Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Alibi

Harriet rolled her eyes. “Who cares what he saw or didn’t see?”

Brutus gave her a hesitant look, then cleared his throat. “Buddy—hey, buddy!”

“Brutus!” hissed Harriet. “What do you think you’re doing?”

But Brutus was already jogging in the direction of the scrawny cat.

“Whaddya want?” the cat asked suspiciously.

“I don’t know if you know,” said Brutus, “but there’s been a murder at the library.”

“Is that right?” said the cat, not the least bit impressed.

“Yeah, a writer was murdered. So I was wondering if maybe you saw something?”

The cat eyed Brutus with a look of amusement. “Like what?”

“Like maybe you saw the killer or something?”

The cat laughed. “What are you? A cat sleuth?”

Brutus shrugged. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Oh, boy. Of all the weird stuff…” The cat studied Harriet, who sat studiously ignoring both the raggedy cat and Brutus. “So who’s the dame?”

“That’s Harriet.”

“So is she also a cat sleuth?”

Brutus hesitated. “Um…”

The cat laughed again. “Gotcha.” He raised his voice. “Hey, toots! Over here!”

Harriet felt heat rise to her cheeks and her tail quiver. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yeah, I’m talking to you. You wanna know what I saw, I can tell you for a price.”

Harriet rolled her eyes again, a gesture she’d perfected. “Oh, my God.”

“Ralph, not God.”

“What?”

“My name is Ralph, not God. Now how about you show me some affection and I show you—hey! What’s the big idea?!”

In a lightning-fast move, Brutus had unsheathed the razor-sharp claws of his right front paw and had raked them across the scruffy cat’s visage. The transformation from benign wannabe cat sleuth to savage vigilante had been swift and frankly damn impressive.

“Don’t you dare talk to my girlfriend like that,” Brutus snarled.

His tail was distended, his back arched, and there was a cold, menacing look in his eyes that told anyone who watched that here was a cat who was not gonna be messed with.

“All right, all right!” cried the scrawny cat, licking a drop of blood from his face. “No need to go all Hannibal Lecter on me, big fella!” He started to walk away but stopped when Brutus produced a growling sound at the back of his throat. The small cat gulped.

“Tell me what you saw,” Brutus growled.

“I saw nothing, all right!” cried the cat, recoiling.

“You said you saw something.”

“I was just messing with you! I know nuthin!”

And with these words, the cat tucked his tail between his legs and scooted off.

“Dang it,” Brutus rasped in a guttural voice that was as impressive as his physique.

“Dang it is right,” Harriet purred as she traipsed up. “Why, Brutus, that was amazing.”

Brutus was still staring after the cat, a dark gleam in his eye. “I should go after him.”

“Oh, don’t bother. You heard what he said. He didn’t see a thing.” She gave Brutus a loving nudge. “The way you defended me, Brutus. Oh, my. I have goosebumps all over.”

Brutus gave her a sad look. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”

This surprised Harriet. “I never said that. I merely tried to point out that—”

“Let’s go home,” said Brutus. He suddenly looked deflated. And as he stalked off, Harriet couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong with her mate.

“Brutus!” she yelled as she tripped after him. “We could ask some more cats if you want—maybe even dogs and vermin. Seeing as we came all the way out here and all.”

But Brutus seemed to have lost his taste for sleuthing. “I just wanna go home,” he muttered, and then he sauntered off, his head low, all the fight having left him.

It had finally happened. For perhaps the first time in our lives our very own humans had escorted us from a building. Odelia, Marge and Grandma, in a concerted effort, had picked us up and kicked us out of the library.

“I can’t believe they would do such a thing!” I cried.

“They were very nice about it,” Dooley commented.

He didn’t seem to mind one bit. But I did.

“Nice or not, I hate it when they treat us like animals.”

“We are animals,” Dooley reminded me.

“Yes, but they treated us like pets!”

“We are pets.”

“Yes, I give you that, but to kick us out like that!”

“They did it in the nicest possible way, though.”

He was right. They had. Odelia had whispered into my ear that she was very sorry but that this Abe Cornwall guy was a very important person at the county coroner’s office and if she allowed us to stick around he might kick up a fuss which would land Uncle Alec in hot water with the powers that be. What those powers were, she didn’t say. Powers that be? Be what? Marge had added her two cents by pecking kisses on my head and Dooley’s and even Gran had been very sweet and given us tickles and cuddles before chucking us out.

“I don’t like this, Max,” said Dooley suddenly. “I don’t like this one bit.”

“I’m glad you finally agree.” But then I saw he was darting anxious glances at the sky again. “Oh, not again with the apocalypse, Dooley. I’m telling you, the world isn’t ending.”

“Yes, it is. All scientists agree. And scientists know their stuff. That’s why they’re scientists.”

It was one of those spurious arguments that are hard to contradict so I decided not to bother. At some point Dooley would realize that the world wasn’t ending and forget all about it. At least I hoped that he would. I really didn’t need this apocalypse nonsense.

We were pacing up and down the street that backed the library. Before she’d poured me from her arms, Odelia had said, “The killer most likely came in through the service entrance, so if you could find a witness, it could help me crack this case.”

Cracking cases is what I did for a living, so we’d been hanging around that back entrance hoping to catch sight of one of those illustrious witnesses ever since.

“What’s a witness, Max?” Dooley finally asked. “And how do we find one?”

“A witness is someone who’s seen something that’s important,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Like the killer going in through that back entrance, murder weapon in hand. A good witness is someone who remembers what the killer looked like, what he was wearing, what color his hair was and all that good stuff. The stuff a detective can use to identify a culprit.”

“How do you know so much about this, Max?” said Dooley, and I won’t conceal his words were the ego-boost I needed after being removed from the scene of the crime.

“I’ll tell you exactly how I know so much about it, Dooley. It’s because I—”

“What are you two morons doing here?” suddenly a voice rudely interrupted me.

We both looked up and saw that none other than Clarice was addressing us from the top of the nearest dumpster.

“Clarice!” cried Dooley. “It’s so great to see you!”

It was hard to determine whether the feeling was mutual. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it wasn’t. Her next words confirmed this.

“If you’re here to steal my food I can tell you right now I will beat you and I will kick you and when I’m done beating and kicking you I will scratch you and then I will bite you.”

Yep. That’s Clarice in a nutshell: a no-nonsense feral cat who’d just as soon cut you to ribbons than give you a hug. Life on these Hampton Cove mean streets will teach you that. Or at least that’s what she keeps telling us.

“We’re not here to steal your food,” I assured her.