Chihuahua Conspiracy

Chapter Eighteen

True to his half-hearted words, Octo-Cat quit hiding in my bedroom non-stop and started to rethread his life with ours. He didn’t even leave the room when Paisley entered anymore, which I considered a huge step in the right direction.

Paisley adopted the practice of not speaking to him unless he spoke first, and occasionally he actually would initiate a brief conversation with her.

Several days passed, each better than the last.

Now that we’d solved the mystery of the broken household items and both pets were on their way toward forming a lasting friendship, my thoughts returned to Trish.

The county police had found enough evidence to charge her with Class C Theft after a bank teller in Dewdrop Springs identified Trish as the person who had cashed Nan’s and my donation checks the week before. She’d then used that money to purchase several hundred dollars in stolen pet supplies. Together, the stolen cash and goods tallied up to just over one-thousand dollars, which marked her actions as a felony in our great state of Maine. She was still awaiting her trial at the moment, but Charles had informed me that the punishment could be both a hefty fine and possible jail time.

I still remembered how kind she had been to Nan and me outside the shelter when we first met her and how she’d mentioned not having much money herself. But was she really the type to steal from animals in order to line her own pockets? And if so, then why did she use the cashed checks to purchase supplies for them?

Something wasn’t sitting right about the whole situation, but I couldn’t quite figure out what. At a loss for answers, I let my questions about Trish and the embezzlement at the animal shelter simmer at the back of my mind as I worked on building a website for Octo-Cat’s and my new P.I. company. Eventually we’d have customers, and I wanted to be ready to wow them when they finally came calling.

Maybe someday soon, he’d agree to let Paisley join the investigative team. I, for one, knew the little dog would love the chance to play—and win—Detective again.

That morning, Paisley decided to celebrate her new kind of sort of friendship with Octo-Cat by bringing him a present. We’d just finished tea when the little dog skittered in through the electronic pet door. Her collar was now outfitted with a coded chip, too, which meant she could come and go as she pleased—just like her new hero, Octo-Cat.

Our raccoon friend Pringle, on the other hand, had been given a massive lecture and a warning that we were to never, ever see him in the house again, no matter what Octo-Cat said was or wasn’t okay.

“Hey, girl,” Nan called when she saw the dog’s small, dark form traipse through the foyer. “What have you got there?”

Sure enough, Paisley had something large stuffed inside her mouth, which she brought straight to Octo-Cat and laid at his paws, her tail a waggly blur of joy. Thank goodness, the tabby had been laying on the floor rather than the couch, because the gift in question was a very large and slightly bloody mouse.

Dead, of course.

Octo-Cat studied the corpse before him, then looked back up at Paisley. His eyes softened as he asked, “For me?”

She blinked and shivered and wagged. “Cats like mice. Right?”

I think Octo-Cat surprised us all with his genuinely large smile.

“Yes, and the deader the better. Good job, kiddo.”

The sight made me want to throw up, but I felt too happy to let my roiling stomach stand in the way of this important bonding moment. “You know cats are supposed to be the ones to catch mice,” I informed them both.

“That’s old-fashioned thinking,” Octo-Cat protested. “Besides, she caught this mouse for me, which kind of means I’m the one who did it, anyway.”

Paisley beat her tail against the ground, hanging on every word that spilled forth from Octo-Cat’s lips.

“Nice try,” I said with a sarcastic chuckle. “But you can’t just take credit for someone else’s…” My words trailed off, and I looked toward Nan.

“What is it, dear?” she asked, then took another sip of tea.

“Trish,” I said, thinking back to how sure I had been that we’d caught the bad guy and put the mystery at the shelter to rest. Too sure. The evidence was too neatly wrapped up in a nice little bow.

“What about her?” Nan said as the animals continued to share their gross bonding moment separate from us.

“Well, what if she wasn’t the one stealing money? What if someone else was doing it but let her take the fall?”

“You think she was framed?”

Nan’s even tone bothered me. Did she really not believe that I was on to something here?

“I’m not sure, but it’s a possibility. All the evidence was too neatly stacked against her,” I explained, using the same wild hand gestures my Italian-American father often used while trying to make a point. “Either she’s a terrible criminal, or she’s not one at all.”

“Interesting,” Nan said and dipped a cream-filled cookie into her tea.

“Think about it. She was the one sneaking around after closing time. She’s the one who shredded that paper. I saw her in Dewdrop Springs the same night our checks were cashed there, and she wasn’t exactly subtle about buying those stolen pet supplies in broad daylight.”

“But didn’t she also tell those massage people that the shelter had its funding cut?” Nan pointed out as she stared deep into her teacup. “Charles checked and said that wasn’t true.”

“Yes—but oh! When we went back to the shelter the next day, that old woman, Pearl, also said the funding had been cut.”

“Who you calling old?” Nan’s voice finally picked up some passion. “She’s at least fifteen years younger than me.”

“Sorry, Nan,” I muttered. “But how well do you know Pearl? She seemed to know you quite well but couldn’t remember me.”

“She was in my community art class over the summer. Remember that?” She finished her tea and set the cup and saucer on the coffee table, then leaned back in her chair.

“Would you say she’s the type to steal money from the animal shelter and then lie about it to others?”

“Certainly not. She was always on and on about her volunteer work with the shelter. She loves those animals as if they were her own.”

“Then who else would have the means, opportunity, and motive to take that money?”

“Trish did mention being short on cash when we bumped into her outside the shelter,” Nan reasoned. “Then again, money is its own motive, whether you have it or not.”

“It has to be somebody inside. Somebody with access to the finances.” I picked at a hangnail as I thought, a bad habit I’d thought I’d seen the last of. Apparently not.

“And somebody who could weave a narrative about funding cuts that others would willingly believe.” Nan nodded and bit her lip. What a pair we made.

We both thought a little while longer, and then suddenly we had it.

“Mr. Leavitt!” we cried in unison, turning toward each other in excitement.

“Oh, he is going down,” Nan promised the universe.

“We need to get him to confess somehow,” I said, because apparently it was up to me to state the obvious here. “Any ideas?”

“Excuse me,” Octo-Cat said, still beaming proudly from behind his unsettling gift. I hadn’t even realized he was paying attention. “I think I might have an idea,” he said and then let out a contented chuckle.

He was back, baby!