The Whiskered Spy (10 page)

F
rank’s words
had left a deep impression on me. No, not the bit about harboring feelings stronger than mere friendship for La Dana, though this revelation of inter-species love had surprised me. What had made me think a bit was the fact that everyone seemed to assume that the killer hailed from Southridge, simply because both Dana and I had failed to identify him.

Now, though it’s true I know my fair share of Brookridgeans, and so does Dana, it’s stretching the boundaries of our networking capabilities to suppose that we know every single person who lives within the town borders. It’s probably safe to say I know everyone who lives around Main Street and the Market Square, as well as Tulip Street, Bellflower Street and Geranium Street. But beyond that…

I’d reached the place where I’d last seen Dana, and found to my surprise that she wasn’t there. I’m sorry to say that the first thing that went through my mind was that she must have met up with Brutus and that the two of them were taking a romantic stroll through the park, rekindling the old feelings. I shivered at the thought of Dana linking her lot to Brutus, and directed my step towards the elm tree where it had all began. Perhaps she was waiting for me there.

It’s one of those inconveniences of being a cat; we don’t carry around cell phones—and even if we did, I wouldn’t know where to put it, as I’ve never worn pants and I very much doubt I ever will. If I’d had a cell phone, I could have simply rung up Dana and dispensed with all this searching here, there and everywhere. For she wasn’t at the elm tree, and neither was she to be found at the bandstand, the miniature golf course or the playground.

And it was as I was trudging along in the direction of the amphitheater Mayor McCrady had opened with much fanfare just the month before, that I had the shock of a lifetime. Walking along the path, pushing a pram, a little girl of about four clinging to his hand, was the pimpled killer! I gasped, I reeled, I swayed, but after a second, third and fourth look, he was still there, cool as a cucumber and heading my way. The pimple was losing its plumpness, but the rest of his face was just the way I’d remembered. Broad and pasty, with a smattering of pockmarks along the rim, and two dark eyes taking in the sights from under drooping eyelids.

I wanted to scream and shout, but of course did nothing of the kind. I know what vicious killers do to witnesses, and even though I was merely a cat, I wasn’t so sure he’d make an exception for me. And seeing as I was alone and in no position to warn my FSA compadres, I decided to tail the perp and find out who he was and where he lived.

My heart was pounding in my throat, my breathing had become stertorous, and I had trouble walking a straight line as my limbs were quaking with every step, but I was resolved to see this through. I’d identify the Brookridge Park killer and see justice served or my name wasn’t Agent Tom. Visions of celebratory ceremonies and my name writ large in the FSA annals drifted before my mind’s eye as I stayed low and out of sight and waddled after the pimpled killer.

The shock of seeing the man abating a little, I now started to wonder what he was doing here, and what was more, why he was accompanied by a small child and what I assumed to be a baby. I don’t have a lot of firsthand experience dealing with killers, only knowing the breed from television cop shows, but they usually don’t strike me as the fatherly type.

Still staying in the bushes lining the path, I watched with surprise as the killer set off for an ice cream stall and proceeded to treat the little girl to an ice cream cone and buy one for himself, as well. The girl was obviously pleased, beaming up at the man and planting a big, wet kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you, daddy!” she exclaimed, and I blinked.

Daddy? For a moment there I’d assumed the guy to be a kidnapper. These being tough economic times, taking a second job wasn’t all that uncommon, and I’m not sure there’s a lot of money in being a murdering maniac. But if my ears hadn’t deceived me—and they seldom did—the girl was his… daughter?

The girl now leaned over the pram and dropped a small dollop of ice cream into its interior. A mirthful gurgle confirmed the treat was well received by the pram’s inhabitant, clearly some human infant. All the while, the pimpled killer was looking on with a look of such fatherly devotion written all over his pasty face, that I had a hard time keeping in mind this man was indeed the Brookridge Park butcher.

Of course, as I’ve indicated, my life hitherto has been pretty much killer-free, so the rules and regulations governing this particular type of human are unfamiliar to me. Perhaps all killers are devoted parents? Perhaps they all dote on their offspring the way this specimen did?

I watched with fascination, therefore, and not a little bit of fearful exhilaration, as I continued to track the man’s progression along the park’s lanes. He now parked himself and his little girl on a bench alongside the pond and I saw to my horror that on the other side of the pond a Red Cross vehicle had drawn up and two burly nurses were transferring Jamie Burrow’s remains onto a stretcher of sorts.

This was getting too weird: the killer looking on as his latest victim was being removed from the scene. I had taken up vigil in the bush closest to the bench and was studying the man’s face as he watched the proceedings. More than a mild interest didn’t seem to stir his features, the kind of curiosity that drives rubberneckers and thrill seekers to gather round the scene of a car crash.

“What are those people doing over there, daddy?” said the girl, having managed to deposit more ice cream on her shirtfront than in her stomach.

“That’s an ambulance, honey,” said the man, unperturbed.

The girl seemed to know what an ambulance was, for she said, “Is one of the ducks sick, daddy?”

The man chuckled. “I don’t think so. Probably someone was not feeling well. It happens a lot when it’s as warm as today.”

“I know what happened,” said the girl, nodding sagely. “Someone forgot to eat their ice cream and got too hot.” She then looked from her own half-melted, half-eaten cone to the ambulance. “Should I give them mine, daddy?”

“That’s all right, honey. I don’t think eating your ice cream will make them feel better. When people get sick, ice cream is not what they want.”

The girl’s face lit up. “They need apsirin!”

“Aspirin,” corrected her father.

“That’s what I said,” said the girl, sploshing more ice cream on her shirt.

The scene puzzled me. This guy didn’t look like a killer to me. I studied his nose and its most distinguishing feature: the pimple. Yes, it was the same fellow, I was sure of it. I sighed as it started to dawn on me that the life of the feline spy is not an easy one. Just when you think you’ve got the murder investigation all wrapped up in a neat bundle, your killer goes and turns out to be father of the year.

F
rom the corner
of my eye I detected movement and, turning around without letting the killer out of my sight, I saw that it was Dana. She snuck up next to me and heaved, “What’s going on?”

She appeared out of breath. “Where have you been?” I said, with not a little bit of pique, for I hadn’t forgotten how she had walked out on me.

But Dana gasped as her eye fell on the pasty-faced father of two. “That’s the killer!” she exclaimed. “You’ve found him!”

She directed an admiring look at me that mollified me to a great extent. “Just happened to bump into him,” I said modestly. “How did you find me, by the way?”

“I tracked your frequency,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. She pointed at the girl. “Who’s the kid?”

“You won’t believe this,” I said, “but our killer is a devoted family man.” And I proceeded to regale her with a blow-by-blow account of my detection work up to that point. She whistled through her teeth, something I’d never seen any cat do before, not even Brutus.

“It doesn’t add up,” she said, studying the man’s face. She nodded slowly. “It is the same guy, I’m sure of it.”

“So am I,” I said.

“It’s not just his face. I can sense his frequency, and it reads the same as the killer’s.”

“Couldn’t you have tracked him down by his frequency, then? Like you did with me?”

She grimaced. “I tried that, but couldn’t draw a bead on him. It was almost as if his frequency was jammed or something. Though I can’t even begin to imagine how that is possible.”

“The plot thickens,” I said ominously.

“It does indeed,” Dana said.

For a moment we stared at our killer in silence, as he wiped his little girl’s face with a napkin, the image of the loving father.

“That reminds me,” I said. “You have a secret admirer.”

“Oh?” She didn’t seem surprised. Cats like Dana collect secret, and not so secret, admirers by the boatload.

I was pretty sure she’d already read my mind, but I said it, anyway. One likes to cherish these old-fashioned habits. “Frank the Poodle has professed his undying love and devotion to you.” And if that wasn’t a discrete way of putting it, I didn’t know what was.

A smile lit up her furry face. “I know. That’s why I didn’t want to join you before. I didn’t want to embarrass Frank. He
will
get all goofy when he sees me.”

“I thought as much.”

It is hard to detect a blush in an animal so royally decorated with fur as a cat, but I had the distinct impression a blush was actually creeping up Dana’s cheeks at this very moment. “My God!” I exclaimed. “You feel the same way about him, don’t you?”

She nodded bashfully, probably the first time I’d ever seen Dana display any form of demureness. She sighed a happy sigh. “I do,” she finally said.

“But—but—but—”

She raised her eyes. “I know. He’s a dog and I’m a cat and interspecies mingling is unnatural and yadda yadda yadda. Spare me the platitudes. I’ve heard them all before. The simple fact of the matter is that I’m in love and I don’t care who knows it.”

“No one knows it,” I interjected.

“I know. And I would very much like to keep it that way. So, not a word to anyone, you hear me, Tom?”

I blinked. Hadn’t she just told me she was in love and didn’t care who knew? “I, erm…”

“Not even to Frank. I don’t want him to hear it from anyone but me that I…” She smiled. “Love the hell out of that big, fluffy Poodle.”

I gave her my solemn word that my lips were sealed, and then reminded her there were more pressing matters to be dealt with right now. Like, bringing the Brookridge Park killer to justice.

For a moment, she seemed reluctant to drop the discussion of her love life, but then she shelved the topic and focused on the matter at hand. “I think the best avenue to pursue is to talk to Frank,” she said.

“Forget about Frank,” I urged. “I’m sure he’ll make you a swell partner but solving Lucy and Jamie’s murders is more important right now.”

She eyed me critically. “Are you quite finished? We need Frank to transfer the murderer’s identity to Bart, so that he can make an arrest.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Oh, indeed. Now all I need right now is to know this guy’s name and—”

“Can’t you just, you know, scan it? Get into his mind?”

“No, I can’t. I don’t know how many times a day you think about your own name…”

Quite often, in fact, I wanted to say, but I kept my mouth shut. One doesn’t like to come across as a narcissist.

“I thought so,” she said, as she read my mind. “But most people don’t. Oh, I’m sure we could find out his name eventually, if we follow him around long enough, but if this guy really is a serial killer, it’s imperative we get him into police custody as soon as possible. So the best thing to do is for you to steal his wallet.”

There was a lot to be said about this modus operandi, but I refrained from saying it, for our killer decided this was the moment to start moving again.

I
’d never been involved
in the pursuit of a vicious killer before, and certainly not one that demanded I somehow obtain the latter’s wallet. I was wracking my brain how to accomplish this seemingly impossible task, when a bit of luck had Stevie cross our path. Killer and family had just exited the park and had taken a left toward the Brookridge Market Square, when I saw Stevie ambling up. He raised a paw in greeting and I waved him over.

“Howdy,” he said good-naturedly. “How’s my FSA crew today?”

“Don’t mention that word,” hissed Dana.

“Be quiet,” I hissed.

“What’s going on?” whispered Stevie, for he could put two and two together just like the next cat.

“See that guy over there?” I said, pointing at our friendly neighborhood killer.

“Is that…” he said, squinting.

Both Dana and I nodded emphatically.

“He doesn’t look like much of a killer,” said Stevie, sounding disappointed. “More like an accountant.”

“Those are usually the worst,” I said, for lack of anything else to say.

“Hey, I finally induced Sam to dream up the meaning of that word you were looking for. Um…” He paused, pondering.

“Bluebell?” I ventured.

He pointed a nicely buffed claw at me. “Bingo. I sat next to the man all night. You wouldn’t believe what kind of stuff he dreams about.”

“I can,” I said. “I was there, remember?”

“Right. I forgot.” He then turned his attention to Dana. “And how’s my favorite secret agent this fine morning?” he said.

“Stevie!” I said.

“Huh?”

I gave him my most exasperated look. “Bluebell?”

“Oh, of course. Bluebell. Well, turns out Bluebell is in fact—”

“What’s Bluebell?” interrupted Dana.

All this time we’d been trailing Killer & family from afar, and the tension of trying to keep up with him and at the same time inducing Stevie to divulge the information he’d culled from Father Sam’s dreams, was weighing on me. So much so that I’d temporarily forgotten all about my newly acquired mind-reading capabilities.

Now remembering I didn’t have to wait for Stevie to get his facts straight but could simply take a peek inside his noggin, I did so. And came up with nothing. Odd, I felt. Either Stevie’s mind was a complete blank, or else I’d lost my new powers overnight. I tried again and again drew a blank.

I then tried to read Dana’s mind and, once again, came away with zilch. Extremely frustrating. Oh, well, I thought. Probably these new skills take some time to settle. And I decided to try again a little later.

In the meantime, Stevie had brought Dana up to date on the whole Bluebell mystery and she, too, was now burning with anticipation to learn more.

“Bluebell is…” Stevie said, then paused for effect.

“What? What?” I said, barely suppressing an exasperated groan.

“Well, Bluebell isn’t Bluebell at all.”

“Stevie!” I said.

“But it isn’t!” he said. “All this time we thought it was the name of a girl, but in fact it’s the description of a character in the play. Blue belle is the name Sam uses to describe the murder victim in Murder in the Park. In other words, Zoe Huckleberry.”

He gave us the look a magician gives at the end of a particularly startling performance. All that was missing was ‘ta-dah!’

“One of the key scenes in the play is a big ball at some castle somewhere,” Stevie continued, “at the end of which Zoe Huckleberry is killed in the castle park by her lover Jack Mackintosh after he finds out she’s been cheating on him with his best friend, who turns out to have set the whole thing up to get rid of Zoe as a way to get back at Zoe’s husband, a well-known and highly respectable gynecologist, whom he holds responsible for the death of his wife, who died in childbirth some twenty-odd years before.”

He paused for breath. Dana and I merely goggled, trying to follow the narrative. I don’t read mystery stories as a rule, so hearing the plotline of one described in a single sentence had my mind reeling for a spell.

“And since Zoe Huckleberry wears a blue dress to the ball and is described by any and all as the belle of the ball, she’s referred to by director and acting troupe as the blue belle.”

So that’s why there was no reference to Bluebell in the script. It wasn’t an official name but merely a nickname thought up by Sam to describe one of the characters.

“So Lucy Knicx was the blue belle until she was murdered,” said Stevie. “Then Jamie Burrow held the title for a while, and now…”

“Don’t tell me they’ve appointed someone else to play the part,” said Dana, aghast.

Stevie nodded solemnly. “You won’t like this, Dana. It’s Barbara."

“Barbara? Which Barbara?” said Dana, swallowing.

“Your Barbara,” said Stevie. “Since they ran out of understudies, Barbara volunteered for the part. She’s the new blue belle.”

“Oh, no,” groaned Dana.

“Oh, yes,” said Stevie. “And apparently she’s already told all of Brookridge about her starring role, as she likes to call it.”

I think I’ve mentioned before that Barbara Vale, Dana’s human and secretary to the Mayor’s secretary Fisk Grackle, is one of the more prominent gossipmongers in all of Brookridge. It is said that her tongue works faster than a sewing machine, but I’m sure that’s just nasty gossip.

“But the premiere is tonight!”

Both Stevie and I exchanged worried glances. It’s one thing for any ordinary human to get stabbed to death, but when it’s one of
our
humans, it’s a different matter altogether.

We were still trailing our serial killer, and it now became obvious there was some urgency in bringing him to justice. We still didn’t know why this man was so keen on killing off every ‘blue belle’ scheduled to appear in the Theatrical Society’s performance of Murder in the Park, but it was paramount that he be stopped.

I was still desperately trying to come up with some way of stealing the man’s wallet, when a bit of luck came our way. Our target, who had been sauntering along, enjoying the sun and a stroll with his family, was now hailed by a passerby.

“Hey, Norbert!” said the passerby, a gray-haired plump sort of bird. “How’s tricks?”

A long and utterly boring conversation ensued, but Dana, Stevie and I didn’t hang around to follow it to its conclusion. We had a first name, and that was enough. There probably weren’t all that many Jack Mackintosh understudies going around answering to the name Norbert, so as far as the FSA was concerned, our work here was done. Next stop: Frank the Poodle.