Ник Сайнт: Purrfect Peril

“What’s going on over there?” I asked.

Dooley barely glanced up. “Who cares?” he said. “We’re all going to be dead soon.”

“Nice attitude.”

“It’s true. Nothing Kingman or anyone else can do about it.”

“Shall I tell you something that will cheer you up?”

He shrugged. “Nothing can cheer me up.”

“Do you want to know what Brutus told me in confidence?”

He sighed. “What?”

“He’s having trouble with his cathood.”

Dooley frowned. “Trouble with…”

“His machinery.”

He gave me a blank look and I could see I would have to spell this out.

“His pee-pee has stopped working.”

He blinked. “He can’t go wee-wee anymore?”

“I suppose he can—it’s the other thing he can’t do anymore.”

“What other thing?”

“Sex, Dooley. Brutus can’t have sex anymore.”

His lips formed a perfect O, and for the first time since the fateful discovery of the flea issue, a smile slowly crept up his face, until he was softly chuckling. Dooley has never liked Brutus very much, mainly because he’s had a lifelong infatuation with Harriet. So when Brutus swept in and swept the prissy Persian off her paws, it didn’t endear him to Dooley.

“Brutus can’t get it up?” he chuckled.

“That seems to be the gist of it.”

“And I thought we were screwed.”

“The best part is that he’s asked me to help him.”

Now he was laughing outright. “You told him no, right?”

“Oh, no, I told him I would help him. Why wouldn’t I?”

He abruptly stopped laughing. “You’re going to help him?”

“Of course. He’s a fellow feline. I believe in helping out my fellow feline.”

“Very noble of you, Max,” he said, a scowl returning to his face.

“He’d do the same for me.”

“I’m sure he would.”

“He’s not a bad cat, you know.”

“Oh, he’s a real prince.”

I sighed. Dooley really was insufferable today. I decided to let it go.

We’d arrived at the General Store and I saw that Kingman wasn’t occupying his usual perch on the checkout counter inside the store but instead sat holding court outside. And just like his owner, he seemed awfully interested in the happenings across the street.

“Hey, Max, Dooley,” he said, never taking his eyes off the Hampton Cove Star.

“We need your advice, Kingman,” I said by way of greeting.

Before he could respond, Kingman suddenly broke into a strange breakdancing movement, his body shivering and convulsing while he tried to scratch a spot on his lower back. I could have told him this was impossible. There are spots even the most agile of cats simply cannot reach, and Kingman, an impressively fat piebald, was never the most agile of cats, even in his prime. He finally seemed to realize this and resorted to applying his tongue to the area, licking up a storm. Finally he gave up and said in a low voice, “Stupid critters.”

And then I got it. Kingman had fleas!

“Oh, no,” said Dooley, who’d come to the same conclusion. “Kingman!”

“Yeah, I got ‘em. Everybody’s got ‘em.”

In that moment, as if to confirm his words, both Dooley and I broke into an equally spastic version of the flea breakdance. When Kingman raised an eyebrow, I confirmed the sad news. “We got ‘em, too.”

“Sure you do. Like I said, everybody’s got ‘em. Every single cat in Hampton Cove. From the hoity-toity to the lowliest street cats, they’re all doing the flea dance today.”

“But how?” asked Dooley. “Where? I mean, who is patient zero?”

Kingman frowned. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

“The first one to get the fleas,” I explained. “He or she must have infected the others.”

“Who cares! We got ‘em. Now we gotta get rid of ‘em!” He leaned in. “Little piece of advice. Free of charge. Whatever you do, don’t tell your human. Never tell your human.”

We also leaned in, Dooley pricking up his ears, his eyes wide. “Why?” he asked.

Kingman slowly raised his paw, equally slowly extended a single claw, and tapped a strange contraption located around his neck.

It was… a collar!

Dooley and I both gasped.

I hadn’t seen the collar until now, buried as it was between Kingman’s multiple layers of skin and flab and hidden beneath his bristly white-and-black fur.

Kingman gave us a sad nod. “Take a good look, fellas. This is what happens when you tell your human you got fleas. They put the collar on you!”

I stared at the thing in abject horror.

“But-but-but collars are for dogs!” Dooley cried. “Not cats—never cats!”

“Until we get fleas,” growled Kingman. “So don’t be like me, boys. No matter how much it itches. No matter how much they bite. Don’t scratch yourselves in front of your human. They will inspect you. They will discover the fleas. And they will give you the collar.” He shook his head. “You can’t imagine the humiliation. The howls of derision I get from every single canine that passes my store. Laughing in my face. Calling me names. Let me tell you—better to grin and bear those damn fleas than to be subjected to this—this agony!”

Dooley gasped, and turned to me. Our eyes met and I could see my own terror reflected in his widening pupils.

Chase knew.

Chase would tell Odelia.

Odelia would take us to Vena.

And Vena would give us the collar!

Dooley was right. We were dead. Dead!

Chapter 8

While Grandma and her nemesis Scarlett Canyon fought over the affections of Philippe Goldsmith, Odelia decided to drop by the house. Her uncle would deal with Gran and the fallout of this Goldsmith business. Chase would deal with the police investigation into the death of the old man. But no one would deal with perhaps the more urgent business of four cats left to their own devices and suffering from a painful attack of fleas.

She walked out of the hotel lobby and out into the street, her phone pressed to her ear. Vena picked up within seconds and when she explained about her felines’ predicament, the veterinarian was only too happy to squeeze her in between her other appointments.

“I don’t mind telling you it’s been one hell of a morning, darling,” said Vena. “It’s almost as if the entire cat population of Hampton Cove has been infested with this pest overnight. I’m almost out of drops and it’s not even noon yet! But drop by with your cats and we’ll get rid of those pests ASAP!”

As she was talking to Vena, Odelia’s eyes drifted across the street and who would she see but the very cats she was discussing! They were gabbing with Kingman, Wilbur Vickery’s chubby piebald, and judging from the expression on Dooley’s face the conversation had just turned deadly serious.

After assuring Vena she would be there within the half hour, she quickly crossed the street and joined her two felines.

“Hey babes,” she said as she crouched down next to Max and Dooley and tickled their necks. “I heard what happened. Are you in a lot of pain?”

Max gave her a hesitant look—not the kind of look he usually directed at her. Almost as if he were… afraid of her. Hard to believe, of course. She was the kind of pet owner who was adored by her pets. Always doing what was best for her little darlings—giving them the best chow on the market—allowing them to sleep at the foot of the bed—giving them cuddles and lavishing all her attention on them at every possible occasion.

“It’s not that it’s painful, Odelia,” said Dooley with a shaky voice, as if he’d just learned a terrible truth. “It’s that it’s so incredibly itchy.”

And to demonstrate the truthfulness of his words, he broke into a complicated set of movements, scratching pretty much every surface of his body that he could reach with his hind paws and applying tongue and teeth to the rest.