by Nic Saint
“It’s probably a mummy,” said Dooley now, after having eaten his fill and assuming the position to start grooming himself.
“A mummy?” I asked, still busy gobbling up those precious nuggets. In my defense I’m probably twice Dooley’s size, and so I need to take in more nourishment than my gray Ragamuffin friend.
“Yeah, you know, like the Egyptian mummies? I think they probably have one at the local museum, and some vandals could have decided to steal it and put it here as a joke.”
“I very much doubt whether they have actual Egyptian mummies in our very modest local museum, Dooley. Most likely they simply keep some old stones and local fossils down there, but no mummies.”
“But where else could it have come from, Max? It must be a mummy. They simply removed the bandages and put it in that field.” But then his eyes widened to their fullest extent. “Or maybe it’s a zombie! It woke up one night and decided to take a walk in the neighborhood, only it got tired and decided to take a nap, and that’s when Fifi found it!”
“Aren’t zombies usually more… juicy?”
“Usually, but why can’t a zombie be a skeleton?”
“First off, zombies don’t exist, Dooley,” I said. “They’re simply an urban legend. And secondly, if that was a zombie, don’t you think it would have woken up by now? Even zombies don’t like it when a group of people stand around jabbering away, after all.”
“No, I see your point,” he said, his excitement slightly dampened by my use of logic. “So what is it, Max? And where did it come from?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Dooley,” I said. And frankly I wasn’t all that interested either. Judging from the state of those bones, that human had died quite a long time ago—possibly dozens or even hundreds of years. And frankly the whole thing didn’t interest me. Who cares if some old skeleton turns up in a field? Not me, I can assure you. When you’ve lived to be my age, you learn how to conserve your energy, you see, and it was with that idea in mind that I decided to take a nice long nap, while the humans ran around in circles, falling over themselves to take a look at a pile of boring old bones.
And I’d just closed my eyes when suddenly the sound of the pet flap alerted me that we were no longer alone. And when I opened a lazy eye to see what was up, I saw to my surprise that none other than Shanille had decided to grace us with her presence.
Shanille is cat choir’s director, and only very rarely makes house calls.
“Shanille?” I said. “What brings you out here?”
“Oh, Max,” she said, and if cats were in the habit of writhing their paws, she looked as if she would have much liked to engage in that kind of behavior right now. In other words, she looked extremely distraught.
“What’s going on?” Dooley asked.
“One of my humans has gone missing,” Shanille announced, a tremulous note in her voice.
“One of your humans?” I asked. “I thought you only had the one human: Father Reilly.”
“No, well, officially Father Reilly is my human, but the person who takes care of me on a daily basis, and of Father Reilly, too, is Marigold. She’s the housekeeper at the rectory.”
“And something happened to her?” I asked, understanding dawning.
“Not to her, but to her daughter Angel. She went out last night with some friends, and never came home.”
“So… has her mother tried calling these friends? What do they say?”
Shanille looked as if she was on the verge of tears. “She’s called all of them, frantic with worry, as you can imagine, and none of them have any idea where Angel might be. They left her in downtown Hampton Cove around three o’clock last night, and she said she was going to walk home, since she doesn’t live far away, but this morning Marigold found her bed unslept in, and when she tried calling, her calls went straight to voicemail. Oh, Max, you have to do something—she’s such a sweet kid. The best there is. And her mom is the best human a cat can ever hope to find—well, except Odelia maybe,” she allowed.
“Has Marigold contacted the police?”
“No, she hasn’t.” She heaved a sigh. “Marigold doesn’t believe in the police.”
“Doesn’t believe in the police? What are you talking about?”
“She and Uncle Alec have long been locked in a feud, and Marigold has sworn an oath never to ask for his help.”
“So her daughter is missing, and she won’t go to the police?”
Shanille nodded. “So you see, Max? I really need your help. We have to find Angel.”
Dooley suddenly looked up in alarm. “Oh, no, Shanille!”
“What is it?” asked Shanille, blinking rapidly.
“I think we found Angel—we found her this morning!”
“What!”
“Yes, in the field behind the house.”
“Dooley,” I said warningly.
“Well, actually Fifi found her. She thought it was just another pile of bones, you see, and wanted to bury them, the way she always does with bones. You know what dogs are like. When they see a bone, they—”
“Dooley, what are you talking about?!”
“Well, the bones—it must be Angel.”
Shanille’s face crumpled like a used tissue. “God, no!”
“It can’t be Angel,” I said, finally getting a word in edgewise.
“But it has to be, Max,” said Dooley. “It’s too much of a coincidence: first this girl goes missing and this morning we find that skeleton.”
“Skeleton!” Shanille cried.
“It’s not her, I’m telling you!” I said. “It takes years for a human body to turn into a skeleton, and if Angel was alive last night, it stands to reason it can’t possibly be her.” When Dooley looked skeptical, I prompted, “Remember the documentary you saw?”
“Oh, right,” said my friend finally. He then turned to Shanille. “Max is right. It can’t be your Angel. Unless of course her killer managed to turn her into a skeleton overnight.”
“Oh, Dooley,” I said with a sigh.
5
And so off we went, in search of Shanille’s human’s daughter. Now the problem with cats functioning as private detectives is that we can’t make ourselves understood by humans. So if for instance we want to ask a potential witness what they saw, they’re simply going to smile and give us a pat on the head if they’re cat people, or give us a kick in the rear if they’re not. Neither response is helpful, or brings us closer to resolving the mystery we’re trying to tackle.
So you’re asking me why I didn’t ask Odelia to take the matter in hand? Because she was busy with the skeleton, that’s why, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but humans are very much single-taskers. Oh, I know there’s this notion that women are multi-taskers and men are single-taskers, but that’s just a myth. As a rule all humans can only do one thing well at a time, before moving onto something else. If they try to tackle several things at once, that’s when things get messy. They go a little screwy in the head, you see. So I decided not to bother Odelia, and to see if we couldn’t figure this one out ourselves.
And as luck would have it, we almost bumped into Harriet and Brutus as we emerged from the pet flap.
“Where are you off to?” asked Brutus suspiciously. Lately someone’s been sneaking kibble from his bowl, and I know he suspects either me or Dooley. I know this because he told me yesterday: “You’ve been sneaking food from me, Max—or was it you, Dooley?”
I assured him that it wasn’t us, but I don’t think he believed me. I can tell you in confidence now that it was actually Rufus, Ted Trapper’s sheepdog. He likes to sample some of our superior cat kibble from time to time. Add some variety to his diet.
“We’re trying to find Shanille’s human’s daughter,” I told him now. “Wanna come?”
Brutus’s face immediately cleared. “Oh, sure,” he said. He may get grumpy sometimes, especially when someone steals his food, but that black cat is always up for a challenge.
“I didn’t know F
ather Reilly had a daughter?” said Harriet as she fell into step beside us.
“It’s not Father Reilly’s daughter,” said Shanille. “It’s Marigold’s.”
“Marigold?”
“Marigold is Father Reilly’s housekeeper, and practically a member of the family. She makes sure the rectory is spic and span, that Father Reilly eats his three square meals a day, and generally runs the place.”
“So is she Father Reilly’s wife?” asked Dooley.
“No, Dooley,” said Shanille. “Father Reilly is a priest, and priests aren’t allowed to get married.”
“Oh,” said Dooley, chewing on this for a moment.
“So where was Angel last seen?” I asked.
“Well, she and her friends all went clubbing last night, and her friends say they left her in front of the Cocky Cauldron and watched her take off in the direction of home.”
“Home is with Father Reilly and Father Reilly’s not-wife, right?” said Dooley.
“No, Marigold and Angel live in an apartment in a new development in Bickersfield.”
“So what do the police say?” asked Harriet.
“Marigold doesn’t believe in the police,” I said, earning myself a grateful smile from Shanille. It’s not a lot of fun having to explain the whole story twice.
“She doesn’t believe in the police?” asked Brutus. “What’s that supposed to mean? The police isn’t something you either believe or don’t believe in, Shanille. The police aren’t God.”
“Angel’s mom had a fight with Uncle Alec,” I explained. “So now she doesn’t want anything to do with him.”
“A fight with Uncle Alec!” Harriet said, her eyes shining a little brighter. “What was the fight about?”
“I don’t know,” said Shanille. “And frankly I don’t care. All I know is that Marigold doesn’t want to ask Alec for anything. They’re not on speaking terms.”
“Not even when her daughter goes missing? That’s kind of extreme, don’t you think?”
“It may be extreme, but that’s just the way it is. So are you going to help me find Angel or are you going to stand there and argue about Marigold’s beef with the police all day?”
Harriet gave Shanille an annoyed glance. You don’t tell a Persian what to do, after all. They can decide that perfectly well for themselves, thank you very much.
“Okay, so I hate to say this, you guys,” I said. “But maybe, just this once, we should consider recruiting the services of… a dog.”
“A dog!” said Harriet, giving me a look of extreme surprise.
“Dogs have a unique ability that comes in handy in cases like these,” I said. “You give them something to smell that used to belong to the missing person, and before you know it, they’ve picked up the trail, and followed it all the way to the actual person. It’s uncanny.”
“I think we both know that whatever dogs can do, cats can do better, Max,” said Harriet.
“Hear, hear,” said Brutus.
“So there will be no recruiting of dogs, all right? Not on my watch!”
“I think Max may have a point,” said Shanille, striking the discordant note. “Look, all I want,” she added over Harriet protestations, “is to find Angel, okay? And frankly I don’t care how we do it—without the help of dogs, if we can, with if we must. Though frankly I don’t hold the same grudge against dogs Harriet seems to have. No offense, Harriet.”
“I don’t have a grudge. I like dogs just as much as the next cat!” said Harriet. “But we don’t need them, that’s all I’m saying. They can only cramp our style and distract us. I mean, we all know what dogs are like. Annoying!”
“Good to know,” suddenly a voice announced from our rear, and when we turned around, we found ourselves in the company of Rufus.
“I wasn’t talking about you, Rufus,” Harriet quickly backpedaled. “I was talking about other dogs.”
“What other dogs? I’m the dog you meet the most,” said Rufus, who looked insulted.
“I was talking about… um… well, how about that dog that lives across the street?”
“What dog that lives across the street? There is no dog that lives across the street.”
“Look, Rufus, if you could spare us a moment of your time,” I said, deciding to nip this argument in the bud before things got out of paw. “Shanille’s human’s daughter is missing, and so we were hoping you could give us the benefit of your superior sense of smell to try and find her.”
“I’m sorry, Max,” said Rufus, and gestured to the leash Ted had him on. “But even if I wanted to help you, I can’t.”
“Can’t you, like, escape?” asked Dooley.
“Can’t you see he doesn’t want to help us?” said Harriet. “He doesn’t care about Shanille’s human’s daughter, and he doesn’t care about us. In fact all Rufus cares about is his reputation, and if he were to join us on this quest, he’d have to confess that dogs don’t have that great sense of smell after all. That the whole thing is simply a PR stunt perpetrated by Hollywood to make us think that dogs are superior to cats—which they’re not,” she quickly added, in case we hadn’t caught her drift.
The big fluffy dog looked as if he was getting a little hot under his collar now, and growled, “Dogs do have a superior sense of smell, Harriet, and if not for this damn leash Ted has me on, I would be more than happy to prove it to you.”
“Well, then prove it right now,” Harriet challenged the dog. “Yank that leash and free yourself from Ted’s command. What are you, a dog or a mouse?”
“Look, there really is no need for…” I began, but then before our very eyes, suddenly Rufus did give his leash a vigorous yank, and started to follow us as our party of five put itself into motion once more.
“Rufus!” said Ted as he was obliged to follow along. “Rufus, where are you going?”
“I’m going to save a woman,” said Rufus. “And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t stop me, Ted!”
“But Rufus,” said Ted, as he awkwardly followed along—Rufus is a very big dog, you see, and in fact it’s safe to say that he’s half sheep, half dog, and probably half mule, too, as he can be quite mulish when he wants to be. And his size now compelled Ted to follow us.
“Look at that,” said Brutus with a grin. “The dog is walking the man for a change.”
And indeed it now looked as if Rufus was in charge, and not Ted. People all along the street stood watching the strange scene of five cats and one very large dog, followed by a flustered-looking Ted.
“Maybe Ted can help us find that girl,” said Harriet. “Humans do have their qualities, you know.”
“Impossible,” I said. “Ted doesn’t understand us, and so we have no way of explaining to him what we’re after.”
“Oh, I can make him understand,” said Rufus, and stopped to bark up at a lamppost.
“Really, Rufus?” said Harriet with an eyeroll. “You have to pee already? Talk about being a walking, talking cliché.”
“No, wait a moment, Harriet,” I said. “Look what’s been plastered to the lamppost.”
We all looked up, and saw that someone had put a Missing Persons flyer on that lamppost. It depicted a freckle-faced blond young woman with pleasant demeanor. Not exactly pretty, but not unpretty either, and above it the words, ‘Have you seen Angel Church?’
“Angel Church?” asked Dooley. “Is Angel really called that?”
“She is,” said Shanille. “Very appropriate for a rectory housekeeper’s daughter.”
Ted, whose attention had been attracted by Rufus’s frantic barking, now studied the Missing Persons poster for a moment, then said, “You want to find this girl, buddy?”
Rufus actually barked again at this, and so Ted patted his head affectionately. “All right. If that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do.”
“Amazing,” said Harriet, and I think she spoke for all of us when she said that.
And so now our small company had been expanded with one human, which
was a good thing. Humans always come in handy. And even though Ted is a bookkeeper and not a detective, bookkeepers have an innate sleuthing capacity, as they’re always looking through your accounts trying to find what you did wrong, and to look for those loopholes the taxman hasn’t closed up yet. And we hadn’t even reached the end of the block when Marcie also joined us. She’s Ted’s wife, you see, and I assume when Ted was texting moments before, that he was texting his wife, and telling her what was going on.
“So we’re trying to find a missing girl?” said Marcie, confirming my suspicions. “Rufus will find her for us, won’t you, boy?”
“Yes, Marcie,” said Rufus happily, cocking an eyebrow at Harriet as if saying, ‘See? They believe in me.’
And just when we were about to set out on our adventure, suddenly one more addition appeared on the scene in the form of Fifi. “I escaped, you guys,” she said, panting happily. “But don’t tell Kurt, okay?”
“We won’t,” I assured the tiny doggie.
“So what’s going on?”
“We’re looking for a missing girl,” Rufus said, and gestured once more to that poster on the lamppost. “And we could sure use your help, Fifi.”
“You got it, Chief!” said Fifi. “Let’s go!”
6
“So what do you think, Uncle Alec?” asked Odelia.
“I have absolutely no idea,” her uncle grumbled as he dragged a hand across his scalp.
Abe Cornwall, the county coroner, hadn’t arrived yet—they all hoped he would be able to tell them what was going on, and if a crime had been committed here. “What do you think, Chase?” she asked her husband, who stood inspecting the nearby car wreck.
“I think whoever owns this piece of junk should probably get rid of it,” he grunted.
“I can tell you who owns it, but it won’t do you much good,” said the Chief. “Blake Carrington owns the land, and that wreck used to belong to his son Steven, who wrecked it in a street car race one night about ten years ago.”