“You take the stun gun, I’ll take the shotgun, and as for the others…” She cast a quick glance at the backseat, where four cats sat at attention, ready to do their bit. “You make sure that when this guy makes a run for it, you grab him and grab him good, all right?”
“Aye-aye, captain!” Brutus bellowed.
And so it was arranged: Gran and Scarlett would form the advance troops, ready to hit the killer by surprise, and the four of us would hold back, and make sure that if the killer managed to evade two old ladies armed to the teeth, we’d bite them in the ankles or do whatever else it took to incapacitate Neda’s vicious attacker!
Gran and Scarlett carefully opened their respective doors, after Gran had had the presence of mind to disable that little car light that annoyingly announces to anyone and sundry that something is going down, and slowly got out.
The killer’s car had parked three cars in front of us, so while Gran kept to the left side, and used the intervening cars as cover, Scarlett did the same thing on the right side.
A two-pronged attack!
And as for us? We simply crept underneath the vehicles, making sure we stayed in the shadows.
Soon Gran had reached the car parked right behind the killer, and Scarlett was waiting in the right wing for Gran’s signal announcing their surprise attack.
Then Gran suddenly hissed,“Now!” and both women sprung the trap, Gran securing the driver’s side door and Scarlett the passenger side door. They both yanked open their designated doors, while four cats sat watching on with bated breath, claws out!
Judging from Gran’s face, though, the identity of the killer surprised her a great deal, for she momentarily reeled. And then she said, “What the hell are you doing here!”
“I could ask you the same thing,” an irritable voice sounded from within the car.
“I should have known it was you,” said Scarlett, sounding disappointed.
And then the killer emerged from the car—or the two killers, actually.
They were, reading from left to right: Wilbur Vickery and Father Reilly!
16
Wilbur and Father Reilly had had the exact same idea as Gran and had decided that if the killer returned to the scene of the crime, they’d be the ones to nab them.
“You know this isn’t your neighborhood, right?” said Gran. “This is our neighborhood, and you have no business here.”
“According to this map this is our neighborhood,” said Wilbur, as he stabbed a stubby finger at an old map, which he’d placed on the hood of his car.
“What is that, Max?” asked Dooley.
“That is a map, Dooley,” I said.
“A map? But it’s made of paper.”
“Maps used to be made of paper,” I told him, “before Google took over, and GPS.”
“Don’t you remember those movies where X marks the spot, Dooley?” asked Harriet. “Treasure maps and that kind of thing?”
“Oh, sure,” he said, then his eyes went wide with excitement. “Is that a treasure map Wilbur is holding? Are we going to hunt for treasure?”
“No, Dooley, it’s just a map of Hampton Cove,” I said.
“And it wouldn’t surprise me if that wasn’t the map that was drawn up when the two neighborhood watches signed their famous peace treaty,” Brutus grunted.
“Look, this is the line we agreed upon,” said Wilbur. Four members of two different neighborhood watches were now bent over the map, intently studying it. “And here is the house of Neda Hoeppner, see?”’
“Oh, I see, all right,” said Gran. “I can see that Neda’s house is in our part of town.”
“It’s on the demarcation line, actually,” said Father Reilly. “Right on the line, in fact.”
“So what does that mean?” asked Scarlett.
“That means that we apply the principle we agreed to,” said Gran. “The South side of the street is yours, the North side is ours. And as you can clearly see, Neda’s house is on the North side, which means this is our turf, Vickery. So you better scram.”
“I thought they’d agreed to divvy up the night, not the town?” said Brutus.
“They signed an amendment to the original treaty last week,” I explained.
“I don’t see it that way,” Wilbur protested. “The line is clearly drawn on top of Neda’s house.”
“That’s because you can’t draw,” Gran said unhappily. “Obviously the line was supposed to go right down the middle of the street, with one side of the street ours, the other side yours. Only you messed up again, Vickery.”
“No, I think this was done intentionally,” said Father Reilly. “We divvied up the streets and houses in the fairest way possible, remember? We even asked Charlene Butterwick to give us access to the most recent census, to make sure we have an equal number of citizens under our jurisdiction.”
“See?” said Wilbur triumphantly. “Neda’s house is mine!”
“Ours,” Father Reilly corrected him mildly.
“Oh, nonsense,” said Gran, but even she had to admit that the aged priest just might have a point.
“Gran!” Harriet hissed. “Ask him about the choir!”
“Okay, so I’m going to let this one slide for now,” said Gran, “but on one condition.”
Wilbur gave her a look of suspicion. Long association with Vesta Muffin had made him aware of the fact that she took no prisoners, and she gave no presents.“What?”
“You have a concert coming up, Francis.”
“That’s right,” said Father Reilly. “At least if it will still happen. Now that we’ve lost Neda, we might have to postpone.”
“Don’t postpone. Simply tell people you’re dedicating the concert in Neda’s honor.”
“Oh, that’s not such a bad idea,” said the priest, nodding thoughtfully.
“It’s a brilliant idea. And what’s even more brilliant is what I’m going to tell you next. You know about cat choir, right?”
“Of course. My Shanille is part of that group of cats.”
“Not just a part—Shanille runs cat choir.”
“She does? My, my. She does take after her owner, doesn’t she?”
“What’s all this nonsense, Vesta?” asked Wilbur. “I thought we were discussing watch business and here you are yapping about your cats.”
“Your cat is also part of cat choir, Wilbur. In fact Kingman plays an important part.”
“He does, does he?” said Wilbur, slightly mollified. “Well, he is a proud and talented cat, of course. He gets that from me.”
“So how about we join both choirs, St. Theresa Choir and cat choir, for one unique concert? A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see two great professional choirs at work?”
Both men stared at her as if she’d finally lost her mind.
“Don’t just stand there looking like a couple of idiots—say something!”
“Well…” said Father Reilly, rubbing his chin.
“You’re nuts, Vesta,” said Wilbur, who wasn’t one for beating about the bush. “Cats? Singing in a choir? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!”
“They do sing, you know,” said Scarlett, piping up. “And they sing very nice, too.”
Both men turned to her, a little goggle-eyed.“You’ve heard them sing?” asked Wilbur.
“Oh, sure,” Scarlett lied. “And they can sing beautifully. Like little angels.”
“Little angels?” asked Father Reilly, as if suddenly seeing the light.
“Absolutely. When you hear these cats sing it’s almost as if you’re transported to a different place—a different world.”
A world of bleeding ears, I thought as I listened to this nonsense. Look, I’m not saying cats can’t sing, but the cats of Hampton Cove certainly can’t. The only reason we spend time in cat choir is to have an excuse to shoot the breeze and spend some time together. Still, if Harriet thought this was a good idea, who was I to rain on her parade? After all, usually these concerts are accompanied by a small orchestra consisting of one or two violinists, a pianist if Father Reilly can wrangle one up, bass player, flutist, guitarist… It drowns out the terrible noise from the choir, you see, and makes people forget that fifty pensioners who just happen to think they can sing, aren’t necessarily right.