by Nic Saint
“Um…”
“Didn’t think so,” he muttered, then walked off after Chase, shaking his head and muttering something about meddling nieces under his breath.
Odelia just hoped the evidence wouldn’t be thrown out of court because of this search warrant thingie.
At her feet, Max and Dooley had arrived, along with Brutus. Of Harriet no trace.
She squatted down and scratched her cats behind the ears. “You did well, guys. We caught the killer. This must be some kind of new record. Dany was killed this afternoon, and less than twelve hours later her killer is in police custody.”
“I don’t think he did it, though,” said Max, surprising Odelia.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Not what, who. We talked to Ringo.”
“Who?”
“Ringo? Wolf’s Chihuahua?”
“And a very nice doggie he is,” Dooley added. “Just like you said.”
“He told us Wolf was right by his side when Dany was killed.”
“He witnessed the murder?”
“He did. He didn’t see the killer’s face, though.”
“He did tell us to talk to Mr. Owl,” said Dooley.
“Mr. Owl,” she said dubiously.
“It’s an owl that lives in the tree Dany was killed under,” Max explained. “He must have seen the whole thing. We’re hoping he’ll give us a description of the killer.”
“Can you take us to the park?” Dooley asked. “Owls are nocturnal creatures. Tomorrow he’ll probably be asleep.”
She threw up her hands. “I guess so.” Sometimes she felt more like a taxi service for her cats than anything else. Then again, if Ringo was right, Wolf couldn’t be the killer.
“But we found the yellow parka hanging in his closet. It still had Dany’s blood all over it.”
“The killer could have put it there,” said Max.
“Or maybe Ringo is lying,” she offered. “Have you considered that? He could be lying to protect Wolf.” Max and Dooley surprised her by bursting out laughing. “What’s so funny?”
“If you knew Ringo like we know him, you’d know he’s incapable of lying.”
“He’s very naive,” said Dooley. “Unlike us cats, dogs are very naive, trusting creatures.”
Odelia turned to Brutus, who looked shell-shocked. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Brutus had a near-death experience again,” said Max. “The third in a row.”
“I told him it’s just like those Final Destination movies,” said Dooley.
“Dooley,” said Max warningly. “Not now.”
“But it’s true!”
“I fell to my death again,” said Brutus, as if waking up from a stupor. “I was falling and falling and then I landed on something soft and squishy.”
“A fat human,” Dooley said.
“We don’t call people fat, Dooley,” said Odelia. “It’s not a nice word.”
“So what do we call them then?”
“Big-boned,” said Odelia with a mischievous glance at Max.
Max frowned. “I’m big-boned. But would you call me fat?”
“You do tend to overindulge from time to time, Max,” she said.
“Just like the guy who saved my life, and a good thing he does,” said Brutus. He glanced around. “Um, where’s Harriet?”
“I think she left,” said Dooley.
“I saw her before she took off,” said Max. “She said she was going for a walk. She needed to think and put some things into perspective.”
“Perspective?” said Brutus. “Is that the word she used?”
Max nodded.
“Huh.”
“Okay, you guys,” said Odelia. “Let’s go and see this Mr. Owl. It’s late and I really need to catch some Z’s.”
Chapter 27
Odelia parked her car near the entrance to the park, we all hopped out, and then were on our way to the notorious tree for our interview with an owl. I’d never talked to an owl before, and I was really looking forward to a tête-à-tête with one of these wise old birds.
There’s just something about owls that tickles my imagination. They’re fascinating creatures. Apart from that, they’re also birds, of course, and for some reason cats are intrigued by birds as a rule. Not to eat them, mind you—though there are those amongst my species who will do anything to get their claws on a feathered friend—but to watch as they flit to and fro. In fact I can watch birds twitter and frolic in a tree for hours. I guess where humans love to people-watch, cats love to bird-watch. And we don’t even need binoculars.
I’d told Odelia not to wait—that we’d find our own way home, and judging from the rattling sound her muffler made as she took off, she’d taken this advice to heart.
Parks, and perhaps other public places too, are quite different at night than during the day. Apart from the fact that lovers seem to flock to parks in the middle of the night—I’m referring to Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts in Notting Hill—there’s a preternatural quiet that descends over a park once the sun decides to call it a night. A hush that lies over the area like a blanket. In jungles, nocturnal animals crawl out of their hiding places and create a symphony of sound. In parks? Nothing. Not even the hiss of a snake or the chirp of a cricket.
It’s almost as if all of nature sleeps. Except cats, of course. We gather in the park for cat choir. And already, as we set paw for the tree where only hours before a young woman had met her tragic end, meows and screeches rent the air, and it was obvious that Shanille, cat choir’s director, had gathered her troops and they were all giving of their best.
“Too bad we’re missing cat choir because of this murder investigation,” said Dooley, voicing my own thoughts exactly.
“That can’t be a coincidence, can it?” said Brutus.
“What are you talking about, Brutus?” I asked.
“Perspective! She said she needed to get a little perspective. And all this time I’ve been telling her this whole thing is a matter of perspective. One big misunderstanding. Maybe she’s finally starting to see things my way?”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” I said dryly. “Harriet sees things strictly her own way.”
“But why would she use that particular word? Perspective?”
“Because that’s what people do when they’re faced with a personal crisis: they take a walk to get some perspective.”
“Mh,” said Brutus, not convinced.
It was obvious he’d started to hope against hope that Harriet would take him back. I could have told him this was a waste of time. Harriet was not one to be convinced by an argument. If Brutus wanted to win her back, he’d have to make a grand gesture. And since this was essentially the biggest crisis their relationship had faced since its inception, the grander the gesture the better. What gesture he should perform? I had no idea. I’m not an expert on feline love. And frankly I had other things on my mind. Like finding this owl.
We’d arrived at the old oak tree and stood gazing up at its majestic branches.
“Yoo-hoo,” I hooted. “Mr. Owl? Could we please have a word? It’s important.”
No response. Not even a hoo-hoo-hoooooooo.
“I don’t think he’s home,” said Dooley after we’d waited some more.
Cats have pretty sharp eyes, and I was inclined to agree with Dooley. I didn’t detect any owl in this particular tree. It was, in other words, an owl-less tree.
“But where can he be? Ringo said he was sitting in this tree this afternoon—that this tree was his home.”
“And how would Ringo know what tree Mr. Owl calls home?” Dooley argued. “Maybe he was just taking a little break from his usual tree and decided to try out this tree for size. And when this woman was murdered, he decided the tree was no good and he flew off again to sit in his own tree. Owls do fly, don’t they?”
“They do,” I said, still gazing up. I was getting a crick in the neck but I wasn’t giving up. “Yoo-hoo,” I tried again. “We’
re friends of Ringo. The Chihuahua who was here this afternoon? He says you saw the murder that took place under your tree. He also says you probably saw the killer’s face. The thing is, we’re not just your regular garden-variety cats. We’re cat detectives. We detect. And right now we’re detecting the murder of that poor young woman. So if you could help us out here, we’d be very much obliged.”
“Oh, will you just shut up, already,” suddenly an irritable voice sounded from up above. It wasn’t the voice of God, at least I didn’t think so. So it was probably Mr. Owl.
“Mr. Owl,” I said, much relieved. “Is that you up there?”
“Please stop calling me Mr. Owl. I’m a lady not a gentleman. And if you dare call me Mrs. Owl I’m going to swoop down and bite you.”
“So what do we call you?”
“Rita,” she said after a moment’s hesitation.
“Great!” I said. “So, how about it, Rita? Can you help us out here?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “You’re cats.”
No argument there. We were cats. “That’s right.”
“So this is probably just a trick to get me to come out of this tree. And then you’ll pounce on me and eat me. So no can do, cat. Please go away, and don’t come back.”
“We would never pounce on you and eat you,” said Dooley. “Isn’t that right, Max?”
“Of course not. We’re not those kind of cats.”
“What are you talking about? You’re cats. Cats eat birds. I’m a bird. This is not rocket science. So take a hike, will you? You ain’t sweet-talking me out of this tree.”
“Like I said, we’re not like that,” I said. “We, um—”
“We’re vegetarians,” said Dooley.
Both Brutus and I stared at Dooley, who smiled winningly.
“Vegetarians. Really,” said Rita. She obviously wasn’t buying it.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I said, deciding to go with the flow. “Meat is murder, right?”
“So what do you eat?” she challenged.
“Um…” I cast about for a good alternative to meat. “Brown rice?”
“Yummy,” said Dooley, while Brutus winced.
“What else?” asked Rita. “What’s your favorite food?”
“Um... lentils?” I offered, though I could already feel my stomach churning.
“I like tofu,” said Dooley. “I can eat tofu for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”
“And what do you like, black cat?” asked Rita, still not convinced.
“I like, um, broccoli,” said Brutus, then gulped. “And quinoa.”
Silence reigned for a few moments while Rita considered this. There was a soft rustle, and she flew into view, taking perch on a lower branch. She was a big bird. Big and fluffy. She looked pretty yummy to me. I’d sworn to Odelia I’d never eat birds, though, and I intended to keep my promise. Brutus, though, who’d never made such a promise, stared at Rita, and already I could hear his stomach growl and see his eyes glaze over. We were all hungry, not having eaten in hours, and a juicy bird like Rita would have hit the spot just fine.
Instead, I said, “So. Can you tell us what happened here this afternoon?”
“Not much to tell,” said Rita. “A man stabbed a woman and left her to die. Happens all the time.” She shook her head. “Humans. They’re probably the most murderous species ever to roam this earth. Though Tyrannosaurus Rexes were no picnic either.”
I decided to ignore the philosophical musings and get right down to brass tacks. “Did you get a good look at the killer’s face?”
“Sure. He had a human face. That’s because he was a human,” she said, very logically, I thought.
“So, what did he look like?”
We all waited with bated breath for her response. This was the moment of the big reveal. The moment we’d all been waiting for. The moment we were going to learn the identity of the killer.
“How should I know?” said Rita. “Humans all look the same to me.”
Ugh. So she was one of those owls, huh?
“Yeah, they do look alike, but there are differences,” I pointed out. “Some humans have big noses, others have small noses. Some have freckles, some don’t. Some have blond hair, others have brown hair, some even have blue hair…”
She frowned, or at least I thought she did. Like with cats and fur, it’s tough to read between the feathers. “Well, he had a regular nose, I guess. Nothing to write home about. Regular face, regular build, regular mouth, regular arms, regular—”
“What color was his hair?”
“He wore one of those caps, with the bill covering the upper portion of his face.”
“Did he have a beard, mustache…”
“No beard, no mustache.”
“Color of his eyes?”
“Sunglasses,” she said with a shrug.
Dang it. “So what can you tell us about him? Any distinguishing features?”
She thought hard, then spread her wings. “I don’t know, all right? What is this? A third-degree? Why is this so important, anyway? Plenty of humans get killed all the time.”
“It’s important because Dany Cooper was a friend of our human.”
“Yeah, you may think humans all enjoy killing each other but that’s simply not true,” said Dooley. “Our human is a very nice human and she would never kill anyone. She just wouldn’t. In fact she dedicates her life to finding those nasty humans who do kill others.”
“It’s also against the law,” said Brutus. “The human law, that is.”
“Well…” The owl hesitated. “He did have one distinguishing feature that I thought was a little weird.”
“What was it?” I asked, suddenly excited again.
“He had an owl-shaped mole on the back of his hand, which I personally found insulting.”
“An owl-shaped mole?”
“Yup. On his right hand—the hand he stabbed the woman with. Very inappropriate. I mean, I admit to enjoying a nice, juicy mouse from time to time, but I’d never kill a fellow owl. That’s just so… human.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Only humans kill other humans.”
“That’s not entirely true, though,” said Dooley, surprising us. “There are plenty of species that kill their own. In fact the most murderous mammal species are meerkats. Meerkats kill twenty percent of their own kind.”
“Interesting,” I said, wondering why, oh why I had ever extolled the virtues of the Discovery Channel. He wasn’t finished, though. Like a real professor, he just droned on.
“It is true, however, that most mammal murders involve infanticide—the killing of babies. In meerkat society it’s the dominant female who routinely murders the pups of the subordinate females in their own group. Humans are part of a small group of mammals—among them lions, wolves and spotted hyenas—that routinely murder the adults of their own species. And of course humans are very creative to find ways to kill each other. Lions or wolves or spotted hyenas will never use poison or guns or knives or whatever to kill other lions or wolves or spotted hyenas.”
“That’s fine, Dooley,” I muttered.
“You’re very smart, for a cat,” said Rita appreciatively.
“One of Gran’s soaps is on hiatus so I’ve been watching the Discovery Channel.”
“I can tell,” I said.
At any rate, we’d gotten what we’d come here to find. Now all we needed to do was find out if Wolf Langdon had a mole on his hand in the shape of an owl. If he had, Ringo had been lying to us when he said Wolf was standing right next to him when Dany was killed.
We thanked Rita profusely and I like to think that we left her with the impression that not all cats are vicious bird-eaters.
“I only wish more cats were like you!” she said. “Vegetarians, I mean.”
We took our leave, and as we walked away, Brutus said, “I hate broccoli. And quinoa.”
“And I hate lentils,” I said.
“I actually like tofu,” said Dooley. “I think I
could get used to it.”
“It’s all matter of perspective,” I said with a grin.
Brutus didn’t even crack a smile.
Probably too soon.
Chapter 28
As she was driving home, Odelia got a message from her uncle.
‘If you’re going to inject yourself into this investigation, you might as well drop down to the station to watch the interview.’
She smiled, performed a quick U-turn and headed down to the station. She didn’t particularly enjoy police interviews, but she did want to see what Wolf had to say for himself. Even though her cats were pretty convinced the director had nothing to do with Dany’s murder, the presence of that yellow parka in his closet proved otherwise. As Chase had said, it was an open-and-shut case. One of those cases where the killer is so cocky he trips up even before the person he murdered has arrived at the morgue.
She parked in front of the station house and quickly hurried inside, not even bothering to lock up her car. The pickup was so old and decrepit no one in their right mind would steal it.
She arrived at the interview room at the back of the station, and when she entered found her uncle already standing at the two-way mirror.
He looked up when she entered. “I thought you’d want to see this.”
“Thanks, uncle,” she said, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.
“I know it’s hopeless to try and keep you from putting your sleuth cap on, but you can’t blame me for trying,” he said in response. “Especially considering how much the victim resembled you.”
“Well, you were wrong about me being the killer’s target.”
“It would appear so,” he said cautiously.
She thought about Brutus almost being run over, but decided not to mention the fact. That was probably a coincidence. There was, after all, probably more than one person dressed in a yellow parka driving around Hampton Cove.
In the interview room, Chase and Wolf sat, the director uncharacteristically ill at ease. His hair was a mess, and so was his beard, and he was still dressed in his silk pajamas.
“I didn’t do it, detective!” he exclaimed. “You have to believe me! I liked that girl. She had a gift. Why would I kill a promising young talent like that!”