Cat on a Hyacinth Hunt

Chapter 17

A Beached Barge

"It is most interesting to observe a police crime-scene team in action," Miss Midnight Louise says once everything human--and formerly human--has left the death scene.

We are alone, for the barge crew has finally accepted that the show must not go on until Lieutenant Molina says it can. Only the dead-in-the-water barge remains, nudging the dock like a whale calf cozying up to Mama.

"Now it is time for the real experts to swing into action," I respond. "And I do mean 'swing.'

Think you can get up to the brow of that prow again pussycat?"

"Do not call me 'pussycat.' I find the term demeaning."

"De meaning was not meant to be anything personal. I believe I would be best suited to observing operations from the dock, like Lieutenant Molina."

"You mean you are too paunchy from sucking up free cat food in New York City to make like an acrobat. Do not sweat it, I will be up and at the scene of the crime in two shakes of a spaniel's tail."

She follows through on this promise before I can object to her parting remarks, none of which are true. And only humans sweat. I watch her balance on a cable as thick as Miss Temple's wrist as she uses it like a tightrope to the bridge, if a barge may be said to have a bridge. Despite my sire's oceanic adventures and current lakeside residence, I am woefully uninformed about maritime matters. Frankly, unless it is shallow and there are fish in it, or Miss Temple's damp clouds of bubbles, I do not care for water except for drinking purposes.

Midnight Louise is soon hanging by her fingernails from the stolid wooden countenance of a sea cow, which is the figurehead to which Mr. Cliff Effinger, whose ugly mug I was close enough to see unveiled, was bound for his final dip-and-ship. It seems that a blue mermaid of sorts has helped to do the dirty dude in.

Although the regular crime-scene team has been all over the area to which the body was bound, Miss Louise tries to rake up what clues she can, running her streetwise nose over all the surfaces.

She sneezes.

"Be careful that you do not catch your death of cold," I advise her from the sidelines. "Damp sea airs can be contaminated. And watch out that you do not fall into the water."

"Yes, Popsicle. I know I do not have your vast experience of drooling over the Crystal Phoenix koi pond."

She twists her petite frame until she is arranged over the sea cow's head like an oddly chic black fedora. "The cops seemed to have nailed most of the hair and fiber on the scene, including mine. But--"

"Do not be coy. Spit it out."

"I sniff the somewhat soggy traces of a foreign substance."

"What is it?"

"If I knew, it would not be a foreign substance. It reminds me very slightly of my favorite blend of catnip, which Miss Van von Rhine dispenses on an old sock of her husband's in her office when we are both working late."

"Miss Van von Rhine plies you with nip? I was never allowed to tipple on the job."

"Perhaps Chef Song's koi supply was the perquisite when you were house dick at the Crystal Phoenix. I had enough of sushi when I was on the streets, so Miss Van's offering is more than sufficient. And a little nip only sharpens my senses."

"Not to mention your tongue, I bet."

"What was that?"

"Nothing. I was just saying you were a little young for too much nip."

"Suit yourself, but do not try to dictate to me. All right, I have done this scene. Until I can identify the trace odor, there is nothing new here to report. I need to get back to the Phoenix to make my morning rounds. And I suppose your human will be waiting up for you at the Circle Ritz."

I sigh while Midnight Louise scampers back down the taut cable to my side.

"What is the typhoon for, Daddio-not? Did you expect to identify the perp in one go?"

"No. I just do not know where I will go. I am afraid that my Miss Temple is considering upheavals in my lifestyle."

"A waterbed?"

"Something even more disagreeable, I fear. But do not worry about me, I have survived turmoil before. Better get back to the job before some dog takes advantage of your absence and does a Dumpster raid."

She takes my advice for once and trots off without making the further, solicitous inquiries the female gender is noted for. What are these modern dolls coming to when they are so involved in their careers that they do not have time for being understanding of the male gender?

Then something dreadful occurs to me. Could Midnight Louise have a gentleman friend? Is that why she rushed off so eagerly? True, she is sterile, but that does not mean she could not overcome her missing hormones and at least be up for a little mush and slush.

I shudder. I am glad that I am not a victim of my gonads.