The Whiskered Spy (11 page)

D
ana chose not
to join our tryst with Brookridge’s canine finest, and when we had finally located the sniffing sleuth, Frank seemed oddly out of sorts.

“Hullo,” he barked moodily.

Per Dana’s instructions, we had tracked the police dog down at the police station, where he liked to keep officer Bart Ganglion company of a morning. We had found him lying at Bart’s feet with his head on his front paws, staring gloomily into space, and had attracted his attention by softly mewling from the police station’s window, which had been left ajar.

Pricking up his dangling fluffy ears, he slowly raised his eyebrows to take us in, and, very reluctantly, rose to his paws and ambled over to where we sat for a tête-à-tête.

“Hullo,” he barked once again in that voice from the tomb.

“Frankie,” said Stevie cheerily. “How’s it hanging, dog?”

Frank gave Stevie a scornful look, but didn’t deign to respond.

“The little lady let you down?” continued Stevie, who doesn’t have a sensitive bone in his body.

Frank frowned. “What do you know about my little lady?” he said suspiciously. He then directed an accusing glance at me. ‘Have you been blabbing?’ it seemed to say.

I merely shook my head to indicate my innocence.

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Stevie suddenly, his eyes widening. “You and Dana? You’re an item?”

I closed my eyes. What I’d forgotten was that Stevie could now read minds, and Frank’s mind was brimming with but a single thought: Dana. I could have put Frank out of his misery by bringing him the good news that the lady he loved, loved him, but decided against it. I’d given Dana my word, and my word is my bond. At least when given to cats like Dana, whom I pretty sure can kill man or beast with a single glance.

“Look, we really don’t have time to go into all of that,” I said. “We’ve got more important matters to deal with right now.”

As indeed we had. When there’re killers on the loose, the local policeman’s dog’s romantic predilections are the last thing one wants to discuss.

Stevie gazed at me with accusing eyes. “What? You knew about this? And you didn’t tell me? Me? Your partner?”

“I was sworn to secrecy, all right?” I said a little impatiently. All this talk about Dana and Frank was starting to annoy me. What was the big deal, anyway? Love knows no bounds. And even though I’d never personally experienced the big L yet, I heartily agreed with the pairing. Dana, though highly strung, was a swell girl, and Frank, though an oaf, a swell guy.

“I thought we secret agents had no secrets from one another?” Stevie said, his red whiskers twitching. It was obvious my reticence had touched him deeply.

“It’s no big deal,” I said.

“It is to me,” he said. “I tell you all
my
secrets.”

“You have no secrets, Stevie,” I said, exasperated.

“I do, too,” he said huffily. “I’ve got plenty.”

But before he could start listing them, Frank interrupted. “Is there a reason for this visit? Or did you merely come to annoy me?” He spoke rather gruffly, I thought. Which was probably understandable, under the circumstances. No ardent lover likes a critic.

“We found out who killed Lucy Knicx and Jamie Burrow,” I said quickly, cutting off Stevie, who had just opened his mouth to complain some more.

This had Frank perk up visibly. “Who is it?” he said, looking from me to Stevie.

“All we know is that he’s called Norbert, that he’s an understudy for the part of Jack Mackintosh in the Murder in the Park play, and that he’s got two kids, one of whom likes ice cream.” And I proceeded to give Frank a brief account of our fact-finding mission.

“That must be Norbert McIlroy,” he said pensively.

“Is he from Southridge?” I said, wanting to put Brutus’s theory to the test.

Frank shook his head, his ears dangling to and fro. “He lives in the Friar Tuck Street,” he said. “On the other side of town.”

“So, now you go do your thing,” said Stevie, “and we can all rest easier, knowing that a vicious killer is safely behind bars.”

Since neither Stevie nor I qualified for the role of Zoe Huckleberry, I didn’t think we had much to fear from Norbert McIlroy’s murderous instincts, but Stevie was right. Brookridge would be a better, finer place without the likes of Norbert roaming the streets at night, his big, shiny knife at the ready.

Frank wasn’t convinced. “I’m not convinced,” he said. “For one thing, Norbert doesn’t have any priors.”

“What’s a prior?” said Stevie.

I could have told him, for Zack and I like to watch our cop show of an evening, but I let Frank do the honors.

“Prior arrests or convictions,” man’s most loyal friend elucidated. “Norbert’s rap sheet is squeaky clean.”

“What’s a rap sheet?” said Stevie.

“It means that Norbert doesn’t have a criminal record,” I said.

“So what?” said Stevie. “Perhaps he was never caught before. Or else he only now discovered murder agrees with him. Some people are like that. Takes them ages to figure out where their talents lie. Take Father Sam for instance. No one would have thought he had it in him to be a director. And yet he is. And doing a damn fine job of it, as well. Not a day goes buy without some ingénue knocking on his door wanting his expert opinion on her performance. Lucy Knicx did. And so did Jamie Burrow.”

Stevie had a point there, but Frank didn’t buy it. “Norbert is a gentle soul,” he said. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“He doesn’t have to hurt flies,” said Stevie. “We’re not talking about flies here. We’re talking about women. Don’t muddle the conversation with these false arguments, Frank.”

“What I mean,” said Frank, annoyed, “is that Norbert is a family man and one of Brookridge’s most upstanding citizens.”

“What does he do for a living?” I said.

Frank hesitated. “He’s a butcher,” he finally said.

“Ha!” said Stevie. “I knew it!”

“Just whisper Norbert’s name in Bart’s ear, Frank,” I urged. “He’ll bring him in for questioning and then we’ll see what happens. I’m sure he has fingerprints or DNA or whatever, that could link Norbert to the crime.”

“And two eye witnesses,” added Stevie. “One of whom is your sweetheart.”

Frank drew himself up to his full height at these words, and I felt it imperative I speak the soothing word. “I don’t think the testimony of two cats is admissible in court, Stevie,” I said.

“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.

A
s 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.

A
s 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?”

He shook his head censoriously. “They told me you were a blabbermouth. Now get lost.”

“What? No, I want—” I swallowed, blanching under the Peterbald’s penetrating gaze. But still I persisted. “I want some answers,” I said.

“You can ask me one question,” the bald menace snarled.

“Who are you?” I said, before I could think things through. As it was, it was the question foremost in my mind.

He grinned, and worked the fishbone or human skull splinter loose with a yellow, pockmarked tongue, then transferred it to the other side of his maw. “Let’s just say I work for the cat who runs the FSA. And now beat it, Agent Tom. You’ve got your orders. Now carry them out.”

I suppressed a sudden urge to shout, ‘Sir, yes, sir!’ but merely nodded—intelligently, I hoped—and took my leave. I still had dozens of questions whirling through my mind, but refrained from voicing them. For one thing, where did this guy get all his information? And how could he be so sure? And, most of all, how could he think Zack—Zack of all people!—was even capable of such a thing?

But now was clearly not the time to go into first causes or sit down for a cozy one-on-one, so I simply ran as fast as my chubby legs could carry me to the Brookridge Market Square, where the town theater is located. I had no idea how to stop what was about to unfold, nor how I would get close to the affair, as cats are not considered valued theatergoers, but I pushed on regardless.

What I did do was send out mental messages to Dana, Stevie and even Brutus, in the hope they would pick up on them and respond with alacrity to my silent cries for urgent assistance. I didn’t know if this was the way to transmit a message, but I seemed to remember Dana saying something about picking up distress signals from other cats. And if she could pick up a signal from any Tom, Mitzi and Felix, she would surely pick one up from her FSA comrade. Or so I silently hoped.