Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Peril

Odelia smiled. Cat drama. She knew all about it. “Fine,” she said, her lips still not moving, her eyes darting about the room to make sure nobody saw she was talking to her cat. I didn’t know how she did it. Each time I meow or mewl my lips have a tendency to part. Hard to keep them pressed together and still hold a well-enunciated conversation.

I made to jump back down but Odelia held onto me. “Wait. Tell me more about this pee-pee thing.”

“What more is there to tell?”

“Does he have pain when he urinates?”

Ugh. I so didn’t want to discuss this topic. “He urinates just fine. It’s the other thing that doesn’t work.”

She frowned, confused. “What other thing?”

I cocked a knowing whisker at her. And then she got it.

“Oh!”

“Yeah.”

“The… Brutus and… Harriet.”

“Yup.”

“You mean his soldier refuses to salute.”

Gah. “I think I’ve heard enough,” I said, and gracefully jumped down to resume my position at her feet. And it was then that the conversation really turned weird.

“Did you hear about that explosion this morning?” asked Shanille.

“Yeah, some old guy got blown up, right?” said Tom, the butcher’s cat.

“Not just some old guy,” said Tigger, the plumber’s cat. “The Most Fascinating Man in the World. My human loves those commercials. My human loves beer,” he clarified.

“Your human is a raging alcoholic,” said Shanille disapprovingly.

“He is not. He loves beer, that’s all. And Scotch. And vodka. And—”

“Kingman told me the guy’s cat is missing,” said Misty, the electrician’s cat.

“The Most Fascinating Man in the World had a cat?” I asked.

“Sure he did. The Most Fascinating Cat in the World. She was in some of those commercials. What’s her name again?” Misty clicked her nails annoyedly, then her face cleared. “That’s right. Shadow. Great name for a cat, huh?”

Shadow, who belongs to Franklin Beaver, the guy who runs the hardware store, grinned. “I like it.”

“I think he likes gin, too,” said Tigger, frowning, “though I’m not sure. He definitely likes his Martinis. Neat, not stirred or shaken. Poured straight from the bottle.”

“Maybe we should talk to this Shadow, Max,” Dooley suggested. “Find out what he knows.”

“Shadow is a she,” said Misty. “Not a he. At least that’s what Kingman told me.”

“I’m not a she,” said Shadow, a shadow passing over his face. “I’m a he.”

“Well, she’s a she,” said Misty decidedly. “So there.”

“And he likes his brandy, too,” said Tigger musingly. “Pear brandy, if I’m not mistaken. And apple.” He shrugged. “He’s not picky. Very happy-go-lucky guy, my human. Very easy.”

I held up my paws. “Where can we find this Shadow—he or she?”

Misty frowned. “Like I said, Kingman thinks Shadow went missing. Right after the explosion.”

“Must have scared the living daylights out of her,” Shanille agreed. “I know I wouldn’t enjoy my human being blown up.” She darted a quick look at Father Reilly, ascertaining he was still there, and had not been blown up while she wasn’t looking.

“None of us would enjoy our humans being blown up,” I said.

“Speak for yourself,” a ratty little cat piped up. I recognized her as the landscaper’s tabby. “Wanna know what my human did? Accidentally stuck me in the washer. The washer! I wanted to have a look-see and the doofus closed the door on me! It’s a miracle I survived!”

We all stared at the cat. She looked a little worse for wear but very much alive.

She sighed. “At least I don’t got fleas, like you lot do.” She scratched a floppy left ear. “It’s this damn water in my ears that bugs me, though. Can’t get it out! Soapy water. Ugh.”

“And then there’s wine, of course,” said Tigger, his face clearing. “Oh, he loves his wines. He loves his red wines, he loves his white wines, he loves his rosés—”

“Will you shut up already?” asked Shanille plaintively. “I don’t care about your alcoholic human’s addictions and disgusting predilections.”

“Practice some kindness, Shanille,” Tigger said, stung. “Isn’t that what your human teaches? Kindness and your basic Christian compassion?”

Shanille tilted her chin. “I’ll have you know I don’t go in for all that religious stuff.”

“Your human runs a church for a living!”

“So? Your human unclogs toilets for a living. That doesn’t mean you have to.”

“It’s not the same thing and you know it.”

Pretty soon the whole thing erupted into a war of words, as it often does when a bunch of cats get together. I decided to do the smart thing and stay out of it. Instead, I turned to my compatriots, who sat following the back-and-forth with glittering eyes and clicking claws. Oh, cats do love a good cat fight. “You guys, we have to find this cat Shadow. Maybe she saw what happened to her human.” I looked up at Odelia who gave me a wink.

“Sure, sure,” said Brutus, who seemed eager to jump into the fray.

I sighed. “Harriet?”

“Shush, Max,” the Persian said. “I think Shanille is about to implode.”

I turned to my wingman. “Dooley?”

“I’ll help you, Max,” he said. “On one condition.”

“What?”

“That you’ll help me find Odelia’s magic pills.”

And we were right back where we started.

Moments later we were finally called into Vena’s consultation room for our big inspection. I’ll spare you the details, but none of us came out unscathed that day. She applied some kind of weird-smelling gel to our necks, then handed Odelia an equally weird-looking comb with the advice to use it at least twice daily with a little soapy water, and finally gave our human the option to apply the dreadful collar or not.

“Quite frankly I’m using them less and less,” said Vena. “I find that they produce a horrible rash or allergic reaction in some cats, while others get them snagged on tree branches and such, which is potentially dangerous, as you can imagine. Still others lick them and end up with a severe reaction from the poison. So what shall it be? You decide, Odelia.”

All four of us looked up at Odelia, begging her to say no to the collar.

She gave us her sweetest smile, then proceeded to say yes to the collar.

Chapter 12

Odelia stepped into her dad’s office. As usual, the outer office was filled with people waiting for their doctor’s appointment. The one thing missing, though, was Grandma, who usually sat at her perch behind the reception desk, directing traffic, taking calls, jotting down appointments and gossiping with her son-in-law’s patients.

Odelia nodded hello to the familiar faces, then glanced at the empty counter. No Gran. Odd. She’d wanted to have another word with her relative about this whole Burt Goldsmith business. Talk some sense into her. And now she hadn’t even shown up for work. Not that she needed the job. She’d practically begged Dad to give it to her. Said she’d go crazy sitting at home doing nothing. Said she’d be the best receptionist he’d ever wished for.

Dad had relented and she’d been the worst receptionist he’d ever wished for.

And Odelia was just about to turn away when the door to the inner office opened and her dad appeared, along with Mrs. Baumgartner, one of his regulars. The bluff middle-aged woman thanked him and went on her way. Dad’s eyes scanned the waiting room, then the empty desk, and he sighed. When he caught sight of his daughter, he visibly perked up. “Odelia, honey. Come on in.” He turned to the other patients. “We’ll just be a moment.”

“Take your time, Doctor Tex,” said an elderly man with beetling brows and a stoop. “We’re not going anywhere.”