Cat In An Indigo Mood

Chapter 23

On the Street Where You Live

No wonder I look so mysterious when posing for the camera! I am present in body only, while my mind reviews my recent mastery of crime-scene control.

"Talk about deja dog all over again," Midnight Louise hisses under her breath.

We have finally hitched and hiked our way back to Wilfrid's house.

This was not easy. We were barraged by Oreo cookie jokes en route. You picture it: a four-pound white dog that looks like whipped cream on legs sandwiched between an escort of two black cats, one twenty pounds of streetwise "muscle, the other about eleven pounds of streetwise sass. We are fortunate that someone did not try to corral us into some homeless shelter.

But I have found that maintaining a purposeful pace makes humans think twice about sweeping a dude or dudette off the streets into the arms of officialdom. It is afternoon by the time we again see the windows of Wilfrid's place.

I take charge.

"Louise, you will conduct Nose E. on an olfactory search of the crime scene."

"What will you be doing--your nails?"

"I will be breaking the sad news to the, er, nearest and dearest."

She gives me a dubious look, but does as I have suggested.

Luckily, Nose E. is smaller than one of those Munchkin kittens and can get into tight places much better than the average dog.

My heart is heavy as I turn to approach the Furbelow house.

This is the ugly part of my job. Technically, I have been successful in locating the mislaid Wilfrid. Emotionally, better that Miss Fanny Furbelow did not know his fate. So far I have staved off breaking the necessary news. Death by car, by canine, by cat-fight is one thing. Report that a loved one was deliberately slaughtered by a human is a fate too horrible to long contemplate.

These are the creatures that we turned to thousands of years ago in partnership and trust.

They outweigh us by ten to twenty times.

It is not as if poor Wilfrid would have testified against anything human. Then again, anything human would not have offed a cat.

She is waiting by the window, a white blot on the glass that reflects clear and endless sky.

As I near I see that her pale lower lashes are damp and spiked like stars.

When she sees me her dainty mitts beat a tattoo on the window, then she vanishes.

I wait by the door, listening to a pitiful wail until it is opened and she bursts onto the steps like a mad thing.

"Oh, Mr. Midnight! Tell me what has happened! I have sensed so many things. My mistress called the animal control people with their horrid truck that goes to even more horrid places and processes. They finally came, but when they went to Wilfrid's house, they did not stay very long--though one would not expect their dreadful business to take very long--and then they came here, and berated my mistress for putting in a false alarm! Is Wilfrid not dead, as I feared?

Was he merely in some kind of coma? What is happening, please? Tell me before I go mad."

By now her long nails are raking my topcoat as if I were a mobile scratching post. I step away to save my threads, which she is snagging at an appalling rate. Fine black hairs drift through the afternoon air like soot-worms.

"Dear lady, the situation remains as dire as before. I have merely managed to rescue Wilfrid from an ignoble disposal. I found an oleander bush at the rear that seemed a stately memorial.

Is that sufficient'? Would you like to visit . . . the site?"

"No! Yes! At least l can visit him."

"Exactly," I say, with several consoling chin rubs. "My associate and I were determined that he should not be subjected to a common grave, or worse, a common incineration."

Mewling with distress, she leans on me as I guide her to the greenery in question. No flowers dot the spiny leaves, but by summer the bright pink blossoms should be swaying in the breeze.

As soon as we are within sight of the landmark, she sprints to its foot, there throwing herself down and writhing in anguish.

"Now, now. You do not want to get sand in your best coat.

And beware gnashing your teeth on any fallen oleander leaves; they are poisonous."

Eventually the voice of reason quiets her grief. She sits up, sighs shakily, then begins smoothing her frazzled hair. "He must have been murdered, my poor innocent Wilfrid."

I do not contradict her sad conclusion. Her heavenly blue-gold eyes narrow hellishly.

"| want you to take on another assignment, Mr. Midnight. I want you to find the degenerate animal who did this. The filthy human!"

"Would that he had been filthy, dear lady. He would have left more of a trail. But do not fret. My associates are examining the house even now. I had earlier detected a scent that might lead to Wilfrid's missing mistress. I also noted another scent, far more subtle, so I called in an expert."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Midnight. I knew the moment I saw you that you were not an ordinary investigator."

"I do have my connections around this town," I say modestly.

"No smell will be left unsniffed that bears any resemblance to the trail the killer left within."

"What is this odor?"

Here I wrinkle my brow. "It reminds me of a human food that comes in a small box. I have seen my roommate mix up some when she is feeling particularly punk."

"It is a medicinal preparation?"

"Quite the contrary. She treats it as something that is bad for her and therefore particularly welcome when she is in a down-cast mood."

"I know! My mistress is equally addicted to this substance, and I know it is poison to the canine breed. Chocolate!"

I frown again. I do not mean to repeat an expression, but this is one puzzling scent.

"That is the problem. This scent is not chocolate. It is not of an edible substance, although it reminds me of this boxed stuff my Miss Temple gorges on, on occasion, which is served warm or cold, but I noticed the scent when it was served warm."

"Oh, these humans! With their disgusting, unnatural habits of heating and icing food. And they think themselves so superior to us for these very eccentricities."

"I know. They are a hard lot to figure. But they are not all bad."

"No. My mistress means well. I try to understand what she wants, but she yammers on so in that unintelligible manner of hers. . . . I am sure your mistress does senseless, stupid things as well."

"Sometimes," I admit, but l will go no farther to libel Miss Temple. Sometimes her senseless, stupid human acts have saved my life.

Miss Fanny Furbelow creeps nearer to me. Tears are trembling on her eyelashes and there is a little catch in her voice.

"You have been so good to me, Mr. Midnight. I will never forget your--" Whatever of mine she will never forget is lost to recorded history. Her baby blue-golds widen to celestial pools as she gazes beyond me. "What is that?"

I turn to look. "Merely the best nose man on the West Coast. If anyone can trace the puzzling, human, not-food smell that lingered at the scene of the crime, it is Mr. Nose E. Byrd."

"That is a bird?" Miss Fanny Furbelow's eyelids flutter and she falls against my masculine chest in a dead faint.

Nose E. trots over to inquire in his best baritone bark. "What is wrong with the dame?" His little, round. black, button nose twitches like a psychopaths eyelid. "I am afraid she has been hitting the nip this afternoon."

"Yeah, she has her reasons."

"Do not we all?" Nose E. muses philosophically. "A bad business, this. From what you say.

both suspicious scents you report lie close to home. Very close to home. I suggest we investigate Miss Temple Barr first."

"A waste of time," I growl. My Miss Temple is beyond suspicion in my book.

"She is always up to her neck in solving crime." Miss Midnight Louise notes, glancing contemptuously at the prone Fanny Furbelow. She has never thought much of my taste in female companionship. "Perhaps this time she is up to her neck in committing one."