The Whiskered Spy (9 page)

I
started
. “What? Where? When?”

“Last night, while you were sleeping,” she said tersely.

I drew myself up to my full height. “I wasn’t sleeping last night,” I said with as much hauteur as I could manage on the spur of the moment. “I was… investigating.”

She scoffed. “Of course you were.”

“I was!” I exclaimed, now truly offended. Not only had this cat the gall to enter my personal space uninvited, she came loaded with all kinds of unfounded accusations. “In fact, Stevie and I discovered several extremely valuable clues!”

She seemed unimpressed. “And did any of those ‘extremely valuable clues’ point to the Brookridge Park serial killer?”

I gulped. “Serial killer?”

She nodded. “The same thing happened again. Under the same tree.”

“But how do you know it was the same guy?”

“Because someone saw what happened and described the killer as a fellow with a large and distinct pimple on the nose. Furthermore, he and the victim—a girl named Jamie Burrow—were practicing what sounds like the same scene from the Murder in the Park play, when he suddenly took out a big, shiny knife from the recesses of his costume and laid into her.”

“Oh, no!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, yes,” she said, a twinge of pain now marring her furry face.

“Jamie Burrow… she was Lucy Knicx’s understudy for the Zoe Huckleberry part.”

She looked up, surprised. “How do you know?”

“Stevie and I paid a visit to Father Sam’s study last night—he’s directing the play, you know—and Stevie said Jamie Burrow would be replacing Lucy in the play. She’d been coming by a couple of times.”

Dana looked up at this, visibly surprised, then nodded. “Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”

“Oh, all right,” I said, as casually as I could, though inwardly I felt as proud as a peacock. Seems like those Peterbalds didn’t give full satisfaction after all. Of course, that’s what you get when hiring the pure muscle: all brawn and no brains. Then, since thinking about brawn and brains reminded me too much of my recent encounter with Brutus, I banished all thoughts of muscle heads altogether and focused on Dana. She was saying something about grass blades.

“Uh-huh,” I said, trying to sound as intelligent as I knew how. Grass blades have never been one of my favorite subjects, though I do enjoy them after a heavy meal.

“From the way the grass was flattened, it’s clear she was carried all the way from the tree to the pond and then dumped in.”

She was moving at a good pace and I had to make an effort to keep up. One of the disadvantages of being big is that it takes more energy to move from point A to point B. Something to do with an apple and a guy called Newton. “Dumped in?” I repeated, panting a little.

“Just like Lucy Knicx,” she said. “Too bad the witness didn’t have the nerve to stay the killer’s hand.”

“Your crew wasn’t in place, then?” I said, as innocently as possible.

She gave me a bemused frown. “Crew? What crew?”

“Those heavies I saw before,” I said. When she looked at me as if I was speaking dog, I elaborated. “Three ugly-looking and very unfriendly Peterbalds?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said finally. “I canvased the scene all by myself, though Frank dropped by later on to see if there was anything he could do.”

Now it was my turn to frown. “But I thought…”

“The FSA is a very small organization, Tom. And I can assure you no Peterbalds have ever been signed to join. Which is not to say I have anything against Peterbalds,” she quickly added, probably remembering some non-discrimination clause in the FSA statutes. Her next words confirmed this. “All cats are created equal after all.”

I hesitated.

“Don’t you agree?” she said, a little too vehemently for my taste. It was clearly a subject on which she held strong views.

“Oh, of course,” I said, dispelling her fear that I was some sort of feline racist. “It’s just that I did see three Peterbalds who were on their way to the elm tree last night. So I naturally assumed…”

“Yes, I see,” she said, mulling over these words. “I wonder what they were doing there.”

“You didn’t see them?”

“No, though I did have the distinct impression I was being watched at some point.” She shrugged. “Probably just tourists.”

“Yeah,” I said, not convinced. Hadn’t Brutus mentioned he’d seen Dana hobnobbing with the ugly trio? For a brief moment I toyed with the idea of confronting her with the truth, but then I dropped it. If there’s one thing any secret agent worth his or her salt knows how to do with practiced ease, it’s lying. There was no way I would get her to tell me the truth if she didn’t want to. I had to try another tack. “Brutus said he thought they were from Southridge,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he said Southridgeans are swarming all over Brookridge trying to steal our natural resources.”

“Is that so?” she said, uninterested.

“Especially our queens,” I said, emphasizing the last word.

Dana simply ignored me. I gave it one last try.

“He said Southridgeans are probably behind these murders as well.”

Dana looked up sharply. “Brutus is a silly ass and you can tell him so when you see him next.”

“Oh-kay,” I said, taken aback by this sudden snappishness.

“And what’s all this talk about Brutus anyway?” she continued. “I thought you two didn’t get along?”

“Well, it’s like this…” I began, but she interrupted me.

“You’d better stay away from that cat,” she said, fixing me with a fierce stare. “He’s not good company for an FSA agent.”

In my opinion Brutus wasn’t good company for any cat, but I remained quiet, wondering what had brought on this sudden outburst.

“He’s a meddling fool and the worst gossipmonger in all of Brookridge. That’s why I often use him to spread a rumor. Within 24 hours every single cat roaming the Brookridge streets is briefed when Brutus gets a whiff of the story.”

I knew all that, of course, but what I didn’t know was why the mere mention of Southridgean involvement in Dana’s murder investigation was enough to make her fly off the handle. If I didn’t know any better I’d have said Brutus and Dana were… No way! “You and Brutus?” I exclaimed, a little too loudly.

“Shh!” Dana admonished me. We had just entered the Brookridge Park but she kept looking around as if the bushes had ears. “Not so loud!”

“Don’t tell me you and Brutus are an item?” I said. But the way her face flushed told me enough. “Nooo…” I said, truly flabbergasted and appalled.

She finally fessed up. “Yes,” she said with bowed head. “One summer, three years ago, Brutus and I had a brief…” Her voice trailed off.

“Oh, my God…” I said.

So there you go. Even a secret agent of Dana’s obvious merit has deep, dark secrets hidden in her murky past. Shocking? Obviously. Surprising? Hardly. It merely confirms my theory that girls will fall for the muscular male, even if he’s a mean, bullying dumb-ass like Brutus. But then again, I shouldn’t speak badly of the brute. He is, after all, my newfound partner.

T
hough I was more
than a little curious to know how a girl of Dana’s obvious intelligence and attractiveness could ever fall for a guy like Brutus, it was clear she wasn’t ready to discuss the affair, so I let it go. But between Dana’s lies about the Peterbald triplets and her romantic liaison with Brookridge’s gift to brutishness, it was safe to say that the plot was thickening.

We had arrived at the Brookridge Park pond, and I became aware of strange goings-on. The ducks were uncharacteristically quiet and a small band of humans had gathered on the other side from where we stood. I squinted to figure out what they were doing, and then it became clear: a lifeless body was resting on the patch of grass lining the pond and the men all stood hovering over it, frowning, and brooding.

“Jamie Burrow?” I said, and Dana nodded. She seemed suddenly distracted. Perhaps being reminded of her past love had brought back memories of happier days? I refrained from probing into the matter, and suggested we move in for a closer look. Humans never take much notice of cats anyway, so we could easily take a peek at the remains of unfortunate Jamie and perhaps learn something about the circumstances of her demise.

But oddly enough Dana seemed unwilling to proceed. She shook her head and said, in a small voice, “You go.”

“But—”

“I-I can’t.”

So I shrugged and left her there while I hobbled to the other side of the pond. As luck would have it, a tree branch hung low over the scene and within seconds I was on it, enjoying a bird’s eye view of the proceedings. Bart Ganglion was there, of course, a burly copper with a bristly mustache, as was Mayor Solomon McCrady, a fat little man who likes to think he’s the most important man in all of Brookridge, which he probably is.

Stretched out on a piece of pea-green tarp was a smallish female human who may or may not have been pretty when alive but now looked positively unhealthy. Being dead does nothing for one’s complexion. Hers was a pasty white, all color drained from her face. I gulped at the sight. Though it was the first time I’d laid eyes on this particular human, I felt sorry for Jamie Burrow. She was young and, before meeting the grim reaper, probably full of life, and didn’t deserve to be chucked into the Brookridge Park pond as if she were duck food.

At this moment a smallish man with a horrid combover was examining the body with the air of the expert. The medical man, no doubt. Seeing him reminded me of the last time Zack had taken me to the vet. Syringes had played a huge part in the encounter and there had been a lot of talk about parasites and—oh, the horror—worms.

The memory somehow drew me closer to the recently departed, and I tried my darndest to pick up any hints or clues as to the identity of the vicious murderer who had slain young Jamie. Unfortunately, the men up top, or rather down below, were remarkably reticent about first causes, their discussion restricting itself to idle speculation on European soccer prognostics. Bart Ganglion seemed to think AC Milan would prevail in the Champions League, while the doctor had it on good authority that Manchester United was in excellent fettle and would lead the pack.

Then my eye fell on Frank, who was sitting by his master’s side, and I tried to catch his eye by letting out a soft mewl. The white Poodle responded with satisfying alacrity by pricking up his ears and trying to pinpoint the source of my feline cry. It took two more yowls for him to figure out he needed to search the skies, not the earth, but then he finally caught on. After a curt nod, he ambled away towards the foot of the tree and I descended from my high perch to join him there.

“
A
nd
? What have you found out?” I said, dispensing with the customary pleasantries.

“If I had any money, I’d put my little all on Manchester United,” Frank said, flicking his fluffy white tail excitedly.

“About the murder, you lummox,” I said with some exasperation. I’ve never been able to understand this obsession with soccer and probably never will.

“Oh, that,” he said, directing his gaze at Jamie’s remains. “Seems she was stabbed in the back and then dumped in the pond.”

“I know that,” I said, wondering, not for the first time, how Frank had ever managed to become Brookridge’s premier police dog. “What about the killer? Whodunit?”

He shrugged and scratched his ear with his hind leg. “Beats me. From the looks of it probably the same perp who did the Knicx girl.”

“The pimpled pustule,” I said.

“All evidence seems to point that way,” he said.

“You don’t seem to be overly concerned,” I remarked, surprised that Frank, usually the first one to get all hot and bothered about any crime, whether it be public urination or some domestic disturbance between a tom and a queen, responded so tepidly.

“Oh, well,” he said. “Bart has a pretty good idea who’s behind all this.” He then looked left and right to make sure we weren’t being overheard, and leaned in. “Someone from Southridge, apparently.”

“What’s with all the Southridge bashing?” I said, annoyed that even Frank would go in for this small-mindedness.

“Why, you think it’s a Brookridgean who’s killing these women?” He shook his head decidedly, his ears flapping as he did so. “No way it’s a local. You, for one, should know that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Didn’t you say you didn’t recognize the killer when you saw him?”

“So?”

“So, if he was a Brookridgean you would have known him, right?”

This was extremely specious reasoning on his part, and I said as much. “You can hardly expect me to know every single person in Brookridge, now can you?”

“Still. I’m pretty sure our pimpled pervert is not from around here. Call it a hunch.”

There. This is exactly the reason I never argue with a dog. When push comes to shove, they will always pull the instinct card, and then where are you? Cats never do that. They’ll never make a wild guess and then try to blame their gut. But dogs? Every single time. “I won’t call it a hunch, I’ll call it bullsh—”

“Careful, Tom,” said Frank, giving me the stern gaze. “You don’t want to be arrested for insulting a police officer, do you?”

“But you’re not a police officer!” I cried. “You’re not even a police dog!”

He scraped the dirt with his paw and said, rather huffily I thought, “That’s neither here nor there. Bart is a policeman. I’m Bart’s dog. Ergo: I’m a police dog.”

See? You simply can’t argue with a canine. “Whatever,” I said therefore, and decided to let the matter rest. If Frank wanted to believe the pimpled killer was a Southridgean, so be it. What it amounted to was that no one had a clue, and once again it was up to the FSA to figure out what was going on here.

“Have you seen Dana?” said Frank, scraping the ground with his other paw. And for the first time I noticed a hint of animation in his voice.

“Dana? Sure, she’s right over there,” I said, pointing to where I’d left my senior officer.

This bit of intel had an instant effect on Frank: his head shot up, his tail stretched out, and for a moment he gave a very good impression of a pointing dog.

I frowned, this type of behavior reminding me of something, but what… Then it struck me. Zack always acts this way when he’s under the influence of one of his infatuations.

“Don’t tell me you’re…”

Frank jerked his head around. “What?” he said, a little bit too defensively for my taste.

“In love with Dana?” I said, incredulous.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he huffed. “Who has ever heard of a dog falling in love with a cat? It’s simply not done.” He swallowed, and suddenly the same type of hangdog look came over him that I’ve also noticed with Zack. Though it looked better on Frank, he actually being a dog, I mean.

“You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?” I said in my best bedside voice.

He simply nodded, looking miserable.

This explained why he seemed less than interested in the mystery of the pimpled killer all of a sudden. Spurned love will do that to a man. Or, in this case, a dog.

“What? She doesn’t like you? Is that it?”

He heaved a deep sigh, and shook his head dejectedly. “I haven’t even told her yet.” He suddenly looked up and directed a fierce look in my direction. “And don’t you go blabbing about it, Tom. I want to be the one to tell her.”

“Well, then tell her,” I said simply. I’ve never understood why males in love will make these things so overly complicated. If you’re in love with a gal, just go over and tell her. If she likes you, she’ll giggle. And if she doesn’t, she’ll, well, also giggle. No giggle has ever killed a man. Or dog. Or cat.

“But I can’t tell her,” he wailed. “I’m a dog. She’s a cat. It’s not right. It’s not… natural. What if we have kids? What will they look like? Half canine, half feline?”

“I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you,” I said. “For one thing, chances are that Dana doesn’t even like you.” A sudden howl of anguish told me this wasn’t the right avenue to pursue. “Or, perhaps she does,” I amended. Remembering how hesitant Dana was to join me at the crime scene, I started to see her reluctance had more to do with the fact that Frank was there than with a sudden aversion to the sight of dead bodies.

“What should I do?” he cried, and I now saw that the humans were starting to take notice of Frank’s yowls.

“Look, why don’t I talk to Dana about your, um…” I began.

“No! Not a word!”

“But—”

“Not a word to Dana, Tom! Promise me!”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, all right,” I said. “Be that way if you must. But I have a pretty strong suspicion the feeling is mutual.”

His eyes lit up at this piece of news. “Y-y-you think so?”

I nodded emphatically. “Trust me. I know about these things.”

“I forgot about that,” he said.

The entire feline and canine population of Brookridge is probably aware of Zack's infatuation problem by now, as I’ve regaled pretty much everyone with my fount of funny Zack-stories.

“So, as the resident expert on love and romance…”

He hesitated, drawing a heart in the soil with first his left, then his right paw. Finally he relented. “You can tell her. But be discrete, will you, Tom?”

“Sure. Call me Mister Discretion.”

For some odd reason, he didn’t seem convinced.