“Sure,” he said. “Tag along.”
And tag along I did. Essential though our first spy mission was, one shouldn’t lose track of the really important things in life.
15
Sam’s Self-Service
Father Sam’s place turned out to be a bust, though. Sneaking in through the cat flap, we were both shocked and dismayed to find that Sam had omitted to fill Stevie’s cat bowl. The thing was empty! Even his water bowl was empty. And I was still shaking my head in dismay at so much negligence from a cat owner, when I noticed Father Sam had also neglected to clean out Stevie’s litter box. I had trotted tither in hopes of taking a tinkle, when I saw to my disgust that the box contained at least a week’s worth of Stevie’s doo-doo. Yikes.
Stevie joined me with a shamefaced expression on his hairy mug.“Sorry about that,” he mumbled.
“Something is very wrong here,” I deduced. “Father Sam never used to be like this.”
He sighed as he led me into the pantry.“I know. He’s been very distracted lately. Hasn’t even groomed me for ages.”
I watched on as Stevie picked away at a 30 pound bag of Chicken Meal Formula. Finally the bag ripped and the wholesome grain-free and gluten-free manna from feline heaven flowed onto the floor. Stevie bade me to dig in but I insisted he go first. He was, after all, the host and I a mere guest.
His mouth full of kibble—rich in all the necessary vitamins, minerals and nutrients and recommended by the veterinary society—he said, “He’s been working on the same sermon for ages.”
“Must be some sermon.”
“I know. And the odd thing is, he frequently locks himself up in his study and won’t come out for ages. I hear him mumbling in there—probably practicing parts of his sermon—then there’s the sound of crumpling paper and the wad hitting the wastepaper basket and from time to time even soft sobbing.”
“That’s bad,” I said. “Every time Zack starts sobbing it usually means he’s fallen in love again and the thing ended badly.”
“Do you think Sam has fallen in love?”
I started playing with a piece of chicken-shaped kibble.“Who knows? Human males are weird that way. They’ll fall in love with just about anybody.”
“But Sam is no ordinary man,” said Stevie. “He’s a priest. They’re not supposed to fall in love.”
“Oh?” Of course I knew all about the topic, for Zack had once been a priest too. He’s retired now, of course. Though from time to time I still catch him fingering his clerical garb when he thinks I’m not looking.
“No. Some humans—all men—pledge allegiance to another human—also a man—hanging from a cross, and from that day forward they’re not allowed to even look at a woman let alone sniff her butt.”
“Weird.”
“Tell me about it. Imagine someone telling us not to sniff a girl’s butt.”
“No way.”
Stevie and I pondered for a moment about the idiosyncrasies of humans. They really are a weird species. Then Stevie said something that made my ears flap.“Could you repeat that?” I said.
“I said that the girl’s name is Bluebell. At least, that’s the name Sam keeps mumbling when he’s alone in his study working on his sermon. I put my ear to the door once and it was Bluebell this and Bluebell that the whole time. That’s why I’m telling you he’s fallen in love, priest orno priest.”
“Bluebell,” I said, frowning, for the name had rung a bell, though which one I wasn’t sure yet.
“Odd name for a girl, don’t you think?”
Then it struck me. Not only had Zack mentioned the name Bluebell earlier that evening, but it had also occurred in the last will and testament of the ghost of Lucy Knicx as read to me, Dana and Stevie. In my excitement I almost knocked over the entire bag of cat food.“It’s a clue!” I vociferated.
“That’s what I keep telling you,” said Stevie with mild reproach. “Sam’s gone and gotten himself entangled with some dreadful female listening to the name Bluebell. And let me tell you, Tom—can I call you Tommy?—that this spells nothing but woe, wretchedness and—”
“No, listen—”
“—worry for all involved. For once a woman enters Sam’s life he won’t be the Brookridge priest much longer. He’ll resign or quit or whatever it is that priests do, and he’ll move away from Brookridge for he won’t be able to stand the disgrace and the gossip and the—”
“No, but listen—”
“—fingerpointing. We’ll probably move to some ghastly back alley in some ghastly town and the new lady of the house won’t like me and will kick me out of the house and I’ll be forced to roam the streets where I’ll suffer and struggle and die.”
“But Bluebell is not a girl!” I finally managed to say.
“It’s not?”
“No! Jesus, I’ve never met any cat who can talk so much.” Apart from myself, perhaps.
“Thank you,” said Stevie, and he seemed genuinely touched. “I aim to please,” he added modestly.
“That’s not what I meant,” I started to say, then decided this wasn’t an avenue I wanted to pursue with Stevie, and dropped the subject. “Zack was talking about Bluebell before—”
“Then it’s definitely a girl,” said Stevie. “You know what Zack is like.”
I knew very well what Zack was like. In fact I think it’s safe to say I’m the number one authority on all things Zack. My master, for lack of a better word, is what I would call a serial infatuator. He falls in love fast and very frequently, and whenever he starts dropping names around the house with a strange cow-like look in his eyes, I know it’s that time of the month again. But this time there were extenuating circumstances.
“I do know what Zack is like, and if not for Lucy Knicx mentioning the same name in her farewell speech, I’d say you were right on the money.”
There was a pause, as Stevie processed this information. I could see from the way he screwed up his face that his brain was working overtime.“Lucy Knicx?” he said finally. “Lucy Knicx mentioned the word ‘Bluebell’?”
I nodded, and started striding away from the pantry. Fond though as I am of any place where the food is plenty and there simply for the taking, I thought the time had come to investigate further into this matter of Bluebell, and what better place to start than right here in Sam’s place.
16
The Bluebell Sermon
“Show me Sam’s study, Watson,” I said, for though I knew the Sherlock-Watson simile wasn’t as pertinent as I should have liked, it still had a nice ring to it.
“So Bluebell isn’t a girl, then, is she?” said Stevie, who came tripping in my wake.
“At this point in our investigation, Bluebell could be anything,” I said, as we traversed the presbytery corridor. We had arrived at a sturdy oak door barring entrance into Sam’s inner sanctum: his study. It was here that the great man wrote his sermons, pieces of eloquent prose that inspiredthe Brookridge masses week on week, or so they tell me. I must admit never having been present during Mass, cats not being allowed in Church as a rule. Not that I mind. Though Jesus was a fisherman, I have it from authoritative sources no actual fish is ever served there.
“Now what?” I said, as I gently pawed the closed door. One of the disadvantages of being a cat is that we have a hard time handling doors. Then again, one of the advantages of being a cat is that we usually find a way around this. Stevie’s next words were a testament to that.
“Follow me,” he said, with a roguish glint in his eye.
“Aye, aye, sir,” I said. We were in Stevie’s lair now, and even though I had my doubts about my new partner’s intelligence, he wouldn’t be much of a cat if he didn’t now the ins and outs of his own place. He led me up a creaking staircase covered with a worn-out oriental runner. On the landing he disappeared into a bathroom that had also seen better days and hopped onto the toilet seat. From there he took a quick leap and disappeared into an opening in the wall where once a vent had been.