“Why not?” said Stevie. “Our word is as good as a human’s.”
“For one thing, cats don’t talk human,” I said, throwing a nervous glance at Frank, who still sat glowering at Stevie.
Stevie conceded I had a point there.“Though I think it’s discrimination, pure and simple,” he said.
“What’s discrimination is that police dogs aren’t allowed to murder members of the citizenry,” growled Frank, clenching and unclenching his paws.
30
Second Understudy to the Rescue
As I left the police station, I was musing on the curious transformation that had come over my partner, Stevie. The Ragamuffin had always struck me as something of a goofball. Not too smart, but basically good-hearted and sweet. Throughout our recent encounter with Frank, though, Stevie had been downright mean to the police dog. So much so that I started to wonder if his recent entry into the FSA ranks had something to do with this. Perhaps becoming a secret agent had gone to Stevie’s head?
Deciding to have a word with Dana about this, I returned home. I wasn’t used to staying up until all hours of the day, and I felt an urgent desire to take a long and refreshing nap. Slipping in through the cat door, I headed straight for the couch. The moment my belly hit the pillow, I was lost to the world and all of its qualms.
I woke up to the sound of snoring somewhere in my vicinity, and, lifting my head, I saw that Zack had joined me on the couch and was sleeping like a log. Zack is the kind of person who easily gets tired of working the same job, so he likes to change things around from time to time. In other words, he’s one of those jack of all trades and master of none types of guys. Currently, he’s between jobs, so he spends a lot of time at home catching up on his sleep and reruns of Columbo, Murder She Wrote and Castle, his favorite shows.
I ambled over to my human, curled up in his lap, and nodded off again. The sound of the phone ringing off the hook made us both sit up with a jerk. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Zack stumbled into the hallway to pick up the phone and I stretched the last remnants of sleep from my limbs. I was pretty sure that Frank had done his police dog’s duty, Bart his policeman’s duty, the magistrate his legal duty, and that Norbert McIlroy was now residing safely behind lock and key. All my troubles, in other words, were over.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Zack, returning the receiver to its cradle, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and, reading his mind, I could see why. He’d been talking to Father Sam on the phone. Due to unforeseen circumstances, Norbert McIlroy had dropped out of the play, and Zack had been promoted to play the part of Jack Mackintosh in Murder in the Park. Far from being ecstatic, though, Zack was clearly unhappy.
Muttering something under his breath, he retreated into the kitchen and started rifling through the wastepaper basket. Retrieving a torn and tattered pile of papers, he proceeded to smooth out the mess, and took a seat at the kitchen table, the Murder in the Park script—for that was what it was—in front of him.
Listlessly thumbing through its pages, he sighed as he took in the passages marked in yellow. Once upon a time he’d been keen on appearing in the play, and had even started cramming the Jack Mackintosh lines. Then, when it became clear to him that the second understudy has about zilch chance of actually getting any stage time, he’d simply chucked the play and forgotten all about it.
Now being informed by Father Sam that he was due to walk on stage in just a few hours, he wasn’t too keen on trying to memorize the part after all. And then there was the fact that Sam had informed him that he was supposed to kiss Barbara Vale, who was now playing the blue belle part. Zack groaned as he read the first Mackintosh line aloud.
“Oh, my darling, darling love.”
I couldn’t blame him. Locking lips with either Lucy Knicx or Jamie Burrow had clearly appealed to Zack a lot more than the prospect of clasping Mrs. Vale to his bosom. One didn’t even have to be a mind reader to interpret the reason Zack was now pulling at the few remaining strands of hair on his head.The man was unhappy to a large degree.
“Oh, my sweet, sweet love…”
Unable to stomach the agony of a strong man faced with bad scriptwriting, I exited the scene center left. Throwing one last glance over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Zack taking a hefty butcher’s knife out of the kitchen drawer, and brandishing it about in an underhand grip.
For some reason, the sight gave me the shivers, and I suddenly felt oddly apprehensive about Zack taking on the role of Jack Mackintosh. Why this was, I couldn’t have said, but I suddenly wanted, more than anything, that he hadn’t accepted the part.
31
Meeting Peter Bald
As far as I was concerned, life was back to normal. So I strolled to the park as dusk started to fall, and made my way to my favorite elm tree to take up position in its welcoming arms. Many a season I now had passed in this tree, and its sturdy branches were my home away from home. Hopping deftly onto my high perch, I was reminded once again of the recent happenings that had rocked my world, so to speak, and wondered what the future would hold, now that I was an FSA agent.
I smiled as I closed my eyes. Since nothing ever happens in Brookridge, I had the distinct impression this whole FSA thing would simply go away. I sighed a happy sigh, and prepared to take my evening slumber when a voice grated on my nervous system.
“Hey, wart face!” spoke the voice.
I sat up as if stung, for I recognized its timbre.
“Answer me or die, carpetbag,” the voice came.
Looking down, I perceived I once more had the pleasure of the Peterbalds’ company. Or rather, Peterbald, for this time only one of the ugly heavies had shown up, ostensibly the leader of the pack.
“Are you addressing me?” I said with as much hauteur as I could muster while suppressing a tendency to shake from stem to stern.
“Who else, furball?” my visitor said in his gravelly voice. “Are you coming down or do I have to come up?”
“I’ll come down,” I said quickly, and had joined the Peterbald before he could come up with another insulting noun to describe my person.
The sinewy cat smirked at me, and I caught a glimpse of something stuck between his razor-sharp teeth. Whether it was a fishbone or a piece of splintered human skull I couldn’t tell, but the sight made me wish the fellow would stop smiling.
“Nice weather we’ve been having, don’t you think?” I said. To my annoyance my voice sounded shrill and reedy.
He eyed me malevolently but didn’t speak, so I pushed on. “I just hope it will hold. According to the weatherman there’s a storm front pushing in from the East, which might collide with the high pressure zone rolling in from the Azores.”
“Are you just going to keep blabbing away like a fishmonger’s wife, or are you going to shut up and listen?” he grunted.
“Shut up and listen,” I said.
“Excellent choice.” He glanced left and right and licked his lips. “Your boy Zack is going to murder the Vale woman tonight. And if I were you I’d make sure he doesn’t.”
“What? No! That’s impossible. Zack would never do such a thing.”
“And yet he will,” he said slowly, giving me what I perceived was the evil eye.
“You’re kidding, right?” I said, smiling my bravest smile. “A little joke?”
He looked at me levelly.“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“Well, no,” I admitted, shuffling uneasily. “But Zack would never murder anyone. He’s not the murdering type.”
“I never said he was. But he’s still going to butcher the Vale if you don’t put a stop to it.”
“But—”
“You better leave now. The party’s about to start and if you’re not there, you won’t have a home to return to tonight.”
“But who are you? What’s going on? Why would Zack do such a thing?”