“Hi, you guys,” I said warmly.
The three cats stared at me with ill-concealed hostility.
“Mind your own business,” hissed the first one.
“Get lost,” growled the second one.
“Beat it,” grunted the third.
I had the impression they didn’t like me very much. Of course I could be wrong. Perhaps I simply hadn’t given them the secret handshake yet. Whatever that was.
“The crime scene is right over there,” I said, helpful as ever, and I pointed a dainty claw in the direction of my elm tree.
“Scram, squirt,” snarled the biggest one of the trio, and made a menacing move in my direction. He had a scar the shape of a sledgehammer above his right eye. It wasn’t that he was big, exactly. Just extremely sinewy. And I was thinking I wouldn’t like to meet this guy alone in the dark, when I realized Iwas meeting him alone in the dark. Him and two of his equally freakishly sinewy buddies. I shivered slightly.
“Right ho,” I said. “I’ll be pushing along then, shall I?”
This time they didn’t speak, but merely threw menacing glances in my direction. If looks could kill… And since they didn’t seem all that eager for the pleasure of my company, I gave them a merry ‘cheerio’ and pottered off. Not that I wasn’t anxious to do so. They were definitely not the most cheery brothers. Were all FSA agents like this, I wondered? And for a moment there I even wavered in my allegiance to the cause. But then I thought of Dana, and I was strong again. At least one cat in the FSA employ was all right. Though she did steal my tree.
14
Elementary, My Dear Stevie
“She kick you out as well?” The sad voice came from a bench nearby. I glanced over and saw that Stevie had sought the heights again, though this time not as high as before. I ambled over and hopped onto the bench next to him. He might be daft, but he was my partner now.
“Yeah, I guess when things get serious, the FSA has no need for rookies,” I said.
“I still think we could have helped,” he said.
“Well, we still can,” I said, for a thought had just occurred to me.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re agents in the employ of the FSA now. And our mission is to help humans, right?”
“Right.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“So we don’t need Dana’s permission to fulfill our mission, do we?”
His jaw drooped as he mulled this over.“Um, I guess not?” he ventured.
“Of course we don’t. Let’s you and I solve this crime and present Dana with the solution, and our place in the FSA hallmark of fame will be guaranteed.”
“Does the FSA have a hallmark of fame?” he said, a little dubiously.
“Sure it has, and we’ll be in it.”
“Oh.” The prospect seemed to please him, for he hitched up his jaw and managed a smile. “That’s fine, then.”
“Better than fine. It’s great.”
“Great,” he echoed.
“So, let’s have your ideas on the matter. What do you think happened? We need to establish a timeline.”
“Um,” he said, closing his eyes. “What happened?” he said slowly.
“Let’s start with what we know.”
“Yes,” he said. “What we know.” He opened his eyes. “What do we know?”
“Well, we know that Lucy Knicx—”
“Funny name, that,” he remarked, and snickered.
“Well, be that as it may, Lucy Knicx was rehearsing a scene for the upcoming play—”
“Did you know Sam is going to be in the play?” He nodded emphatically. “He’s playing the butler. Imagine that. A priest playing a butler. Funny, that. And he’s been asked to direct the thing as well.”
“Funny,” I said, though I failed to see the humor in the situation. “We know she was playing the role of Zoe Huckleberry, and was supposed to rehearse with Rick Mascarpone—”
Stevie seemed to find this name particularly funny as well, for he chuckled freely at its mention.“Mascarpone!” he said. “Say cheese!”
“Hilarious. Now we know that Rick Mascarpone was unavailable for some reason.”
“Ate too much tiramisu,” suggested Stevie with a twinkle in his eye.
“So now all we need to find out is who his understudy was and we’re home free,” I concluded.
“I can tell you that,” said Stevie. “Sam told me the other night.”
“What? Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“I thought you knew. It’s Zack.”
“Zack? What Zack?”
“Your Zack. He’s the understudy for the part of Jack Mackintosh.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, he was at our place the other day. He wanted to know if Sam had any tips for him. He’d never acted in a play before and Sam has, so naturally he came by to pick up some pointers.”
“But it wasn’t Zack. It couldn’t have been.”
“Yes, it was. I heard it with my own two ears.” And as if to prove his point he scratched one furry appendage with his hind paw.
“He hasn’t got a pimple on his nose.”
“You can’t hold that against him. Many people don’t have pimples on their nose,” explained Stevie kindly.
“The murderer!”
“What about him?”
“He’s got a pimple on his nose. I saw it.”
“Ah,” said Stevie. “And are you sure about that, Agent Tom?”
“Of course I’m sure. A big fat pimple, right on the tip of his nose.”
Stevie pawed his chin thoughtfully. These were deep waters.“Now let me get this straight. The murderer has a pimple on his nose.”
“Right.”
“And Zack hasn’t.”
“Exactly.”
His face cleared.“Then it can’t be Zack who viciously slew young Lucy Knicx. You must see that.”
I groaned. If this was to be my life from now on, I hoped it would be over soon.
Stevie continued. He was getting into the thing now.“What this means is that there must be a third man.”
“Right. A second understudy.”
“Now we’re finally getting somewhere, my dear Watson.”
“Hey, you don’t get to call me Watson.You’re Watson in this little outfit of ours. And I’m Sherlock.”
“Too bad. I’ve got dibs on Sherlock. You be Watson.”
“No way. I’m the brains behind this operation. You’re merely the ‘hey you’.”
“I beg to differ, my dear Watson.”
“You’re doing it again!”
“Elementary, my dear—”
“Stop that.”
“Now, now, my dear— Ouch!”
This last remark was in reference to the head-butt I’d given him.
“You had that coming,” I said.
“Oh, all right. You can be Sherlock.”
“Look, this is all wrong,” I said.
“I’ll say,” he said, rubbing the spot where my head had collided with his.
“I don’t mean that. I mean, we’re not detectives. We’re spies. We shouldn’t model ourselves after Sherlock Holmes. We should look to James Bond as a role model.”
“Right,” he said, bobbing his head in agreement. “But what’s the difference? I mean, we’re solving a murder case, aren’t we? So we’re detectives, aren’t we?”
“No, we’re not,” I said emphatically. “We’re spies who just happen to solve murder cases from time to time.”
“Okay,” he said dubiously.
“This Lucy Knicx was probably a secret agent, murdered before she could spill the beans,” I said, thinking aloud now. “I bet you a pound of chicken liver that whoever the murderer is, he’s probably an enemy spy. And we,” I concluded, tapping Stevie’s chest, “are going to find out who’s behind this.”
“Oh, all right, if we must,” said Stevie. He’d jumped down from the bench and was starting to wend his way towards the park exit.
“Where are you off to, then?” I said, surprised at this lack of enthusiasm for the mission.
“I’m going home,” he said. “All this talk of chicken liver has made me hungry.”
He had a point there. All this talk about chicken liver had mademe hungry as well.“Mind if I join you?” I said, for I knew Father Sam didn’t stint on the cat food.