“I saw her swat a fly once,” said Dooley conversationally. “It was a big fly. One of those blue ones. Made a big mess, too.”
When I gave him a prod in the ribs he blinked and turned to me, looking slightly offended.“Shut up,” I loud-whispered.
“What did I say?”
Raising my voice, I said,“If anyone saw, heard, smelled or tasted something, we’ll find them and let you know, Odelia.”
Odelia grunted something I understood to be approval, and continued staring straight ahead through the windshield, while her foot ground the accelerator into the floorboard and the car flew across the road at a rate of speed which was frankly disconcerting, not to mention frowned upon by traffic police everywhere.
“So whois the bestselling thriller on the planet?” asked Harriet.
When Odelia didn’t respond, Brutus decided to do the honors. “Agatha Christie, of course,” he said. “In fact she’s the bestselling author of all time. Sold billions of books.”
“Agatha Christie died years ago,” I said.
“So?”
“So she can’t have been murdered tonight if she’s been dead for years.”
This stumped him for a moment. He quickly rallied, though.“Maybe she didn’t die. Maybe she only pretended to die but she’s been alive all this time only to be murdered at Marge’s library tonight.”
“Agatha Christie was almost ninety years old when she died,” I said.
“So?”
“This was years ago! She would have been a hundred-whatever!”
“So? Humans get very old. Hundreds of years, probably. Maybe even thousands.”
For a long time I’d been laboring under the same misapprehension. I’d always figured Odelia was probably a couple of hundred years old. But she’d recently cured me of this mistaken belief in the longevity of the human species. Odelia, as it turned out, wasn’t even thirty years old yet. And most humans nevermade it past the age of a hundred. Weird, huh?
“Trust me, Brutus. Whoever was killed tonight, it wasn’t Agatha Christie.”
“Chris Ackerman,” said Odelia suddenly.
“Who?” asked Dooley.
“Chris Ackerman. The thriller writer?”
Neither me nor Brutus, Harriet or Dooley showed any signs of recognition. Then again, cats are not your great readers. We love television—mostly cat food commercials—but we lack the patience and the attention span to read page after page like humans do.
“So who was this Chris Ackerman?” I asked.
“Like I said. A thriller writer.”
“Any good?” asked Harriet.
“I liked him,” said Odelia. “He was the master of the cliffhanger.”
“Why would a writer make cliffhangers?” asked Dooley. “Isn’t that what IKEA does?”
“Not clothes hangers, Dooley,” I said. “Cliffhangers.”
“What’s a cliffhanger?”
“It’s like the rose ceremony,” said Harriet. “FromThe Bachelor? Our handsome bachelor is about to hand out his final rose of the night and suddenly they cut to commercial and you can’t wait to see what happens next.” She nodded seriously. “That’s a cliffhanger.”
Dooley stared at her, obviously not seeing the connection between cliffhangers, roses andThe Bachelor. But when he opened his mouth to ask a follow-up question, Odelia said,“We’re almost there, you guys. So you know what to do, right?”
“We know,” I said. “We’re going to talk to any animal we can find.”
“Any animal?” asked Harriet in an undertone. “Not just cats?”
“Any animal,” I confirmed.
“I’m not talking to dogs,” Harriet said determinedly. “No, I mean it. I draw the line at dogs. Dogs are filthy, especially street dogs. Just looking at them makes my skin crawl.”
“But what if that particular dog has some very important information to share?” I asked. “Odelia wants us to be her eyes and ears out there.” Not to mention her nose and taste buds, apparently. “So put your petty anti-dog sentiments aside for a moment and think about the greater good here, Harriet.”
“Yes, think about the greater good, Harriet,” Dooley echoed.
“I mean, what if this particular mutt got a good look at the killer’s face? Are you going to let him get away just because you don’t like dogs?”
“Are you, Harriet?” asked Dooley. “Are you doing to let him get away?”
Harriet bridled at this.“You know what? If you like dogs so much why don’t you talk to them? I’ll stick to cats.”
Dooley thought about this for a moment.“All right,” he said finally. “I’ll take the dogs—you take the cats.” Then he directed a curious look at Brutus. “What species of animal are you going to talk to, Brutus?”
“I’ll take the ladies,” said Brutus with a big grin before he could stop himself. But when Harriet directed a withering look in his direction, he quickly added, “Or you could talk to the ladies, Harriet. I can talk to the gentlemen.”
“We’re here,” said Odelia, and stomped on the brake with such fervor that the four of us were suddenly catapulted from our positions on the backseat and plastered against the back of the front seats. All of us except Dooley, who’d been sitting in the middle. He flew through the air, describing a perfect arc, and would have been reduced to a mere smear on the windshield if Odelia hadn’t had the presence of mind—and the superior reflexes—to grab him by the neck and save him from further harm.
“Phew,” said Dooley once he’d recovered from his adventure. “Thanks, Odelia.”
“I’m sorry about that,” said Odelia, giving Dooley a quick hug before placing him on the passenger seat. She turned to face us. “I know I’m a little on edge right now, but that’s because my mom is in trouble. So please do the best you can, and I apologize for being such a sourpuss.” She gave us a quick smile, then opened the door and allowed us to hop from the car and onto the pavement.
I saw she’d parked a ways away from the library. She probably didn’t want to advertise the fact that she’d called in her private feline army to deal with this latest murder emergency. Even though Odelia can talk to cats, and so can her mother and grandmother, no one else can, and they would think it strange if they saw a grown woman speak feline.
We watched Odelia lock up her pickup and stalk away in the direction of the library. I felt for my human. She looked more stressed and downhearted than I’d ever seen her.
“I hope they don’t lock up my human,” said Harriet, who must have read my mind.
“They won’t,” I assured her. “Your human’s brother is the chief of police, and he would never lock up his own sister. Humans don’t lock up their own kin.”
Actually, they probably did, but this wasn’t the time to discuss worst-case scenarios. This was the time to rally round and tackle this dreadful murder business which had suddenly struck very close to home indeed.
“Let’s do this,” I said, and we were off to the races.
Chapter 4
When Odelia tried to enter the library she discovered a police officer had been stationed at the front door—possibly the first time that had ever happened. He was one of those stalwart types: buff, with a slight pudginess in the belly area, and sporting a nicely trimmed mustache, which doubled as a donut crumb collector.
“Um, I need to get in there?” she said tentatively.
She’d recognized the cop as one of her uncle’s guys and she was pretty sure the cop had recognized her as well. He shook his head, though, and stared over her head as if silently hoping she would take a hint and simply melt away into the background.
“Oh, come on, Jackson,” she said. “Don’t give me that dead cod look.”
This stirred him out of his self-chosen apathy.“I don’t look like a dead cod,” he said indignantly.