Now it was my turn to frown.“But I thought…”
“The FSA is a very small organization, Tom. And I can assure you no Peterbalds have ever been signed to join. Which is not to say I have anything against Peterbalds,” she quickly added, probably remembering some non-discrimination clause in the FSA statutes. Her next words confirmed this. “All cats are created equal after all.”
I hesitated.
“Don’t you agree?” she said, a little too vehemently for my taste. It was clearly a subject on which she held strong views.
“Oh, of course,” I said, dispelling her fear that I was some sort of feline racist. “It’s just that I did see three Peterbalds who were on their way to the elm tree last night. So I naturally assumed…”
“Yes, I see,” she said, mulling over these words. “I wonder what they were doing there.”
“You didn’t see them?”
“No, though I did have the distinct impression I was being watched at some point.” She shrugged. “Probably just tourists.”
“Yeah,” I said, not convinced. Hadn’t Brutus mentioned he’d seen Dana hobnobbing with the ugly trio? For a brief moment I toyed with the idea of confronting her with the truth, but then I dropped it. If there’s one thing any secret agent worth his or her salt knows how to do with practiced ease, it’s lying. There was no way I would get her to tell me the truth if she didn’t want to. I had to try another tack. “Brutus said he thought they were from Southridge,” I said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, he said Southridgeans are swarming all over Brookridge trying to steal our natural resources.”
“Is that so?” she said, uninterested.
“Especially our queens,” I said, emphasizing the last word.
Dana simply ignored me. I gave it one last try.
“He said Southridgeans are probably behind these murders as well.”
Dana looked up sharply.“Brutus is a silly ass and you can tell him so when you see him next.”
“Oh-kay,” I said, taken aback by this sudden snappishness.
“And what’s all this talk about Brutus anyway?” she continued. “I thought you two didn’t get along?”
“Well, it’s like this…” I began, but she interrupted me.
“You’d better stay away from that cat,” she said, fixing me with a fierce stare. “He’s not good company for an FSA agent.”
In my opinion Brutus wasn’t good company for any cat, but I remained quiet, wondering what had brought on this sudden outburst.
“He’s a meddling fool and the worst gossipmonger in all of Brookridge. That’s why I often use him to spread a rumor. Within 24 hours every single cat roaming the Brookridge streets is briefed when Brutus gets a whiff of the story.”
I knew all that, of course, but what I didn’t know was why the mere mention of Southridgean involvement in Dana’s murder investigation was enough to make her fly off the handle. If I didn’t know any better I’d have said Brutus and Dana were… No way! “You and Brutus?” I exclaimed, a little too loudly.
“Shh!” Dana admonished me. We had just entered the Brookridge Park but she kept looking around as if the bushes had ears. “Not so loud!”
“Don’t tell me you and Brutus are an item?” I said. But the way her face flushed told me enough. “Nooo…” I said, truly flabbergasted and appalled.
She finally fessed up.“Yes,” she said with bowed head. “One summer, three years ago, Brutus and I had a brief…” Her voice trailed off.
“Oh, my God…” I said.
So there you go. Even a secret agent of Dana’s obvious merit has deep, dark secrets hidden in her murky past. Shocking? Obviously. Surprising? Hardly. It merely confirms my theory that girls will fall for the muscular male, even if he’s a mean, bullying dumb-ass like Brutus. But then again, I shouldn’t speak badly of the brute. He is, after all, my newfound partner.
24
The Pimpled Pustule Strikes Again
Though I was more than a little curious to know how a girl of Dana’s obvious intelligence and attractiveness could ever fall for a guy like Brutus, it was clear she wasn’t ready to discuss the affair, so I let it go. But between Dana’s lies about the Peterbald triplets and her romantic liaison with Brookridge’s gift to brutishness, it was safe to say thatthe plot was thickening.
We had arrived at the Brookridge Park pond, and I became aware of strange goings-on. The ducks were uncharacteristically quiet and a small band of humans had gathered on the other side from where we stood. I squinted to figure out what they were doing, and then it became clear: a lifeless body was resting on the patch of grass lining the pond and the men all stood hovering over it, frowning, and brooding.
“Jamie Burrow?” I said, and Dana nodded. She seemed suddenly distracted. Perhaps being reminded of her past love had brought back memories of happier days? I refrained from probing into the matter, and suggested we move in for a closer look. Humans never take much notice of cats anyway, so we could easily take a peek at the remains of unfortunate Jamie and perhaps learn something about the circumstances of her demise.
But oddly enough Dana seemed unwilling to proceed. She shook her head and said, in a small voice,“You go.”
“But—”
“I-I can’t.”
So I shrugged and left her there while I hobbled to the other side of the pond. As luck would have it, a tree branch hung low over the scene and within seconds I was on it, enjoying a bird’s eye view of the proceedings. Bart Ganglion was there, of course, a burly copper with a bristly mustache, as was Mayor Solomon McCrady, a fat little man who likes to think he’s the most important man in all of Brookridge, which he probably is.
Stretched out on a piece of pea-green tarp was a smallish female human who may or may not have been pretty when alive but now looked positively unhealthy. Being dead does nothing for one’s complexion. Hers was a pasty white, all color drained from her face. I gulped at the sight. Though it was the first time I’d laid eyes on this particular human, I felt sorry for Jamie Burrow. She was young and, before meeting the grim reaper, probably full of life, and didn’t deserve to bechucked into the Brookridge Park pond as if she were duck food.
At this moment a smallish man with a horrid combover was examining the body with the air of the expert. The medical man, no doubt. Seeing him reminded me of the last time Zack had taken me to the vet. Syringes had played a huge part in the encounter and there had been a lot of talk about parasites and—oh, the horror—worms.
The memory somehow drew me closer to the recently departed, and I tried my darndest to pick up any hints or clues as to the identity of the vicious murderer who had slain young Jamie. Unfortunately, the men up top, or rather down below, were remarkably reticent about first causes, their discussion restricting itself to idle speculation on European soccer prognostics. Bart Ganglion seemed to think AC Milan would prevail in the Champions League, while the doctor had it on good authority that Manchester United was in excellent fettle and would lead the pack.
Then my eye fell on Frank, who was sitting by his master’s side, and I tried to catch his eye by letting out a soft mewl. The white Poodle responded with satisfying alacrity by pricking up his ears and trying to pinpoint the source of my feline cry. It took two more yowls for him to figure out he needed to search the skies, not the earth, but then he finally caught on. After a curt nod, he ambled away towards the foot of the tree and I descended from my high perch to join him there.
25
Conversations with Dogs
“And? What have you found out?” I said, dispensing with the customary pleasantries.
“If I had any money, I’d put my little all on Manchester United,” Frank said, flicking his fluffy white tail excitedly.
“About the murder, you lummox,” I said with some exasperation. I’ve never been able to understand this obsession with soccer and probably never will.