Ник Сайнт - Purrfectly Hidden. Purrfect Kill. Purrfect Boy Toy

“No, I guess you prefer your meals straight from the can or aluminum pouch.”

“Exactly,” I said. “So the thing is, we would like to pick your brain, Mrs. Macaw.”

“You want to do what with my brain?” asked the parrot—or macaw.

“Pick it,” I said. “You know, like, pick your brain.”

“I knew it. Stay away from me, cat. And don’t come anywhere near my brain. I like my brain just the way it is, and don’t want it picked to pieces, if it’s all the same to you.”

“No, it’s just an expression,” I said. “All we want to do is ask you a couple of questions, that’s all. There will be no picking of brains going on. No brain business whatsoever.”

“She thinks we’re Hannibal Lecter, Max,” said Dooley, seated beside me and following the conversation with rapt attention. “She thinks we like to eat brains.”

“We do not want to eat your brain,” I said, just to make my meaning perfectly clear. “No brain will be eaten in the course of this interview. We just want to, um, consult it.”

“Download it,” Dooley added.

“She doesn’t know what downloading is, Dooley. She’s obviously very, very old, and probably has never even seen a computer.”

“Oh, I’ve seen a computer,” said the big parrot. “I even use it from time to time. If you stay right there and don’t come any closer, I’ll show you.” The parrot moved over to a round-shaped device that stood in the corner of the verandah, and cleared her throat for a moment, then spoke into it, enunciating very clearly, “Alexa, are cats dangerous?”

The device immediately answered, “Cats are predators and prey on birds and small mammals. It is estimated that the seventy-six million cats in the United States hunt and kill billions of animals annually. My advice? Steer clear if you’re a bird or a mammal.”

“Thanks, Alexa,” said the parrot gratefully. “I will.”

“Hey, that’s pretty cool,” I said.

“What is it, Max?” asked Dooley, who couldn’t see very well, since the window was a little steamed up because of all the plants inside the verandah—a regular rainforest.

“Here, take my place,” I said, and switched places with him.

“You want another demonstration? Fine? Watch this, cat,” said the parrot. “Alexa, who is the most lethal pet in existence?”

“The cat is the most vicious pet in existence.”

“That’s not very nice,” said Dooley.

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s not true,” I said. “What about snakes and spiders and scorpions?”

“I specifically asked most vicious pet ,” said Camilla.

“Snakes and spiders and scorpions are pets,” I said. “At least to some people.”

“Can you please stop leering at me, cat?” asked Camilla. “And salivating?”

“I’m not leering, though,” said Dooley. “I’m just trying to figure out if the skeleton in our human’s basement belongs to someone who used to live there. That’s all. I don’t want to leer at you, Mrs. Parrot. Or salivate, whatever salivate means.”

“It means you want to eat her so much saliva is dripping from your mouth,” I said.

“No, it’s not,” said Dooley, and licked his lips just to be sure. “Is it?”

“Look, Mrs. Macaw—” I began.

“Call me Camilla,” said the macaw, a first indication she was not as anti-cat as we thought.

“I’m Dooley,” said Dooley, “and this Is Max.”

“Yes, you told me before,” said Camilla. “So you want to know about a skeleton you buried in the basement of your human’s house, is that it? Probably a mouse or a rat, or even a bird like me. Cats don’t mind leaving behind the evidence of their villainy.”

“It’s a human skeleton, actually,” I said, putting my face into the window again.

“A human skeleton? Well, you’ve outdone yourselves this time, haven’t you?”

“We didn’t kill it,” I said. “It wasn’t us.”

“Alexa,” she said, turning to the device once more. “Do cats eat humans?”

“Only very rarely do cats feast on human flesh,” this Alexa machine spoke in its weirdly mellifluous voice, “and usually only if that human is dead already.”

“Thanks, Alexa,” said Camilla cheerfully. “See? You probably killed this human and don’t even remember. That’s cats for you. They are such prolific killers they don’t even remember their last kill.”

“Um, we don’t eat humans, though,” I said. Just the thought. Yuck.

“Mostly we eat Purina,” said Dooley.

“Purina? That’s an animal I’m not familiar with,” said Camilla. “Alexa, who’s Purina?”

“Purina is a brand of pet food,” said Alexa.

“Oh, of course. Now I see. So you killed this human, then had Purina for dessert.”

“Look, cats didn’t kill this human,” I said, slowly this time. “Another human either killed this human and buried the body, or they died of natural causes and for some reason someone—not a cat—decided it was a good idea to bury them in our basement.”

“I see,” said the parrot, frowning. “So are you quite sure cats didn’t do it?”

“Yes, I’m one hundred percent sure. One thousand percent.”

“Cats are devious. So how do I know you’re not lying to me? How do I know you’re not simply distracting me while other, even bigger cats than yourself are sneaking up on me right now, ready to strike!” And to indicate she was considering this a likely contingency, suddenly she turned around and yelled, “Better show yourself, cats!”

“I’m right here,” said Dooley.

But Camilla kept scanning her surroundings, searching for those elusive hunting cats.

“I have a feeling we’re not going to get a lot out of this old bird, Max,” said Dooley.

“I have the same feeling,” I said.

“So you don’t remember a human going missing in Harrington Street several decades ago?” I asked, deciding to give this one final try.

“Alexa,” said the parrot in response, “do cats hunt like velociraptors, meaning one cat keeps its prey busy and distracted while two other cats sneak up on it and flank it?”

“Cats are solitary hunters,” Alexa intoned cheerfully. “They do not hunt in packs.”

“Thanks, Alexa,” said the bird, turning back to face us. “What were you saying?”

“I think we’ll be on our way, Mrs. Macaw,” said Dooley.

“Yes, we’re very sorry to have troubled you, Camilla,” I added.

“Is this a trick question?” asked the parrot, narrowing her eyes.

Instead of responding to what I frankly considered a rude question, I heaved my paw in a gesture of goodbye, and then we were off, leaving the paranoid bird to her no doubt very inspiring and lively conversations with this Alexa thing.

“Poor parrot,” said Dooley. “She seems to have a lot of weird ideas about cats.”

“Yeah, she really hates us,” I agreed. “Hates our guts big time.”

“Too bad. She could have told us a great deal about the things she knows.”

We were quiet as we traipsed through the backyards on our way back to the street. So far our investigation was a bust. But I still held hope we would be useful to Odelia some way soon. Not by hunting mice, or by interviewing the oldest living pet in Hampton Cove. And as we made our way back through the backyards suddenly a man threw a shoe at me and yelled, “Get out of here, you vermin!”

“Is it just me, or are we not very welcome in this part of Hampton cove, Dooley?”

“It’s not just you, Max,” he said, as a second shoe hit my back.

So we both went off at a trot, glad to leave these dangerous backyards behind.

“Let’s go home,” I said. Frankly I’d had enough for one day.

“I’m hungry,” Dooley intimated, and I had to admit I shared his sentiments exactly.