He gave them a feeble smile. “I was—I was out walking and I was attacked. Attacked by cats. Cats—cats gone crazy!” He emitted a laugh. It sounded shrill to his own ears.
Detective Kingsley didn’t look convinced, and neither did the others.
“Philippe Goldsmith,” said Chase in a rumbling undertone. “You’re under arrest for the murder of your grandfather and the attempted murder of Alec Lip and Tracy Sting.”
And as he was cuffed and led to a police car, an audience of cats was looking on, all along the street, sitting on tree branches and even lying on the roof of the squad car to get a better look. They were staring. Actually staring, unblinkingly. It was the freakiest thing.
And there was Shadow, giving him the evil eye as the cop tucked his head into the car.
And he could have sworn the little sucker’s face was contorted into an actual smile.
The cat’s lips moved, and before the car door was slammed shut, he thought he heard her say, “Gotcha!”
Epilogue
It was grill time at Tex and Marge’s again. This time Chase had kindly offered the good doctor Tex his professional grilling expertise, probably hoping to dig his teeth into something more tasty than a charred sausage, scorched steak or blackened chicken skewer. Marge had made her fabled potato salad and Gran had actually baked no less than three apple pies.
Not that I cared. I’m not so big on potato salad or apple pie and I like my meat raw and juicy, not grilled to the texture of leather. And since Odelia knows how I like my food, she’d provided me and my fellow cats with some excellent nuggets of actual raw chicken.
Yes, I was the hero, fêted by all, and with good reason. Like some kind of action hero I’d actually thrown myself down on top of a live bomb. On closer inspection the bomb had been a beer bottle but I hadn’t known that when I performed my act of heroism. I thought there was actual nitro in that bottle. And if Alec hadn’t replaced the bottle of nitro with a bottle of Corona while Philippe Goldsmith wasn’t looking, I’d have been dead by now.
But I wasn’t, and anyway, cats do have nine lives, as everyone knows, so the explosion would have claimed only the one life, leaving me with eight more to regale my friends with the story of my exploits. And regale them I had. Wherever I went, cats wanted me to tell the story of how a cat had saved the day—and a couple of humans in the process.
“I’m telling you, Odelia,” said Chase as he took the barbecue tongs from Tex and gave the doctor a gentle nudge in the direction of the bowl of sunset punch. Bourbon, vermouth, ginger beer, lemon and sugar. Even Tex couldn’t mess that up. “Those cats of yours are something else. I still can’t believe Max would throw himself on a bomb! Or maybe he thought it was a fat pigeon?”
“No, I think he actually thought it was a bomb,” said Odelia, placing a bowl of apple and poppy seed coleslaw on the table. “And that he was actually saving Uncle Alec’s life.”
“And I for one am mighty grateful,” said Uncle Alec, holding up a bottle of Corona in a toast to me. I would have held up my bottle but for one thing I don’t drink beer and for another I was too busy sampling all the delicious foodstuffs Odelia had set out for us.
“I think it’s amazing,” said Chase. “Simply amazing. Did you give him some extra-crunchy kibble as a reward?”
“I gave him some extra-tasty chicken,” said Odelia, throwing another juicy sliver in my direction. I deftly managed to snatch it from the air and gobble it down. Score!
“So how did you find out Philippe Goldsmith was the one you wanted?” asked Marge.
“Odelia called me in the middle of the night. Said she had a hunch Philippe might be the one,” said Chase. “So I got on my computer and found he’d once burned down the school lab in some experiment gone wrong—the police report mentioned some type of home-made explosive he used that time. And only a few weeks before Burt’s murder a garden shed blew up not far from the Goldsmith family estate. Luckily no one was hurt but police found traces of nitroglycerin at the scene, and a neighbor said a young man fitting Philippe’s description had been seen hauling ingredients and equipment into the shed. He’d been experimenting for a while, trying to perfect the mixture he’d use on his grandfather.”
“Why wasn’t he arrested?”
“The Goldsmiths are a well-respected bunch, and the investigation was dropped.”
“Someone paid the right person the right amount of money,” said Tex.
“No amount of money will save him now,” said Odelia. “This time he was caught in the act.”
“Didn’t you search his room after his grandfather was murdered?” asked Marge.
“We did. But since the explosion had happened in the next room it was only logical we found traces of nitro.”
“Where did he keep his stash of explosives?” asked Tex.
“Hotel kitchen fridge,” said Uncle Alec. “He’d told one of the servers his grandfather liked his beer cold, and had tipped the kid handsomely for the favor. He never had a clue.”
“Clever.”
“He was. Until someone saw right through him.” He directed a look of admiration at Odelia.
“I think Max deserves all the credit,” said Odelia. She couldn’t tell Chase it was me who warned her about Philippe. It was her, though, who warned her uncle, and by the time Philippe arrived, police were at the scene, keeping a close eye on the amateur bomber.
“All’s well that ends well,” said Tex, and took a sip from the fruit punch and winced.
“So when can we get rid of these collars?” asked Harriet, addressing the topic that interested her far more than humans trying to murder other humans.
“Right now,” said Odelia, and proceeded to remove all of our collars!
“Burn them,” said Brutus soberly, checking himself for fleas.
“Are they gone?” asked Dooley. “Are you sure they’re gone?”
Odelia gave him a brief inspection. “All gone,” she said. “Not a single one left.”
“Oh, joy!” Brutus said, and did a little impromptu wiggle of his tush.
I took the butch cat aside. “How about your… issue?” I asked.
He gave me a wink. “What issue?”
I guess those pills Vena had dispensed had done the trick, for the moment he said it, Harriet sashayed over, and the two of them wasted no time stalking off into a laurel bush.
I hopped up onto the porch swing, turned around a few times, and took a seat next to Dooley. “I’m so glad those fleas are gone, Max,” Dooley said, looking extremely relieved.
“Yeah, and I’m glad the Most Interesting Men in the World are gone, too, and they took their Most Interesting Cats along with them.”
“Aren’t you sad Shadow left?”
Shadow had been adopted by the Goldsmith family, and would live with Burt’s second cousin twice removed, who was a genuine cat person. Tracy had promised Shadow a part in future beer commercials if she wanted. But the cat had decided to retire from the world of advertising. Acting in ads simply wouldn’t be the same without Burt. Tracy, meanwhile, had also left, which made Uncle Alec a little sad. She’d promised to return, though, and maybe she would.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“But you liked Shadow,” said Dooley. “She could have been your girlfriend.”
“I doubt it.”
“You’ll always have #nitrogate, though.”
I shrugged. I liked Shadow, I really did, but not in an amorous capacity. I guess the right cat for me is out there somewhere, and one day we’ll meet. Maybe. I’m not holding out hope, though. Cats aren’t like humans. We don’t mate for life. We’re more like George Clooney before he met Amal, or Leonardo DiCaprio before he meets the next hot young model. We like to play the field. Keep our options open, if you know what I mean. We’re cats, for crying out loud. Not Ward or June Cleaver.