“Oh, that,” he said, directing his gaze at Jamie’s remains. “Seems she was stabbed in the back and then dumped in the pond.”
“I know that,” I said, wondering, not for the first time, how Frank had ever managed to become Brookridge’s premier police dog. “What about the killer? Whodunit?”
He shrugged and scratched his ear with his hind leg.“Beats me. From the looks of it probably the same perp who did the Knicx girl.”
“The pimpled pustule,” I said.
“All evidence seems to point that way,” he said.
“You don’t seem to be overly concerned,” I remarked, surprised that Frank, usually the first one to get all hot and bothered about any crime, whether it be public urination or some domestic disturbance between a tom and a queen, responded so tepidly.
“Oh, well,” he said. “Bart has a pretty good idea who’s behind all this.” He then looked left and right to make sure we weren’t being overheard, and leaned in. “Someone from Southridge, apparently.”
“What’s with all the Southridge bashing?” I said, annoyed that even Frank would go in for this small-mindedness.
“Why, you think it’s a Brookridgean who’s killing these women?” He shook his head decidedly, his ears flapping as he did so. “No way it’s a local. You, for one, should know that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Didn’t you say you didn’t recognize the killer when you saw him?”
“So?”
“So, if he was a Brookridgean you would have known him, right?”
This was extremely specious reasoning on his part, and I said as much.“You can hardly expect me to know every single person in Brookridge, now can you?”
“Still. I’m pretty sure our pimpled pervert is not from around here. Call it a hunch.”
There. This is exactly the reason I never argue with a dog. When push comes to shove, they will always pull the instinct card, and then where are you? Cats never do that. They’ll never make a wild guess and then try to blame their gut. But dogs? Every single time. “I won’t call it a hunch, I’ll call it bullsh—”
“Careful, Tom,” said Frank, giving me the stern gaze. “You don’t want to be arrested for insulting a police officer, do you?”
“But you’re not a police officer!” I cried. “You’re not even a police dog!”
He scraped the dirt with his paw and said, rather huffily I thought,“That’s neither here nor there. Bart is a policeman. I’m Bart’s dog. Ergo: I’m a police dog.”
See? You simply can’t argue with a canine. “Whatever,” I said therefore, and decided to let the matter rest. If Frank wanted to believe the pimpled killer was a Southridgean, so be it. What it amounted to was that no one had a clue, and once again it was up to the FSA to figure out what was going on here.
“Have you seen Dana?” said Frank, scraping the ground with his other paw. And for the first time I noticed a hint of animation in his voice.
“Dana? Sure, she’s right over there,” I said, pointing to where I’d left my senior officer.
This bit of intel had an instant effect on Frank: his head shot up, his tail stretched out, and for a moment he gave a very good impression of a pointing dog.
I frowned, this type of behavior reminding me of something, but what… Then it struck me. Zack always acts this way when he’s under the influence of one of his infatuations.
“Don’t tell me you’re…”
Frank jerked his head around.“What?” he said, a little bit too defensively for my taste.
“In love with Dana?” I said, incredulous.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he huffed. “Who has ever heard of a dog falling in love with a cat? It’s simply not done.” He swallowed, and suddenly the same type of hangdog look came over him that I’ve also noticed with Zack. Though it looked better on Frank, he actually being a dog, I mean.
“You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?” I said in my best bedside voice.
He simply nodded, looking miserable.
This explained why he seemed less than interested in the mystery of the pimpled killer all of a sudden. Spurned love will do that to a man. Or, in this case, a dog.
“What? She doesn’t like you? Is that it?”
He heaved a deep sigh, and shook his head dejectedly.“I haven’t even told her yet.” He suddenly looked up and directed a fierce look in my direction. “And don’t you go blabbing about it, Tom. I want to be the one to tell her.”
“Well, then tell her,” I said simply. I’ve never understood why males in love will make these things so overly complicated. If you’re in love with a gal, just go over and tell her. If she likes you, she’ll giggle. And if she doesn’t, she’ll, well, also giggle. No giggle has ever killed a man. Or dog. Or cat.
“But I can’t tell her,” he wailed. “I’m a dog. She’s a cat. It’s not right. It’s not… natural. What if we have kids? What will they look like? Half canine, half feline?”
“I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you,” I said. “For one thing, chances are that Dana doesn’t even like you.” A sudden howl of anguish told me this wasn’t the right avenue to pursue. “Or, perhaps she does,” I amended. Remembering how hesitant Dana was to join me at the crime scene, I started to see her reluctance had more to do with the fact that Frank was there than with a sudden aversion to the sight of dead bodies.
“What should I do?” he cried, and I now saw that the humans were starting to take notice of Frank’s yowls.
“Look, why don’t I talk to Dana about your, um…” I began.
“No! Not a word!”
“But—”
“Not a word to Dana, Tom! Promise me!”
I rolled my eyes.“Oh, all right,” I said. “Be that way if you must. But I have a pretty strong suspicion the feeling is mutual.”
His eyes lit up at this piece of news.“Y-y-you think so?”
I nodded emphatically.“Trust me. I know about these things.”
“I forgot about that,” he said.
The entire feline and canine population of Brookridge is probably aware of Zack’s infatuation problem by now, as I’ve regaled pretty much everyone with my fount of funny Zack-stories.
“So, as the resident expert on love and romance…”
He hesitated, drawing a heart in the soil with first his left, then his right paw. Finally he relented.“You can tell her. But be discrete, will you, Tom?”
“Sure. Call me Mister Discretion.”
For some odd reason, he didn’t seem convinced.
26
Killer of the Year
Frank’s words had left a deep impression on me. No, not the bit about harboring feelings stronger than mere friendship for La Dana, though this revelation of interspecies love had surprised me. What had made me think a bit was the fact that everyone seemed to assume that the killer hailed from Southridge, simply because both Dana and I had failed to identify him.
Now, though it’s true I know my fair share of Brookridgeans, and so does Dana, it’s stretching the boundaries of our networking capabilities to suppose that we know every single person who lives within the town borders. It’s probably safe to say I know everyone who lives around Main Street and the Market Square, as well as Tulip Street, Bellflower Street and Geranium Street. But beyond that…
I’d reached the place where I’d last seen Dana, and found to my surprise that she wasn’t there. I’m sorry to say that the first thing that went through my mind was that she must have met up with Brutus and that the two of them were taking a romantic stroll through the park, rekindling the old feelings. I shivered at the thought of Dana linking her lot to Brutus, and directed my step towards the elm tree where it had all began. Perhaps she was waiting for me there.
It’s one of those inconveniences of being a cat; we don’t carry around cell phones—and even if we did, I wouldn’t know where to put it, as I’ve never worn pants and I very much doubt I ever will. If I’d had a cell phone, I could have simply rung up Dana and dispensed with all this searching here, there and everywhere. For she wasn’t at the elm tree, and neither was she to be found at the bandstand, the miniature golf course or the playground.