Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Peril

“It’s cats,” opined the hamster. “Always cats. They can’t stop prattling. Prattle, prattle, prattle. That’s why people hate cats but they all love a hamster. Hamsters are easy. We run on our little hamster wheel, snack from our little hamster nuggets and keep our traps shut.”

“Will you shut up already,” I told the Dr. Doolittle crowd. “I just solved a murder.”

“Typical,” mumbled the puppy. “Always bragging. That’s cats for you.”

“No, I really did. It was the boy that did it.”

“What boy?” asked the rabbit, paw pressed to his painful cheek. “I’m not following.”

“You don’t have to follow. It’s the kid that did it.”

“The kid? Who’s the kid?” asked the parrot.

“I don’t care. I just want to sleep,” said the mouse.

“Let’s blow this joint, fellas,” I said, suddenly feeling super-energized. I imagine that’s why Sherlock Holmes often came across as suffering from ADHD. Solving a murder gives you this big jolt of energy to the brain. I jumped from my nice fleece-lined perch with some reluctance. Then again, I owed it to my human to give her the good news at once.

“Do we have to, Max?” asked Dooley plaintively. “It’s so nice and warm in here.”

“Yeah, I kinda like it here, too,” said Shadow. “It’s way better than life on the street.”

“Don’t you want to see the guy who killed your human arrested?” I asked.

Shadow thought about that for a moment. “Is this a trick question?” When I gave her a stern look, she finally relented. “Oh, fine. I’ll play your little game. Where are we going?”

“Home,” I told her.

“To the hotel?”

“No, a real home.”

Dooley heaved himself up from his warm and comfy bed with a groan, then followed my lead. “You better be right about this, Max,” he said. “I could get used to a place like this.”

“What’s happening?” asked the mouse, apparently waking up from a micro-nap.

“The cats are leaving,” the parrot announced.

“Good riddance,” said the mouse, and promptly dozed off again.

Half an hour later we arrived at the house. Lucky for us Vena lives just around the corner. Cats aren’t made to travel for miles and miles. Especially on an empty stomach.

“Good thing Vena left her window open,” said Shadow, panting. “Or else we’d be screwed.”

“Or lucky,” Dooley muttered. He still wasn’t on board with this whole plan of mine. Even though Odelia had promised him that, babies or no babies, she wasn’t kicking us out, he wasn’t completely convinced. And Vena seemed like a good back-up plan just in case.

We waltzed in through the pet door and I traipsed straight up the stairs. Odelia was sound asleep, as I’d expected. And she was alone, which I hadn’t expected. No Chase. Where’s the police when you need them? I pawed her intently, and when she didn’t stir, used some claw to attract her attention. She pushed me away. “Not now, Max. I’m sleeping.”

“But I know who killed Burt Goldsmith,” I said, unable to contain my excitement.

“I do, too,” she said, turning over to the other side. “It was Curt. Curt killed Burt.”

That sounded more like a nursery rhyme to me, but then she was still half asleep.

“It wasn’t Curt—whoever he is—it was Philippe! Remember how you told me Chase said nitroglycerin gives you terrible headaches? Well, guess who has terrible, debilitating headaches? Philippe! And guess who’s a chemistry teacher? Also Philippe! And guess whose room was next to Burt’s, with a connecting door. You guessed right! Philippe again! Shadow—oh, you haven’t met Shadow, have you. She’s Burt’s cat. She was at Vena’s. You’ll like Shadow, Odelia. She’s very nice. So Shadow told us she heard someone enter the room after room service dropped off that bottle of beer. I’m guessing it was Philippe, replacing the original bottle with one filled with nitroglycerin. He must have snatched that first bottle from the sap he’d chosen as his fall guy, leaving it in the room with the explosive bottle so this dude’s fingerprints would be found at the scene. So you better arrest him now, Odelia!”

My long harangue was met with a soft snore. She’d fallen asleep in the middle of my exposé! Dang. I’ll bet a thing like that never happened to Hercule Poirot when he delivered his closing statement, neatly wrapping up another case. Or Sherlock Holmes, for that matter.

I jumped down from the bed, and then trotted down the stairs.

I found Dooley and Shadow staring at a lumpy form on the couch.

“You guys, Odelia is out like a light. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Max? There’s a strange woman on our couch,” said Dooley.

I checked the lumpy form and discovered that Dooley was right. There was a strange woman on our couch.

“It’s Tracy,” said Shadow. “Tracy Sting. She was my human’s handler.”

“Handler? You mean like a dog handler?” asked Dooley.

“Something like that. When Tracy said jump Burt asked ‘how high?’ Or at least that’s the joke he liked to make. He was very fond of her. She’s good people, Tracy is.”

“But what is she doing in our house?” I asked.

“I guess we’ll find out tomorrow,” said Dooley with a yawn. “Let’s sleep. I’m tired.”

Just then, Brutus and Harriet walked in through the pet door. “Who’s that?” Brutus asked, gesturing in the general direction of the couch.

“Burt Goldsmith’s handler,” I said.

“No, I mean the cat, not the dame.”

“My name is Shadow,” said Shadow courteously. “I was Burt’s cat. Which means now I’m nobody’s cat.”

“Oh,” said Harriet. “That’s so sad.” She turned to us. “Where have you guys been?”

“Long story. Dooley ate some of Brutus’s pills and passed out.”

“Brutus’s pills?” asked Harriet. “What pills?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Brutus hastened to say. “Listen, they finally caught this Burt guy’s killer. Turns out some compelling dude killed him. And listen, listen ,” he said when I made to interrupt him, “someone tried to kill Uncle Alec by sending him an exploding bottle. Him and some babe he’s seeing.” He snapped his claws, or at least tried to. “Um, name escapes me.”

“Tracy Sting,” said Harriet. “That’s her over there, sleeping on that couch.”

“Right,” said Brutus.

I thought about this. “Now why would Philippe try to kill Uncle Alec?”

“Philippe? Who’s Philippe?” asked Brutus.

I was starting to feel a little tired. It’s exhausting to be the most intelligent cat in the room. “Philippe is Burt’s grandson. He killed his grandfather and now he’s trying to kill Uncle Alec and…” My eyes narrowed. “You said Tracy Sting and Uncle Alec are an item?”

“An item?”

“A thing. A couple. Like Rose and Jack from Titanic ,” I said impatiently.

“I like Rose from Titanic ,” Dooley murmured wistfully.

“I don’t know about that,” said Brutus. “All I know is they were caught with their pants down steaming up the windows of Uncle Alec’s car—we saw them, remember?”

I gave Tracy Sting’s inert form a closer inspection. Brutus was right. This was the redheaded woman Uncle Alec was making out with in his squad car. And then I got it. “Philippe is taking out the competition.”

They all stared at me. “Huh?” said Brutus.

“Don’t you see? First Burt, now Alec, all the while making sure everyone thinks the Most Compelling Man in the World is responsible?”

“Curt Pigott,” said Shadow helpfully. “He’s the Most Compelling Man in the World.”

So it wasn’t a nursery rhyme. The police had actually arrested Curt Pigott for a crime he didn’t commit.