Hoppy Holiday Homicide

Chapter Thirteen

Even though the snowfall had remained light that morning, it had also been consistent. That meant the footprints I'd left when I chased after the van that took Mags had already mostly filled in with fresh fall. Nearly a dozen other pairs of prints wove through the street and around the block, too, adding a new layer of difficulty to retracing my steps.

More and more people had begun to arrive for the festival, only to be turned right back around and sent on their way. Could this be the end of their town's most favorite tradition?

No, that doesn’t matter now.

“This is where they took her,” I told Charles, motioning toward an alley that cut between the shops. “He pulled through there, and then I lost track of him.”

“I chased them, too!” Paisley interjected proudly. “But my little legs were no match for that big, bad van.”

Sometimes I wondered whether my Chihuahua thought other humans could understand her, too. Either that or she just felt it was polite to talk to everyone, whether or not they had any idea what she was saying.

“The snow has filled in most of the tire tracks, but I still see some slight grooves.” Charles stooped down and touched the ground. “Let's follow them as far as we can and see where that gets us.”

“The kidnappers weren't the only ones to have a car,” Octo-Cat grumbled within my arms. “We’re in the middle of downtown. Practically everyone has a car. That's how we got here. UpChuck, too.”

“Thanks for that observation,” I told my cat, thankful for the relative privacy of the alley.

“What’s he saying?” Charles asked, both eyebrows raised.

He definitely knew that Octo-Cat talked bad about him. After all, I was the one who had revealed my cat’s nickname for the guy was UpChuck. Still, I hated translating all the sarcastic barbs that came from my naughty kitty’s mouth.

“Uh… nothing,” I said slowly, glancing down the alley and hoping to spot something that would help change the subject—preferably something that would also help lead us to Mags.

“I can tell when he's being mean, you know,” Charles said with a self-effacing chuckle.

“What?” I stopped to study him for any signs that he was joking at my expense, but his expression remained serious as he met my gaze. “How could you possibly know something like that?”

Charles shrugged and put an arm around my waist.

Paisley now skittered before us, leaving his arms free while Octo-Cat preferred to stay in mine and avoid the damp snow.

“I don't know. I can just tell. Maybe it's all the time I spend with Jacques and Jillianne, now that I've become a cat owner myself, or maybe I'm just getting to know him and his ways.”

“You don't think you can…” My voice trailed off. This question was almost too crazy to ask, but if Charles really could understand Octo-Cat’s tone when he was being facetious, maybe he could…

“Do you understand him?” I asked, placing eerie emphasis on each word in that sentence.

“No,” he responded, chuckling again. “I wouldn't want to, either. It’s one thing to know he says bad things about me and it's quite another to hear them for myself. Especially when we’re all trying to work together to solve the case. And especially when it's Mags.”

Charles had come to hang out with us a couple times since Mags’s arrival and the two had hit it off splendidly—the way Charles did with everyone.

Beyond that, I knew he just wanted me to be happy and to make sure nothing bad happened to the people I loved. He was a good guy, Charles Longfellow, III. He never wanted anyone to get hurt. That's what made him such an expert lawyer. He went the extra mile for his clients every single day.

“Mommy! Mommy!” Paisley woofed, running back toward me so fast she looked like a tiny reindeer blur on the horizon.

I’d been so preoccupied with Charles's revelation I hadn't even realized she’d pulled ahead.

“Mommmmmmyyyyyyyyy!” she shouted again, drawing out the word for a couple extra beats. “I smell it! I smell her!”

“What do you smell, sweetie?” I asked, trying not to get my hopes up. Paisley always tried her best to help in whatever way she could, but her natural lack of suspiciousness made her a poor sleuth.

The dog had now reached us and was wagging her tail so hard I thought she might fall over. Even though I knew Nan preferred to keep her Chihuahua companion dressed while she was out on the town, I decided to free Paisley of her over-the-top costume.

She'd be much more of a help to all of us if she wasn't in constant danger of toppling over. Just like the Grinch's dog when he, too, had been dressed unceremoniously as a reindeer.

“Thank you, Mommy,” she said with a happy sigh, shaking out her fur in the same way she did right after a bath. Hopefully, she wouldn’t start zipping around like a maniac and rolling around in a frantic blur, which were the next two steps in her post-bath celebration.

“That feels much better,” she said, then shook again but thankfully resisted taking her happy dance any farther. “Do you want to know what I smell?”

“I can tell you what she smells,” Octo-Cat said from within my arms, a slight purr rising from his striped form. “It's those fried potato things.”

“Hey,” the little dog whined. “I wanted to be the one to say. I wanted to help Mommy, so she would tell me I’m a good dog.”

“You are the very best dog, Paisley, and don’t worry, you can still tell me. Go ahead.”

Octo-Cat had discovered this clue and chosen to keep it to himself. As far as I was concerned, Paisley was the one who deserved all the praise here.

She rolled on the ground once and then popped back up and sang, “It's the la-la-lokis. Or the latlatkes? I forget, but Mags ate a lot of them. She gave me a little piece, but I didn't like it. I think I would've rather had a lobster roll like Octo-Cat.”

This piqued the cat’s interest. “They do make a mighty fine lobster roll at the Little Dog Diner. Mighty fine. Shall we have another before heading home?”

“Not the time,” I scolded him. “So you smell the food that Mags was eating just before she was taken?”

Paisley nodded and then stumbled slightly to the side, apparently needing to get used to being out of the costume just as she’d needed to get used to being in it. “Yeah, I smell it and it's going this way.” She spun in a full circle and then ran down the alley and turned.

“Let's go,” I said, shoving Octo-Cat into Charles’s arms because I knew he could run faster and easier with the extra burden than I could. I also didn’t want to take the chance my cat would disappear if left unsupervised.

Nothing mattered other than getting to my cousin.

Well, at least not to three of the four members of our little search committee.

We all jogged.

The Chihuahua kept moving fast but occasionally lapped us while yelling high-pitched words of encouragement. “Mommy, you can do it! You're a good runner! Yes, you are! You're a good girl! Come on, Mommy!”

While I found her cheerleading cute, it wasn’t entirely helpful. At last, when my legs had begun to feel a bit prickly from all the unplanned movement in my tight jeans, Paisley stopped, let out a low growl, and stood with her head angled slightly toward the ground.

Charles and I slowed.

“Well, that was terrible,” Octo-Cat complained. “Let's not do that again. Shall we?”

I ignored him and followed Paisley's line of sight with both my eyes and my feet.

“Do you see, Mommy?” the Chihuahua asked, impossibly keeping perfectly still despite the obvious desire to wag her tail hard. “This spot smells a lot like cousin Mags.”

Charles and I both bent down to examine the fallen items that were partially covered in snow.

“That's because these are Mags's things,” I revealed with a little gasp. I lifted her fuzzy white beret, discarded cell phone, and the shiny silver menorah she'd only just purchased that morning with shaky hands.

“Why did she leave them here?” Paisley asked with a little whine.

“I don't think she wanted to.” I stowed all three items in my shoulder bag. “No. I don't think she wanted to,” I repeated.

“So what do we do now?” Octo-Cat asked.

At the same time, Charles said, “Well, this is concrete evidence, and that's always a great thing to have.”

“But what do we do now?” I parroted Octo-Cat’s question.

“Why, we call in the cavalry, of course,” came his response.

I loved Charles’s ability to stay calm and level-headed, no matter how hard the going got. Even my cat had become fully invested in pursuing our case, his complaints coming out fewer and farther between. We were now working as one, and that made us unstoppable.

Mags, hang on. We’re coming!