Cat In An Indigo Mood

Chapter 18

Cat Tracking

"This is outrageous."

Midnight Louise's tail lashes the walkway until desert dust rises like a genie conjured in a tale of Sinbad the Sailor.

"It is procedure," l explain patiently to the kit.

"She called animal control. She called to have the body removed from the crime scene and disposed of who-knows-how.

No autopsy, no investigation. Just swept under the rug, quite literally."

"You know the routine. Our kind are twentieth-century slaves, with no value beside the monetary."

"But this was cold-blooded murder."

"We cannot be murdered, only be 'killed.' "

"Why?"

"I believe the reason came out on one of my early cases with Miss Temple. An elderly lady argued with her parish priest who had said that animals have no souls. I fear that is the common perception."

"I do not care if I have a soul! I care if I am treated rightly, dead or alive."

"I am afraid that souls are prerequisite to being treated rightly, at least in theory, and among humans."

"Huh! It they truly had any souls, they would not allow such perfidy."

"We will do what we can."

"Which is squat."

"Which is a great deal. We know, at least, that Wilfrid was deliberately hit."

"How do we know that?"

"His mistress is missing."

"I do not care about missing humans."

"Ah,my dear Louise. If you are going to care about the missing of our kind, I am afraid that you will have to care about the missing of their kind. Our lives and fates are intertwined, you see."

"Not mine! I belong to nothing human."

"You work at the Crystal Phoenix. You eat the delicacies that Chef Song leaves out for you.

You accept the fondness of the management."

"I tolerate. I do not beg. I earn my keep."

"So do we all." I nudge her upright and then into the house again, which Miss Meter Maid has thoughtfully left open for the imminent arrival of animal control, which I happen to know is so overworked it is not likely to show up before morning. "Are we not 'animal control?' And the way I earn my keep, as you put it-- though Miss Temple Barr would never be so crass as to call it that--is to assist in matters of a mortal nature. I have much experience in this area, and I predict that we will not find out the why and the who of Wilfrid's attack until we find out the where and the what of his mistress's disappearance."

"And how will 'we' do that?"

I sit down to consider. "There is one sure clue."

"I myself find the weeping widow highly suspect."

I sniff away that notion. "She is just window dressing, pardon the expression. No. I am disturbed by a slight odor I detected on the premises."

"The open can of tuna fish in the refrigerator."

"I was talking about 'slight odor.' Something fruity, but with substantial body."

"You mean the open bottle of wine in the refrigerator."

"I am not talking about an obvious foodstuff at all. I am afraid we will have to consult an expert in the field."

"An expert on refrigerator odor?"

"Forget the refrigerator! You would think you never ate before, and here you are scarfing up freebies fresh from the cutting edge of Chef Song's cleaver, night and day. No, I am talking about something I once faintly whiffed in Miss Temple's dwelling. But this scent is too subtle for our feline senses. I will have to employ the services of a specialist."

"There is one in Las Vegas?"

"There are several; fortunately, l know the best and the brightest of them all. But first, you are right. We cannot allow animal control to take control of the deceased. We must bury the body."

"What, a sentimental streak?"

"Sentimentality is always best leavened by practicality."

"Huh?"

"If we bury the body, it will not be hauled away and cremated by animal control."

Louise squinches her eyes to old-gold horizontal slits while she pictures the late lamented's corpse. "He was not a small dude.

How are you and I going to dig a hole big enough?"

"Once again, the smart operator acts alone only when necessary. Remember, many paws make light work."

"You are going to ask the so-called widow to help? Besides the fact that she is a bit of indoor fluff who has never dug deeper than one inch, and only in Pretty Paws litter where she cannot get anything under her nails but a little dust--no slugs, no worms, no mice skulls. Aside from all that, do you think she will be able to stop sniveling long enough to lend assistance, such as it would be?"

"No, I do not. I was not thinking of Miss Fanny Furbelow. In fact, you and I will have to begin our investigative odyssey by moving the body to a place of concealment in the yard."

"And how will we do that?"

"We must use our brains. We can drag the rag rug, with poor Wilfrid on it, through the door and into the yard, who will miss one rag rug in this joint?"

Miss Louise examines the rag-rug-cluttered floor, then nods.

"This will be hard on the choppers, but I do hate to see one of my kind disposed of by animal control. Okay. Yo-ho heave ho."

To the tune of the Volga Boat Song, we set to our gruesome but noble task.