The Whiskered Spy (2 page)

I
’d pretty much forgotten all
about recent events, when a bark arrested my progress towards the homestead. It was Frank, the neighborhood watchdog. I know, watchdog isn’t much of a way to describe any dog, but it’s how we like to call him around these parts. Frank is in fact a Poodle—complete with woolly coat and docked tail—and fancies himself something of a local law enforcement officer. In other words, our very own flattie.

“Evening, Tommy,” he said in his customary gravelly voice.

“Evening, Frank,” I said, refusing, as usual, to address him as ‘officer’, something he’s quite keen on.

“I just met Dana,” he said, and cocked an inquisitive eye at me. I didn’t take the bait and he continued. “She said she was a witness to some funny business happening in the park just now and you were also present at the scene. Care to comment?”

I sighed. So this was the help Dana had gone and found. “Yes, Frank,” I said curtly, for what I wanted more than anything was to go home and have a bite to eat. Kibble and a bowl of milk awaited me. “I saw one human slash another human and then make off with the body. And no, I really don’t think it is any of our business. If humans want to slay each other, fine. As long as they don’t start in on any of our kind, I really don’t see why we should get involved.”

Frank waggled his ears. “Oh, so that’s how you see it, is it?”

“That’s how I see it, Frank,” I said. As long as the humans keep the kibble coming, of course, but I didn’t voice this thought to the self-appointed keeper of the peace.

“Well, now,” he said, with a hint of reproach. “Isn’t that kind of selfish?”

“No, it is not,” I assured him.

“Then let me ask you this,” he said. “What if that woman who’d just been brutally murdered was Zack? How would you feel about the situation then?”

I hate to admit it but the fluffy one had a point there. Apart from the fact that Zack was a man and not a woman, I probably would have felt differently if he’d been the one on the receiving end of the knife just then. “Well…” I said, trying to come up with something glib and witty.

“I thought so,” Frank said with a grunt of satisfaction. “Selfish to a degree; that’s the Tom I know.”

“I’m not selfish,” I protested, but I knew he had me licked. It’s not just that Zack provides me with all the necessaries like food and shelter, I’m also quite partial to the way he tickles me under my chin and strokes my whiskers. And the way he fluffs up my pillow each time before I take a nap is also one of those things that endears him to me in ways that I find hard to describe to anyone but my closest friends. I do believe he loves me, if you catch my drift, and I have to admit to being quite fond of the big oaf as well.

“Look, that’s neither here nor there. The fact of the matter is that Zack is not the one going around being stabbed in parks at night. He’s too smart to ever get himself entangled with a cold-blooded murderer like that. And for one thing, the woman was cheating on her husband, so…”

Frank cocked an eye. “And that makes it all right for her to be whacked by some psycho in the local park?”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” I said quickly. Oh, boy, I really was sinking deeper and deeper into the quagmire. Perhaps I should just shut my big mouth and move on before I really got myself into trouble with the furry arm of the law. “What I meant was that…” To tell you the truth, I didn’t really know what I meant.

“Right,” said Frank. “Not only selfish to a degree, but also sexist. I see.”

“Look, I understand the desire to make a character study of my person, but don’t you have something better to do? Like to search for men with pimples on the tips of their noses? I’m sure Dana told you about that telling detail?”

Frank nodded, his ears flopping to and fro as he did. “She did, indeed. But I was hoping to extract some more details from you. Like what kind of clothes was he wearing? What color was his hair, his eyes, his face? Was he tall? Small? Fat? Skinny? What did he smell like?”

On and on the interrogation went. I supplied the good Poodle with all the details I could remember and finally, after what seemed like an interminable delay, I was finally released from Frank’s scrutinizing gaze, and allowed to go on my merry way.

It still puzzled me a great deal why this self-appointed upholder of the law would go to all the trouble of conducting a police investigation in what clearly was a human affair, when my progress towards the kibble trough was halted once again. By then I’d reached the edge of the park and was trotting down the sidewalk, having once more managed to relegate the sordid details of the recent affair to the back of my mind.

A sudden hiss arrested my attention, and when I turned to verify its source, I found myself staring into the eyes of Brutus, my nemesis, staring back at me from the shrubbery.

B
rutus
, as you may or may not know, is the Persian belonging to Royce Moppett, Zack’s next-door neighbor, and between us a warm enmity had sprung up from the first time we met. I don’t know what it is about Brutus, but apart from the fact that he’s a mean-spirited, bullying nosy parker, I guess I simply don’t like him. And the feeling was obviously mutual.

“Hey, fattie!” he now hissed from the shrubbery.

Not deigning to respond to this insulting salutation, I continued on my way.

“Hey! Meatball!”

Turning a deaf ear, I held my tail up high, and pranced away. Unfortunately, before I had proceeded ten feet, the menace had joined me and fallen into step at my side.

“Why don’t you listen when I talk to you?” he said plaintively, as if I had done him an injustice.

“Oh, you were talking to me, then?” I said, feigning surprise. “Well, seeing that my name is Tom—Tommy for my closest cronies—and not ‘fattie’ or ‘meatball’, I just assumed you were talking to yourself again. You do have a habit of soliloquizing, you know.”

“Wise guy,” Brutus said in a low voice. “I wanted to talk to you, Tommy.” Somehow he always managed to pronounce my name as if it was a dirty word.

“No one is stopping you, Brutus.”

“What’s all this I hear about you reporting a murder in the park?”

I rolled my eyes at this incorrect representation of the facts. “For one thing, I never reported any murder. Who’s been feeding you lies? One of your loathsome friends?”

Brutus has the most abhorrent circle of cronies. A bunch of repellent yes-cats that answers to his every beck and call as if he were the leader of a gang of sorts. Which, now that I come to think of it, he probably is.

“I got it from Ricky,” he growled, “who got it from Rufus, who got it from Candy, who was there when Dana told the whole story to Frank, that wannabe copper. Some dame got whacked and you and Dana were there when it happened, and saw the whole thing.”

I admitted to having been an eyewitness to the events he’d just described, but made strong objection to the use of the term ‘whacked’. Frank’s words had really rung a bell with me and I’d now come to consider the woman being murdered with the proper compassion she undoubtedly deserved.

Too true, I now saw, that being unfaithful is no reason to find oneself on the receiving end of a very large and very sharp knife. If everyone who has ever cheated on his wife or husband would meet with the same fate, the world would probably be a lot less populated than it is now.

“Now, tell me something. Was it a big knife?” said Brutus, his eyes gleaming with a strange light.

“I—”

“Was there a lot of blood? Did it spout from the vic like a geyser?”

“I really—”

“Is it true that the killer licked the knife clean? And that he howled like a werewolf when the light of the full moon lit up his savagely contorted face; half human, half beast?”

“Oh, please,” I said, disgusted. Somewhere between Candy, Rufus and Ricky, the story had obviously taken a turn for the fantastic. Cats will be cats, and embellishments will find their way into any tale they tell. “Nothing of the kind. What do you think this is, Werewolf High? All Dana and I saw was some guy stab some woman and do a disappearing act with the mortal remains. No licking or howling was involved.”

Brutus seemed disappointed. “You always were a spoilsport,” he grunted, indicating he held me personally responsible for ruining a perfectly good story by telling the truth.

“Look, I don’t see what the big deal is,” I said. “They’re humans. They’re prone to violence. They’re not as levelheaded and intelligent a species as we are and they will go around causing all manner of murder and mayhem. It has happened before and it will happen again.”

“Not in Brookridge Park, it hasn’t,” said Brutus. “Frank said this is the first time something like this has ever happened around here.”

“Oh, puh-lease,” I said. “And what about that girl who fell from a tree last fall? Broke her neck and died on the spot.”

“Accidental death,” said Brutus with a touch of wistfulness. “Not a killer in sight, not even a small one.”

“Or the boy who fell through the ice on the Brookridge Park pond? Didn’t he die?”

“No, some idiot dove in and saved him. And, again, no one pushed him. He fell in all by his idiot self. No, this really is the first time a real, juicy murder has happened in this little nook of the world, and you and Dana were the only ones to see it.” He eyed me with the green eye of jealousy. “Of all the cats… And to think I would have been there if not for Ricky getting his tail entangled in those nasty bridge-side brambles.”

Brutus had touched on a point of much contention between us. “That elm tree is mine, Brutus, and you know it.”

“Trees don’t belong to anyone, fathead.”

“Well, that one does and everyone knows it. Don’t you ever stop and smell the bark?”

“I do, and then I take a leak right on top of it.”

It was true. No matter how many times I’d cordoned off my territory, this ugly-looking brute always managed to trespass and pee all over my scent. And I’m sorry to say his pee smelled much stronger than my paltry glandular secretion. Moppett must feed him something truly awful like human bones. My whiskers shivered at his insolence. “Once and for all. That tree is mine.”

“Fat chance, fattie.”

“That’s it,” I said, holding up my paws, claws extended. “Let’s take this outside.”

He grinned. “We are outside, poop.”

“I know that. I mean, let’s settle this like gentlecats.”

Brutus chuckled. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but I eat pudgy wimps like you for breakfast. No offense.” And he walked away, chortling freely.

I don’t know what’s worse, being pounded to a pulp by a big, beefy Persian, or having a big, beefy Persian deem you unworthy of the time and trouble to pound you to a pulp. I sighed as I watched him waddle off and disappear into the shrubbery, no doubt with a view of attaching his own additions to the Brookridge Park murder tale. By the time the night was through, I had no doubt the story going around the Brookridge rooftops and alleyways would be that a dozen vicious vampires had swooped down and viciously attacked a dozen innocent virgins with the intent of feasting on their blood and decorating the park’s rustic benches and quaint old bridges with their entrails.

When I finally arrived home a couple of minutes later, I was so happy to see Zack, that I actually jumped up and licked his hands. The big guy was so touched, he cooked up some chicken liver he’d bought, and presented me the gourmet meal on a platter. I sighed a happy sigh. Now, this was the life. This was the highlight of my day. Well, this and chasing birds in the park, of course. And catching flies after dark. And cuddling on my soft blanket next to Zack when he’s watching one of his silly action flicks. And… Oh, well, I’ll admit it. I’m one lucky cat.

Unfortunately, the night was still young and at that moment I had no inkling of events yet to unfold. For the Brookridge Park horror had only just begun.

Z
ack Zapp is a beefy fellow
, built according to the blueprints laid out by the person or persons responsible for the first armored vehicle, aka, the tank. Tank was also the nickname some not-too-original schoolmate assigned to Zack at one time, and though he’s the gentlest soul imaginable and wouldn’t hurt a fly if it bit him on the ass, he went through high school carrying this dubious moniker, and carried it with a certain pride.

For Zack is not the brightest bulb in the bulb shop and though, as I’ve expressed earlier, I’m extremely fond of the big guy, there’s no denying the fact that my cat brain, though probably ten times smaller in size than his, fires on more cylinders than his oversized pumpkin.

To give you an instance, I had just finished my chopped chicken liver and was licking my lips as an afterthought, when the doorbell rang and Terrell McCrady, a young artist living two doors down, stood on the porch, requesting speech.

We hadn’t seen Terrell for a bit, due to the fact that he’d been out of town—staying at some posh hotel in the big city of Brussels—and Zack welcomed him with open arms, fond as he’s always been of the shaggy-looking goofball.

Terrell, who’s the son of Brookridge’s mayor, Solomon McCrady, said he could only stay for a bit. “I’m doing the round of the neighborhood,” he said as he stepped into the hallway. He had a silly smile on his face that spoke of the pleasant mood he was in. “I’ve got great news, Zack.”

“That’s great,” said Zack rather lamely.

“I’m getting married.”

Zack frowned. “Are you sure?”

Terrell seemed taken aback. Often, when one announces a wedding the response one expects is a little more… encouraging. “Sure I’m sure. Why, did Lexie tell you otherwise?” All of a sudden he seemed less sure of himself.

“Who,” said Zack, “is Lexie?”

“Lexie Moonstone,” said Terrell. “My fiancée.”

“Oh, that’s all right, then,” said Zack.

“What’s all right?”

“You didn’t hear it from me, but the body of a woman was found in the park just now. I thought perhaps she was your fiancée. In which case I would imagine the wedding was off. Hard to marry a dead person, if you know what I mean.” He gave Terrell the pleasant smile of one who is relieved the wedding bells will ring out after all. And I deduced from his demeanor that he’d come to the conclusion that when neighbors go to all the trouble of making house calls announcing weddings, there most probably is free food and drink on the horizon.

“What!” exclaimed Terrell, rightly perturbed.

Zack nodded. “Yep. Stabbed to death and left floating in the pond. Such a shame.”

I wasn’t sure if he meant the dead woman or the pond. Zack is awfully fond of feeding the ducks in the park and when dead women start floating in ponds, ducks more often than not flee the scene of the crime.

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes,” corrected Zack the other’s statement. “And the odd thing is: she was wearing some sort of a wedding dress, as if she was on her way to a wedding, possibly her own. Luckily for you, her name isn’t Lexie or even Moonstone. Say, haven’t I seen that girl of yours around here?”

“What was her name?” said Terrell, ignoring the question.

“Why, Lexie Moonstone of course. You just told me so yourself,” said Zack, confused.

“Not my fiancée, the murder victim,” said Terrell, anxious. And I could see why he would be. Even though the dead woman wasn’t his Lexie, as a long-standing Brookridge citizen, it might be someone else he knew.

“Oh.” Zack’s brow furrowed as he attempted to recall this tidbit of information. “Um, I think Milton said her name was Zoe something. Zoe Huckleberry, I think he said. He heard it from Barbara Vale, who heard it from Fisk Grackle, who heard it from Bart Ganglion. So it must be true,” he concluded a little breathlessly, for a brain the size of Zack's takes a lot of energy when taxed to its limits.

Now this is usually the part of the story where the narrator—in this case yours truly—gives a brief overview of all the persons named, as there are Milton, Barbara Vale, Fisk Grackle and Bart Ganglion. Unfortunately, adding footnotes to spine-chilling thrillers such as this story is turning out to be, is simply not done.

The reader, already on the edge of his seat and frantically biting his nails, would bludgeon the narrator with a blunt object if he were to suspend his blood-curdling tale to do so. Suffice it to say Milton Burdass-Nuttall is Zack's best friend and cohort. Barbara Vale works in City Hall as a secretary for Fisk Grackle—and is Dana’s human by the way. Fisk Grackle is assistant to the mayor. And Bart Ganglion is the local copper. The real copper, if you catch my drift, as opposed to Frank the Poodle, who only likes to think he is. Frank, by the way, is Ganglion’s dog, so perhaps that’s where the fluffy one gets his delusions of grandeur.

“Zoe Huckleberry,” repeated Terrell thoughtfully. “Don’t think I know her.”

“Me, neither,” said Zack. “But I do know your little squeeze, McCrady. Isn’t she the redhead photographer?”

Terrell frowned unhappily. “Do you have to call her my little squeeze?”

“I’d call her your wife but since you said yourself you aren’t married yet…”

“Myes, I see your point,” said Terrell, and deftly changed the subject. “Well, I hope they catch whoever did it.”

“Oh, I’m sure they won’t,” said Zack. “You know what a bungler Bart Ganglion is.”

“Bart’s all right once you get to know him,” said Terrell. “Granted, he’s no Lt. Columbo, but he’s dedicated and tenacious.”

“I’ll say,” said Zack, who had on more than one occasion been on the receiving end of Ganglion’s tenaciousness.

The conversation went on for a while longer but my couch blanket was beckoning me so I returned to the living room to take a well-deserved nap before heading out once again into the night. I was closely familiar with the Terrell and Lexie story, for I had been something of the catalyst that had brought them together in the first place. Not to put too fine a point on it, I was actually present when they first met, what with me sitting in Terrell’s tree trying to induce that affable young man to save me, and Lexie just happened to pass by, looking for some typical Brookridge scene for a photo shoot. To make a long story short, Terrell managed to fall, from the roof and in love with Lexie, his administering nurse, and I, after a lot of dillydallying, had finally been saved.

It was some time before Zack returned indoors, and I could see from his manner that Terrell’s story had tugged at his heartstrings. Zack's heart is of a romantic nature, and the McCrady-Moonstone romance inevitably had stirred the depths of his soul. I, for one, dread the day Zack hoists Mrs. Zack over the threshold, for he and I pretty much lead the perfect bachelor life. Late-night action movies? Check. Pizza and pie at all hours of the day or night? Check. Dishes piling up in the sink? Check. Garbage bags collecting in the back garden? Check. These last two items are of particular interest to me, for dirty dishes and garbage attracts mice, and a home without mice is a boring home for any feline worth his or her salt.

For some moments, Zack sat on the couch next to me with a goofy smile on his face and staring before him with non-seeing eyes. Finally he returned to the world of the conscious and murmured a single word.

“Bluebell.”

I gazed up at him with sleepy eyes awaiting further developments, but this seemed as far as his eloquence would go, and as I drifted back to sleep, I didn’t give the matter further thought.

It must have been well past midnight when I awoke. Zack had gone to bed and I was alone in the living room. Stretching, I became aware of a pair of eyes staring intently in my direction from the sliding patio doors. Squinting, I recognized them as Dana’s, and in them I read an urgent desire to have speech with me.