by Nic Saint
Uncle Alec grumbled something. He was part of that history, Jack being his dad.
“So how did you finally reconnect?” asked Philippe.
“He left a message on my Facebook page,” said Grandma.
They all looked at her. “You have a Facebook page?” asked Odelia.
“Sure I do. No thanks to you people. I had to set it up all by myself.”
“What do you need a Facebook page for?” asked Uncle Alec.
“Where else am I going to meet some nice boys?”
Alec raised his eyes to the ceiling again. “Why do you need to meet nice boys?”
“You may not want to hear this but a girl’s got needs,” she snapped. “And since all the nice boys are taken or on the Facebook I made myself a page. With some help from Dick Bernstein and Rock Horowitz from the senior center. They were only too happy to oblige.”
Alec pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something. It sounded like a prayer.
“Grandpa told me he met a woman online,” said Philippe.
Grandma tapped her chest. “I’m that woman, kiddo.”
“So he reached out to you?” asked Odelia.
“He sure did. Said he remembered me fondly and wanted to apologize about never writing to me back in the day. Turns out his folks discovered he’d been seeing some local hussy—that’s me,” she added proudly, “and wanted to break up the affair before things got serious. He did write me, he said, but his parents intercepted his letters and burned them.”
“Just like The Notebook,” said Chase quietly.
“I was supposed to meet him here today,” Grandma continued. “For our grand reunion. And now you tell me he’s dead!”
“At least in The Notebook they were together at the end,” Odelia said.
Philippe wiped away a tear. “What an amazing story.”
“Yeah, pretty swell, huh?” said Gran. She smacked her lips. “Burt promised me apple pie. Do you think he ordered and paid in advance? I could use a piece of warm apple pie.”
Just then, another elderly lady stomped into the hotel lobby. Odelia recognized her as Scarlett Canyon. She was Gran’s age but looked years younger. The Hampton Cove scuttlebutt had it that Scarlett had had work done on her face, which looked suspiciously wrinkle-free. It lent her an unnatural look, her lips puffy and her eyes cat-like. She also had an impressive décolletage that she liked to play up by wearing dresses a few sizes too small.
“Vesta Muffin!” she roared the moment she walked in. “You whore!”
Grandma shot to her feet. “Look who’s talking!” she retorted furiously.
“Who’s this now?” Chase asked.
“Scarlett Canyon,” Odelia said. “She hates Gran’s guts. And vice versa.”
Rumor also had it that Scarlett had once tried to seduce Gran’s husband Jack and succeeded. The couple had stayed together but Gran had never forgiven either Scarlett, her former best friend, or her husband, who’d proceeded to drink himself into an early grave. The drinking had nothing to do with Scarlett, though. The man had been a closet alcoholic.
“Burt was my lover!” Scarlett cried, waving her arms dramatically. “Not yours!”
“Is it just me or does she remind you of Elizabeth Taylor?” asked Chase.
“Tell her. You’ll make her day,” Odelia said.
“Burt was mine—all mine!” Gran returned.
Philippe was staring from one old lady to the other, visibly confused that the scene had so abruptly switched from The Notebook to an episode of Feud.
“He always told me he loved me more,” claimed Scarlett.
“That was before he met me,” said Grandma.
“Impossible! Burt liked a woman with curves! Not a bag of bones.”
“Burt liked women—not skanks who prey on other women’s husbands.”
“Oh, boy,” said Chase. “Maybe we should break this up.”
“Maybe you’re right. Before these ladies break the internet.” She gestured to several people filming the scene with their smartphones. Everybody likes free entertainment.
But before Chase could intervene, Scarlett broke down in tears, swooping down on one of the sofas and tremulously declaring, “My lover is dead. Now my life is over.”
Philippe, who’d been following the interaction with breathless anticipation, suddenly asked, “So who of you is my grandmother?”
Both ladies looked up in confusion. “Huh?” asked Scarlett eloquently.
The kid was wringing his hands, his face flushed. “My dad always told me his mother was a woman Burt had loved and lost in the Hamptons. So one of you must be her.”
“I was wrong,” said Chase. “This isn’t The Notebook. This is The Bold and the Beautiful.”
And to add credence to his claim, suddenly Gran cried out, “Me! I’m your grandmother, my sweet, dear boy. It’s me!”
Philippe’s face cleared and he opened his arms to hug his newfound relative.
Uncle Alec appeared confused. “How can you be his grandmother? Wouldn’t you remember giving birth to a second son?”
Gran shrugged. “You try to remember everything that happened to you when you’re my age.”
“Don’t you believe her! Vesta is not your grandmother!” suddenly cried Scarlett, rearing up from the sofa like an opera star and approaching Philippe. “My precious boy. You finally found me.” She then threw out her hands and without warning clutched the kid to her ample chest. “My lovely, beautiful boy! My precious, precious grandson! My beloved Pierre!”
“Philippe,” the kid managed from between the massive mammaries.
“Whatever.”
Uncle Alec blew out a sigh. “Oh, boy.”
Chapter 7
Dooley and I were wandering along the street. It had been tough to get Dooley to relinquish his spot on the ground and return animation to his listless form but finally I’d managed. I’d told him Kingman, whose owner runs the General Store on Main Street, was the town’s expert on fleas, and that if anyone would know how to fight this infestation it was him.
“Do you really think Kingman can help us?” Dooley asked for the umpteenth time.
“Yes, I really think Kingman can help us,” I replied. In actual fact Kingman couldn’t save us if his life depended on it. But I had to get away from Harriet and Brutus who were the perfect double act to lead me straight into a nervous breakdown. As if the fleas weren’t bad enough, now I had to cure Brutus’s performance anxiety? Give me a break.
So a nice walk was exactly what the doctor ordered.
Soon I felt my mood lift. The slight breeze ruffling my furry flanks. The sun casting its golden rays upon a near picture-perfect world. Sidewalks full of happy people pushing strollers. Kids gurgling cheerfully. Moms merrily gossiping about other moms. I even liked the sight of all the dogs that pranced around, restrained by those nice sturdy leashes and collars.
That’s how you can tell the difference between a dog and a cat: a cat will never allow a human to put a collar or a leash on them. Cats are free-roaming spirits, not slaves like dogs.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” I told Dooley. “Odelia will fix this.”
“I thought Kingman would fix this?”
“Someone will fix this,” I said, my confidence in the happy solution returning.
“I wonder who patient zero is.”
“Patient zero?”
“Don’t you remember from the movie? Gwyneth was patient zero. She got the virus from bat and pig poop after she shook hands with the chef who hadn’t washed his hands.”
“I don’t think it was bat and pig poop, exactly.”
“It was some creature’s poop.” He turned to me, his tail swishing excitedly. “We need to find our patient zero so we can save the world.”
“Maybe we should focus on saving ourselves.”
“It’s too late for us, Max. Even Rose from Titanic didn’t make it.”
“Oh, will you please forget about Rose from Titanic! It was just a mo
vie!”
He didn’t speak for a moment, then said somberly, “I’ll bet I’m Rose. And I’ll bet you’re Morpheus from The Matrix and you get to live. Or maybe you’re Matt Damon.”
“I’m not Matt Damon and you’re not Rose! It’s fleas, Dooley. Stupid fleas!”
“It’s an infestation,” he said stubbornly. “And we saw that movie for a reason.”
“Not everything happens for a reason, Dooley.”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“Not everything.”
“Everything.”
“Oh, God!”
We walked on in silence for a moment. My happy mood dampened, I suddenly wished that instead of Contagion we’d seen Ratatouille. It was also about a group of critters but these critters lived in Paris and they could cook. I was pretty sure Dooley’s outlook would improve if I could convince him fleas were happy little critters who enjoyed cooking.
We’d arrived downtown and were walking along Main Street, with its throngs of shoppers, honking cars and busy shops, when we noticed a peculiar scene. The hotel across the street from Kingman’s General Store had one of its windows blown out, as if a fire had raged through it. And down on the sidewalk a sort of tent had been put up, with funny-looking people in white coveralls hovering about. They looked like astronauts.
“What’s going on over there?” I asked.
Dooley barely glanced up. “Who cares?” he said. “We’re all going to be dead soon.”
“Nice attitude.”
“It’s true. Nothing Kingman or anyone else can do about it.”
“Shall I tell you something that will cheer you up?”
He shrugged. “Nothing can cheer me up.”
“Do you want to know what Brutus told me in confidence?”
He sighed. “What?”
“He’s having trouble with his cathood.”
Dooley frowned. “Trouble with…”
“His machinery.”
He gave me a blank look and I could see I would have to spell this out.
“His pee-pee has stopped working.”
He blinked. “He can’t go wee-wee anymore?”
“I suppose he can—it’s the other thing he can’t do anymore.”
“What other thing?”
“Sex, Dooley. Brutus can’t have sex anymore.”
His lips formed a perfect O, and for the first time since the fateful discovery of the flea issue, a smile slowly crept up his face, until he was softly chuckling. Dooley has never liked Brutus very much, mainly because he’s had a lifelong infatuation with Harriet. So when Brutus swept in and swept the prissy Persian off her paws, it didn’t endear him to Dooley.
“Brutus can’t get it up?” he chuckled.
“That seems to be the gist of it.”
“And I thought we were screwed.”
“The best part is that he’s asked me to help him.”
Now he was laughing outright. “You told him no, right?”
“Oh, no, I told him I would help him. Why wouldn’t I?”
He abruptly stopped laughing. “You’re going to help him?”
“Of course. He’s a fellow feline. I believe in helping out my fellow feline.”
“Very noble of you, Max,” he said, a scowl returning to his face.
“He’d do the same for me.”
“I’m sure he would.”
“He’s not a bad cat, you know.”
“Oh, he’s a real prince.”
I sighed. Dooley really was insufferable today. I decided to let it go.
We’d arrived at the General Store and I saw that Kingman wasn’t occupying his usual perch on the checkout counter inside the store but instead sat holding court outside. And just like his owner, he seemed awfully interested in the happenings across the street.
“Hey, Max, Dooley,” he said, never taking his eyes off the Hampton Cove Star.
“We need your advice, Kingman,” I said by way of greeting.
Before he could respond, Kingman suddenly broke into a strange breakdancing movement, his body shivering and convulsing while he tried to scratch a spot on his lower back. I could have told him this was impossible. There are spots even the most agile of cats simply cannot reach, and Kingman, an impressively fat piebald, was never the most agile of cats, even in his prime. He finally seemed to realize this and resorted to applying his tongue to the area, licking up a storm. Finally he gave up and said in a low voice, “Stupid critters.”
And then I got it. Kingman had fleas!
“Oh, no,” said Dooley, who’d come to the same conclusion. “Kingman!”
“Yeah, I got ‘em. Everybody’s got ‘em.”
In that moment, as if to confirm his words, both Dooley and I broke into an equally spastic version of the flea breakdance. When Kingman raised an eyebrow, I confirmed the sad news. “We got ‘em, too.”
“Sure you do. Like I said, everybody’s got ‘em. Every single cat in Hampton Cove. From the hoity-toity to the lowliest street cats, they’re all doing the flea dance today.”
“But how?” asked Dooley. “Where? I mean, who is patient zero?”
Kingman frowned. “Huh? What are you talking about?”
“The first one to get the fleas,” I explained. “He or she must have infected the others.”
“Who cares! We got ‘em. Now we gotta get rid of ‘em!” He leaned in. “Little piece of advice. Free of charge. Whatever you do, don’t tell your human. Never tell your human.”
We also leaned in, Dooley pricking up his ears, his eyes wide. “Why?” he asked.
Kingman slowly raised his paw, equally slowly extended a single claw, and tapped a strange contraption located around his neck.
It was… a collar!
Dooley and I both gasped.
I hadn’t seen the collar until now, buried as it was between Kingman’s multiple layers of skin and flab and hidden beneath his bristly white-and-black fur.
Kingman gave us a sad nod. “Take a good look, fellas. This is what happens when you tell your human you got fleas. They put the collar on you!”
I stared at the thing in abject horror.
“But-but-but collars are for dogs!” Dooley cried. “Not cats—never cats!”
“Until we get fleas,” growled Kingman. “So don’t be like me, boys. No matter how much it itches. No matter how much they bite. Don’t scratch yourselves in front of your human. They will inspect you. They will discover the fleas. And they will give you the collar.” He shook his head. “You can’t imagine the humiliation. The howls of derision I get from every single canine that passes my store. Laughing in my face. Calling me names. Let me tell you—better to grin and bear those damn fleas than to be subjected to this—this agony!”
Dooley gasped, and turned to me. Our eyes met and I could see my own terror reflected in his widening pupils.
Chase knew.
Chase would tell Odelia.
Odelia would take us to Vena.
And Vena would give us the collar!
Dooley was right. We were dead. Dead!
Chapter 8
While Grandma and her nemesis Scarlett Canyon fought over the affections of Philippe Goldsmith, Odelia decided to drop by the house. Her uncle would deal with Gran and the fallout of this Goldsmith business. Chase would deal with the police investigation into the death of the old man. But no one would deal with perhaps the more urgent business of four cats left to their own devices and suffering from a painful attack of fleas.
She walked out of the hotel lobby and out into the street, her phone pressed to her ear. Vena picked up within seconds and when she explained about her felines’ predicament, the veterinarian was only too happy to squeeze her in between her other appointments.
“I don’t mind telling you it’s been one hell of a morning, darling,” said Vena. “It’s almost as if the entire cat population of Hampton Cove has been infested with this pest overnight. I’m almost out of drops and it’s not even noon yet! But drop by with
your cats and we’ll get rid of those pests ASAP!”
As she was talking to Vena, Odelia’s eyes drifted across the street and who would she see but the very cats she was discussing! They were gabbing with Kingman, Wilbur Vickery’s chubby piebald, and judging from the expression on Dooley’s face the conversation had just turned deadly serious.
After assuring Vena she would be there within the half hour, she quickly crossed the street and joined her two felines.
“Hey babes,” she said as she crouched down next to Max and Dooley and tickled their necks. “I heard what happened. Are you in a lot of pain?”
Max gave her a hesitant look—not the kind of look he usually directed at her. Almost as if he were… afraid of her. Hard to believe, of course. She was the kind of pet owner who was adored by her pets. Always doing what was best for her little darlings—giving them the best chow on the market—allowing them to sleep at the foot of the bed—giving them cuddles and lavishing all her attention on them at every possible occasion.
“It’s not that it’s painful, Odelia,” said Dooley with a shaky voice, as if he’d just learned a terrible truth. “It’s that it’s so incredibly itchy.”
And to demonstrate the truthfulness of his words, he broke into a complicated set of movements, scratching pretty much every surface of his body that he could reach with his hind paws and applying tongue and teeth to the rest.
“Oh, you poor darlings,” she said, getting up. “Let’s go, shall we? I made an appointment with Vena. She’s waiting.”
Max and Dooley’s eyes turned to Kingman, who gave them an ‘I told you so’ look and then shook his head sadly, returning indoors. She now saw he was wearing a flea collar. So he had caught the affliction, too. If what Vena said was true, every local cat had. She wondered what had started the infestation. Who, in other words, was Hampton Cove’s patient zero? Probably some street cat like Clarice, who liked to roam the streets and snack from garbage dumps all across town.