by Nic Saint
“I think it’s a great idea,” said Brutus. “It’s going to blow the roof off that old church. It’s going to attract a lot of attention and show the world what cat choir can really do.”
“Thanks, snuggle bunny,” said Harriet.
“And especially your star performance, of course, sugar lips,” her mate continued, unabashedly plugging Harriet’s qualities as a soprano.
“Thanks, my wuggle bear.”
“I don’t know, Harriet,” said Gran. “We’d have to sell Francis on the idea, and you know what that stubborn old fool is like.”
“No, what is he like?” asked Harriet.
“Old-fashioned. Anything that’s new or hip or cool is a hard pass with that man.” She was frowning before her into the dark night, as if picturing the aged priest and thinking hard thoughts about his capacity for embracing Harriet’s idea—which I was sure Gran had now taken on board and had magically transformed into her own idea.
“Well, can’t you at least talk to him?” asked Harriet.
“Oh, sure, but I can’t promise you he’ll agree.”
“But you have to try, Gran,” said Harriet. “You have to do the best you can.”
“And I will. Of course I will.”
Harriet cheered up considerably at these words. “So you think it’s a good idea?”
“Absolutely. I think it’s just as you say. It’s going to be a big smash. Now all we need to do is convince that old nincompoop…”
Her words died away, for suddenly a car was approaching. It had its lights turned off, and was cruising very slowly in our direction!
“This is it,” said Gran, sitting up. “The killer is back!”
“You were right, Vesta!” Scarlett cried excitedly.
“Of course I was right. When have you ever known me not to be right!”
“How do we handle this?” said Scarlett, as she nervously shifted in her seat. “We can’t let him get away.”
“You take the stun gun, I’ll take the shotgun, and as for the others…” She cast a quick glance at the backseat, where four cats sat at attention, ready to do their bit. “You make sure that when this guy makes a run for it, you grab him and grab him good, all right?”
“Aye-aye, captain!” Brutus bellowed.
And so it was arranged: Gran and Scarlett would form the advance troops, ready to hit the killer by surprise, and the four of us would hold back, and make sure that if the killer managed to evade two old ladies armed to the teeth, we’d bite them in the ankles or do whatever else it took to incapacitate Neda’s vicious attacker!
Gran and Scarlett carefully opened their respective doors, after Gran had had the presence of mind to disable that little car light that annoyingly announces to anyone and sundry that something is going down, and slowly got out.
The killer’s car had parked three cars in front of us, so while Gran kept to the left side, and used the intervening cars as cover, Scarlett did the same thing on the right side.
A two-pronged attack!
And as for us? We simply crept underneath the vehicles, making sure we stayed in the shadows.
Soon Gran had reached the car parked right behind the killer, and Scarlett was waiting in the right wing for Gran’s signal announcing their surprise attack.
Then Gran suddenly hissed, “Now!” and both women sprung the trap, Gran securing the driver’s side door and Scarlett the passenger side door. They both yanked open their designated doors, while four cats sat watching on with bated breath, claws out!
Judging from Gran’s face, though, the identity of the killer surprised her a great deal, for she momentarily reeled. And then she said, “What the hell are you doing here!”
“I could ask you the same thing,” an irritable voice sounded from within the car.
“I should have known it was you,” said Scarlett, sounding disappointed.
And then the killer emerged from the car—or the two killers, actually.
They were, reading from left to right: Wilbur Vickery and Father Reilly!
16
Wilbur and Father Reilly had had the exact same idea as Gran and had decided that if the killer returned to the scene of the crime, they’d be the ones to nab them.
“You know this isn’t your neighborhood, right?” said Gran. “This is our neighborhood, and you have no business here.”
“According to this map this is our neighborhood,” said Wilbur, as he stabbed a stubby finger at an old map, which he’d placed on the hood of his car.
“What is that, Max?” asked Dooley.
“That is a map, Dooley,” I said.
“A map? But it’s made of paper.”
“Maps used to be made of paper,” I told him, “before Google took over, and GPS.”
“Don’t you remember those movies where X marks the spot, Dooley?” asked Harriet. “Treasure maps and that kind of thing?”
“Oh, sure,” he said, then his eyes went wide with excitement. “Is that a treasure map Wilbur is holding? Are we going to hunt for treasure?”
“No, Dooley, it’s just a map of Hampton Cove,” I said.
“And it wouldn’t surprise me if that wasn’t the map that was drawn up when the two neighborhood watches signed their famous peace treaty,” Brutus grunted.
“Look, this is the line we agreed upon,” said Wilbur. Four members of two different neighborhood watches were now bent over the map, intently studying it. “And here is the house of Neda Hoeppner, see?”’
“Oh, I see, all right,” said Gran. “I can see that Neda’s house is in our part of town.”
“It’s on the demarcation line, actually,” said Father Reilly. “Right on the line, in fact.”
“So what does that mean?” asked Scarlett.
“That means that we apply the principle we agreed to,” said Gran. “The South side of the street is yours, the North side is ours. And as you can clearly see, Neda’s house is on the North side, which means this is our turf, Vickery. So you better scram.”
“I thought they’d agreed to divvy up the night, not the town?” said Brutus.
“They signed an amendment to the original treaty last week,” I explained.
“I don’t see it that way,” Wilbur protested. “The line is clearly drawn on top of Neda’s house.”
“That’s because you can’t draw,” Gran said unhappily. “Obviously the line was supposed to go right down the middle of the street, with one side of the street ours, the other side yours. Only you messed up again, Vickery.”
“No, I think this was done intentionally,” said Father Reilly. “We divvied up the streets and houses in the fairest way possible, remember? We even asked Charlene Butterwick to give us access to the most recent census, to make sure we have an equal number of citizens under our jurisdiction.”
“See?” said Wilbur triumphantly. “Neda’s house is mine!”
“Ours,” Father Reilly corrected him mildly.
“Oh, nonsense,” said Gran, but even she had to admit that the aged priest just might have a point.
“Gran!” Harriet hissed. “Ask him about the choir!”
“Okay, so I’m going to let this one slide for now,” said Gran, “but on one condition.”
Wilbur gave her a look of suspicion. Long association with Vesta Muffin had made him aware of the fact that she took no prisoners, and she gave no presents. “What?”
“You have a concert coming up, Francis.”
“That’s right,” said Father Reilly. “At least if it will still happen. Now that we’ve lost Neda, we might have to postpone.”
“Don’t postpone. Simply tell people you’re dedicating the concert in Neda’s honor.”
“Oh, that’s not such a bad idea,” said the priest, nodding thoughtfully.
“It’s a brilliant idea. And what’s even more brilliant is what I’m going to tell you next. You know about cat choir, right?”
“Of course. My Shanille is part of that group of cats.”
“Not just a p
art—Shanille runs cat choir.”
“She does? My, my. She does take after her owner, doesn’t she?”
“What’s all this nonsense, Vesta?” asked Wilbur. “I thought we were discussing watch business and here you are yapping about your cats.”
“Your cat is also part of cat choir, Wilbur. In fact Kingman plays an important part.”
“He does, does he?” said Wilbur, slightly mollified. “Well, he is a proud and talented cat, of course. He gets that from me.”
“So how about we join both choirs, St. Theresa Choir and cat choir, for one unique concert? A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see two great professional choirs at work?”
Both men stared at her as if she’d finally lost her mind.
“Don’t just stand there looking like a couple of idiots—say something!”
“Well…” said Father Reilly, rubbing his chin.
“You’re nuts, Vesta,” said Wilbur, who wasn’t one for beating about the bush. “Cats? Singing in a choir? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!”
“They do sing, you know,” said Scarlett, piping up. “And they sing very nice, too.”
Both men turned to her, a little goggle-eyed. “You’ve heard them sing?” asked Wilbur.
“Oh, sure,” Scarlett lied. “And they can sing beautifully. Like little angels.”
“Little angels?” asked Father Reilly, as if suddenly seeing the light.
“Absolutely. When you hear these cats sing it’s almost as if you’re transported to a different place—a different world.”
A world of bleeding ears, I thought as I listened to this nonsense. Look, I’m not saying cats can’t sing, but the cats of Hampton Cove certainly can’t. The only reason we spend time in cat choir is to have an excuse to shoot the breeze and spend some time together. Still, if Harriet thought this was a good idea, who was I to rain on her parade? After all, usually these concerts are accompanied by a small orchestra consisting of one or two violinists, a pianist if Father Reilly can wrangle one up, bass player, flutist, guitarist… It drowns out the terrible noise from the choir, you see, and makes people forget that fifty pensioners who just happen to think they can sing, aren’t necessarily right.
“This is a bad idea, Francis,” said Wilbur. “Take it from me.”
“No, but it is very original, isn’t it?” said Father Reilly, growing more excited by the second. “Imagine a chorus of darling little angels, led by my precious Shanille.”
“With a nice solo performance from me,” Harriet added.
“Will Kingman be included?” asked Wilbur, touching the hirsute appendage that set his face on fire. It looked itchy, though that could simply be the chili pepper association.
“Oh, sure. Kingman will be in the first row,” said Gran, really selling Harriet’s idea for all she was worth. “And since this has never been done before, tickets will fly out the door like hotcakes.”
“Tickets? What tickets?” asked Father Reilly, confused.
“You’re not going to put on a show like this without asking people to pay for the privilege, are you, Francis?”
“But we never ask for money,” said the priest. “We just invite people to give whatever they can afford or think is fair.”
“I think a hundred bucks is fair.”
The howls of indignation rising up from both men told us they didn’t agree.
“Okay, so how about eighty, and we split the profit right down the middle—same way we divide Hampton Cove?” Gran suggested. “It’s only fair since this is my idea.”
I glanced at Harriet, and I could tell she wanted to say something, but kept her tongue. After all, it didn’t matter whose idea it was, as long as the plan was brought to fruition, right?
“Eighty bucks a pop… how many seats in the house, Francis? Two hundred? Split four ways, that makes… well, plenty of dough anyway.”
“Vesta, really,” said Father Reilly, shaking his head in dismay. “We can’t use the house of the Lord to make a profit.”
“Oh, like hell we can’t. You need gas in that tank of yours, don’t you?” she said, poking a finger in Wilbur’s chest. “And so do I. We spend all night keeping this town safe. Well, I say Hampton Cove owes us, and this is where they pay us some protection money.”
“Protection money! What is this, the Mafia!” said Wilbur, though his eyes were gleaming. Your small-town business owner knows the value of money, and can spot a good deal when he sees it. He now turned to his friend. “Francis, as much as it pains me to admit this, I think Vesta has a point.”
“So how about two shows?” said Vesta, well pleased that she had found an ally. “Or three or four? Heck, if this thing pans out we can take this show on the road! And then if Hollywood comes knocking, turn it into a movie!”
“Oh, dear,” I said as I turned away from these negotiations. Somehow I had the feeling that this new endeavor Gran had discovered wasn’t going to end well. But then what else was new.
Harriet, for her part, looked on with shiny eyes. “We’re going to be the new Hamilton, wookie,” she said to Brutus, who was slightly more reticent. “Broadway, Hollywood, here we come!”
17
That night cat choir was an exhilarated affair. Harriet had told the others about our upcoming appointment with greatness, and excited murmurings had quickly spread throughout Hampton Cove’s cat population, most of whom are members of cat choir.
“Did you hear that, Shanille?” asked Kingman. “We’re going to be singing at an actual concert—an actual live concert in front of an audience that doesn’t consist of a bunch of shoe-throwing rubes!”
“I heard,” said Shanille. She looked a little discombobulated, which was only to be expected, of course, since she now was going to be faced with the enormous responsibility of having to prepare the first-ever cat concert in the world! “Oh, my,” she said, as her chest rapidly rose and fell. “oh, my, my.”
“This is great news. We’re going to be famous, Shanille. If this goes well and this show goes on the road we’re talking Broadway, international tours, and then… Hollywood!”
“Oh, my,” Shanille repeated, and I could tell from her glittering eyes that she was picturing it all: the applause, the rave reviews, the accolades, maybe even an Emmy, a Grammy, an Oscar, a Tony! And I could see her mentally rehearse an acceptance speech, teary-eyed and in a quaking voice thanking her collaborators, her agent, her manager and of course her human for the tons of kibble over the years.
And while cat choir whipped itself up into a frenzy over this amazing opportunity, Dooley and I took a seat underneath the jungle gym and decided to take a load off. It had been a busy day, with not much opportunity for our usual nap. From the moment Neda’s body had been discovered by her faithful secretary, it had been one interview after another, and even though we may be experienced sleuths by now, we’re also cats, and cats need their nap time—preferably the whole eighteen hours of it!
“What do you think about this concert, Dooley?” I now asked as I placed my head on my front paws and let my eyes droop closed.
“I think it’s going to be great,” said my friend. “Though I’m not sure if Hampton Cove is ready for a cat choir concert.”
He eyed the shoe that had recently been thrown in our direction. It was a Nike shoe, though it had seen better days. No one ever throws new Nikes at us, only the old ones they don’t need anymore.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Well, we may think we’re good, but humans judge things by different standards, don’t they?”
“They most certainly do.”
“And frankly I don’t think we’re quite there yet.”
Harriet, who was over the moon with joy, now decided this was a good moment to sing one of her signature arias. It mainly consisted of a long caterwaul, which began quite modestly enough, in the lower register, then rose in ever-modulated intensity to the mid-range of her powerful voice, to end on a high note, one of those screeches that have the c
apacity to break glass, which luckily wasn’t available there in the park.
Promptly a large shoe came flying in her direction and hit her squarely in the snoot. It was one of Kanye West’s shoes, I saw. One of those weirdly-shaped Yeezys.
“Expensive shoe,” I commented as Harriet shook her head and scrabbled into an upright position again. “Two hundred bucks at least.”
“See what I mean, Max?” said my friend as Harriet resumed her practice, undaunted like a real diva should. Mariah Carey probably has been the target of many a Yeezy early in her career, and so has Céline, or even Whitney. And did it stop them? No, it didn’t.
“Yeah, I see what you mean, Dooley. Hampton Cove isn’t ready for cat choir taking the big stage, I’m afraid. But who’s going to listen to us?”
“Nobody.”
“So we’ll just relax and see what happens.” Which you might say is my motto in life.
“I was still thinking about Bonnie and Clyde, Max,” Dooley said now.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I’m starting to think that maybe Yoko is innocent after all.”
“And why do you think that?”
“Because Odelia found another witness who confirmed that Yoko was at the restaurant all morning. One of the customers.”
“Pity,” I said. “She sounded like a good suspect.”
“It’s hard, isn’t it, Max?”
“What is?”
“Well, here we are, trying to find out what happened to poor Neda, and these suspects, they just keep slipping through our paws like so much sand on the beach.”
I grinned. “I didn’t know you were a poet, Dooley.”
“No, but it’s true, isn’t it? It’s frustrating, Max, that’s what it is.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” I said as my eyes now drifted closed again. “You just have to keep going, and going, and going, and sooner or later you’ll get where you need to be.”
“If you say so,” said my friend, sounding a little dejected.
I opened my eyes again and regarded him sternly. “Don’t you go losing heart now, you hear? There’s still plenty of suspects, and we’re not giving up until we’ve nailed that one suspect that we can actually connect to this crime in a satisfactory manner.”