over to Mr. Bronson’s and gotten inside there. I just assumed it was his home.”

  “Really?” I say, looking through her open door, towards the balcony outside. The balcony that faces the street – right above where Choxie found that shoe.

  Is it possible that Mr. Bigelow dropped that evidence out there for us to find?

  “Mr. Bigelow, is it?” the old lady says, interrupting my thoughts. “Well he is a sweetie, isn’t he?” She pets Mr. Bigelow some more and asks to see the Monet painting.

  I show it to her and she oohs and aahs. “That is a lovely painting,” she says. “But…it’s not a Monet.”

  I look at her shocked. And greatly disappointed. “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Are you some kind of art expert?” Ben asks sounding equally concerned.

  “Oh dear, no,” the old woman says her hand to her heart. “I don’t know the first thing about art.”

  “Oh. Well then how do you know this isn’t a Monet?” Ben asks.

  “Because…” the old lady says. “This is a Maury Finkelstein original.” She motions us into her apartment. “Look, come see.”

  We walk through her living room and over to the attached dining area where she shows us an almost-identical painting, hanging over the long, wooden table.

  “You see? Maury Finklestein. He was a local artist. He sold a lot of paintings at local art fairs and airport hotels. We collectors call them ‘Finkies’.”

  Ben and I look at each other, our faces falling in disappointment.

  “Wow,” I say, feeling like all the air has gone out of me. “So…it’s not a Monet after all.” I feel ready to cry. “After all that…”

  “A Finklestein,” Ben says, dazed. “A…a Finkie.”

  Miserable, we look at each other. Then Ben repeats, “A…Finkie,” and we both burst into laughter. And we can’t stop. Maybe it’s the tension of…everything. But we both just keep saying “a Finkie” and bursting into more laughter.

  “Well,” the old lady says after we finally catch our breath and apologize to her for our rudeness, “if you ever want to sell that one, I’d love another Finkie. For my guest bathroom.”

  I contain the urge to laugh again as I hand her the painting and say, “The Finkie is yours. Merry Christmas.” At which point she smiles happily and wishes us
all Merry Christmas back. Then she tells me that if I ever need a cat sitter, she’d be happy to volunteer.

  MR. BIGELOW

  The sun is rising as we arrive home and I’m ready for a good day’s sleep. But as I go to curl up in a warm spot near the heating vent, I hear them saying goodbye to each other.

  She’s inviting him over for Christmas dinner, promising to make one of Great-Aunt Agnes’s special French dishes.

  “That sounds wonderful,” Ben tells her. “I’ll be here at six, with bells on. Bells on Choxie that is. And a bottle of wine.”

  They look at each other for another long moment, then finally he walks away.

  She closes the door and sighs.

  “Well I guess we both better get some beauty sleep before tonight, Mr. Bigelow” she says.

  Speak for yourself I blink, but I follow her upstairs anyway and we both fall into a deep sleep on the bed.

  PENELOPE

  “I really screwed up,” I say aloud as I add some more salt to the dish. I taste it again. Ugh. That only made it worse. “Now my Coquille St. Jacques is not only watery and fishy, it’s also overly salty.” I look over at Mr. Bigelow who’s busy lapping up the food in his bowl. “We might be sharing your dinner with you, Cat” I tell him.

  He quickly gobbles the rest up and looks at me, as if to say, “Just try it.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to do,” I sigh aloud. “I promised Ben a French dinner but there’s no way I can serve this…mess.”

  I frown, trying to figure out what to do, then I remember the cute little French bistro down on Main Street – with the sign out front that says, “WE DELIVER”.

  I quickly search my cell for their phone number.

  Thankfully they’re still open and are still delivering – so I place my order: two entrees of poached salmon in creamy tarragon sauce along with sautéed roasted butternut squash and French onion soup. And for dessert a sampler that includes delicious looking tropezienne tarts along with various eclairs, macarons and other French goodies.