Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Advice. Purrfect Passion. A Purrfect Gnomeful

“How much longer?” asked Scarlett, yawning cavernously.

“Shouldn’t be much longer, I think,” said Vesta, who was feeling the strain. It was all well and good to start a neighborhood watch, but these all-night vigils were not really her cup of tea.

“Please tell me again why you picked this place to stake out?”

“Because Kinnard is the town’s most avid gnome collector, and if some gang is targeting gnomes this is the place where they’ll strike next.”

It was clear from Kinnard’s front yard that he was indeed a big gnome lover: no less than fifty gnomes littered the patch of green, the pointy-hatted creatures covering the lawn like a rash. There were even several gnomes dangling from the gutter, Santa style.

“I think they’re creepy,” said Scarlett. “I mean, how anyone can like those creepy things is frankly beyond me.”

“It takes all kinds of people, I guess,” said Vesta, who agreed with her friend’s assessment. She would go one step further and figure people who loved gnomes as garden ornaments probably should see a shrink. But that was just her, of course.

“Do you think this has got something to do with Maria Power?”

“Could be,” Vesta allowed.

“They seem to be into gnomes. All of them.”

Vesta had laughed when she’d watched her son and his girlfriend change into the gnome costumes for the Maria Power retrospective, but not as much as Scarlett had. The latter almost had a fit as she watched the two gnomes try to squeeze into Alec’s squad car. If it was tough to walk around dressed as a gnome it was even tougher to drive.

“I think they’re all nuts,” said Scarlett. “In fact I think you and I are the only two sane people in this whole town.”

“You’re not wrong,” Vesta said. Suddenly, she thought she saw movement across the street. She grabbed her friend’s arm. “Scarlett, look!”

“What?” asked Scarlett, who’d sagged in her seat and had placed her feet on the dash. She crawled into an upright position with some effort and watched eagerly where Vesta was pointing. “Damn, you’re right. It’s them!”

Two figures, dressed in black, staying in the shadows, had snuck into Kinnard’s yard and were busily picking up gnomes and tucking them into large plastic bags.

“Let’s go,” said Vesta, and quietly opened the car door and got out noiselessly. She was wearing her white sneakers and tip-toed across the street, eager to catch the dastardly doofuses in the act.

Behind her, though, a click-clacking sound made her look up. It was Scarlett, on her stilettos, negotiating the tarmac in her own typical manner: dressed to the nines, and making a great deal of noise.

The sound of the stiletto heels had alerted the thieves, too, for they both grabbed the two black plastic bags and before Vesta had crossed the street were already hauling ass.

“Hey! Come back here, you punks!” she yelled, shaking her fist.

“Some other time, grandma!” one of the thieves yelled, and both of them disappeared into the night, laughing all the while.

Scarlett, finally arriving, was panting. “Why didn’t you chase them?” she asked.

“Why couldn’t you be more quiet?” Vesta shot back.

They stared after the thieves, and Scarlett said, “Oh, well. At least you got a good look at them, right?” When Vesta didn’t respond, she repeated, “Right?”

“No, of course I didn’t get a good look at them. They heard us coming a mile away!”

Scarlett looked down at her Louboutins. “Yeah, maybe not the best outfit for a stakeout after all.”

“You think?!”

Inside the house, the lights had come on, and Kinnard Daym now appeared in the door, dressed in his night robe. “What’s going on here?” he asked, looking sleepy. He was a bespectacled little man, with a respectable mustache. He used to run the local liquor store, but had retired since. When his eye fell on his patch of front lawn, he actually yelped in horror and shock. “My gnomes! What happened to my gnomes?!”

“Two thieves took them,” said Scarlett. “But don’t worry, Kinnard. We’re going to do everything in our power to get them back.” And to show the retired shopkeeper that she meant business she handed him a card.

Kinnard read it. “Neighborhood watch. Your safety is our concern.” He looked up and stared for a moment at the two old ladies, one looking like an aged prostitute, the other an Estelle Getty lookalike, complete with fluorescent pink-and-purple tracksuit, large glasses and white curly hair. He closed his eyes. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Chapter 18

The next morning I woke up with the strange sensation that someone was watching me. Opening my eyes, I discovered that someone actually was! Harriet was looking at me in a way I don’t think she’s ever looked at me before.

It was disconcerting, to be honest.

“What?” I muttered. Most cats are immediately awake when they open their eyes, and on most days so am I. But after the disastrous encounter with the mice I hadn’t slept well, and I was feeling that if only I could have slept another couple of hours I’d be right as rain again.

But clearly Harriet had other plans. She was looking uncharacteristically chipper and bright, and was smiling at me in an inane fashion.

We were at the foot of Odelia’s bed as usual, though oftentimes Harriet and Brutus like to sleep at the foot of Gran’s bed instead. More space, if you see what I mean.

“What’s going on, Max?” asked Dooley, who was right next to me and stretched himself out languorously.

“I don’t know. Harriet is staring at me,” I said, and I was frankly starting to get a little worried. It was that smile, you see. The same smile clowns like to use to scare children out of their wits.

“Max,” said Harriet. “I have a great idea.”

“Oh?” I said carefully.

“About the mice.”

I groaned. “Not again.”

“No, but listen to me. Hear me out. Bear with me for a second here. So the mice aren’t scared of Rufus and they’re not scared of you or me or Dooley or Brutus, right?”

“Why did she name me last?” muttered Brutus, who was lying on Harriet’s other side, right on top of where Chase’s feet would have been if the lanky cop hadn’t curled up into a ball to give us cats some space. The trouble our humans go to.

“So if the mice aren’t scared of cats or big dogs, maybe they’re scared of small dogs,” Harriet suggested. “I mean, it’s the same thing with people. Some of them are scared of big dogs and others are scared of the little ones.”

“So?” I said, wondering where she was going with this.

“So why don’t we ask Fifi?”

I thought for a moment. It was still early, and I needed to compute her message. “Oh, right, Fifi,” I said finally, remembering that our next-door-neighbor Kurt Mayfield’s Yorkshire Terrier’s name is Fifi.

“I don’t know, sweet puss,” said Brutus. “Fifi is probably more afraid of mice than the mice are of her.”

He was right, of course. Fifi is one of those timid dogs that are scared of their own shadow. She might run like the wind at the sight of two hundred mice.

“It’s worth a shot,” I said nevertheless. At this point I was willing to try anything to get rid of these mice, even the unorthodox method of enlisting a dog smaller than myself.

“Great,” said Harriet. “That’s settled then. I’ll talk to Fifi and tonight we’ll take another shot at the mice.”

She looked pleased as punch and I smiled in spite of my misgivings. “It’s very nice of you to do this, Harriet,” I said. “Very nice indeed.”

She frowned. “I’m not doing this for you, Max. I’m doing this for me. It’s my food, too, you know, and my house.”