Purrfect Alibi (3)

Chapter 34

“Mingle,” said Harriet, then sneezed violently. “How can we mingle when we’re standing with one foot in the grave?” She sneezed again, then once more for good measure.

“We’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s just a cold. We’ll be right as rain in no time.”

“Please, Max,” said Brutus with a pained expression. “No mention of water.”

At my mention of the word ‘rain’ Dooley had subjected the skies to a critical look. When no dark clouds heralded in the coming apocalypse, he seemed to relax.

“I can’t believe we tried to prevent Brutus from having to visit Vena and now we end up all going to Vena’s,” said Harriet, checking her precious white fur for spots.

“I’m sorry, you guys,” said Brutus. “This is all my fault.”

“Personally I blame Shanille,” said Harriet. “And next time I see her I’ll give her a piece of my mind she won’t forget. Jesus, forsooth.”

I laughed, tickled pink that Harriet would use such a quaint expression. But when she fixed me with a haughty glare, I quickly stopped. “I think we better split up,” I said.

“Yes, I think we better,” Harriet agreed icily.

I had the distinct sensation she blamed me in equal measure as Shanille. She probably figured I should have stopped Brutus instead of encouraging him. Then again, how was I to know that Jesus would smite us with a viral infectious disease that affects the upper respiratory system—if smite is the word I want? Maybe this was a test. But a test of what?

Harriet and Brutus moved off in one direction while Dooley and I moved in the other.

“Do you think Jesus will save us from the apocalypse now that we’re baptized, Max?” asked Dooley.

“No idea, Dooley,” I said. Unlike Shanille I’m not an expert on matters of theology. “Though I can’t imagine he’d let us die in a fiery furnace, considering we went to the trouble of being dunked headfirst in that icy cold water.”

“It was pretty cold, wasn’t it? Father Reilly should use warm water. Much nicer.”

“I’ll tell him when I see him,” I said.

“You will? Super,” he said, greatly gratified. Like I said, Dooley doesn’t do irony.

We watched as Odelia and Chase disappeared into the house, while Uncle Alec, Gran and Marge took the small stone path that led around the house—the same direction some of the caterers had taken.

“Have you noticed how much like Jesus Chase looks?” asked Dooley now.

I hadn’t, but now that he mentioned it, he had a point. If Chase decided to grow a beard, he’d be the spitting image of Jesus.

This gave Dooley an idea. “Do you think Chase is Jesus?”

“I doubt it, Dooley. I think Chase is just a dude.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I…” Actually, I wasn’t. How do you know if a dude is just a dude or not?

“What if he is Jesus, Max?” he said excitedly.

“Well, that would be pretty cool,” I agreed.

A resolute look stole over Dooley’s features. “We’re going to have to find out.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

He nodded knowingly. “Sheep,” he said.

“Sheep?”

“Jesus loves sheep. Haven’t you noticed that in all the pictures Jesus is holding a sheep? So if Chase is Jesus I’ll bet he’s got a sheep stashed away somewhere. So all we need to do is find Chase’s sheep and then we’ll know.”

“I don’t know,” I said dubiously. Even though Dooley’s story seemed to make sense, I had the distinct impression there was a hidden snag. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

“I’m going to find that sheep,” said Dooley decidedly.

We moved in the direction Grandma, Marge and Uncle Alec had disappeared. Right now sheep were the last of our worries. We needed to find a pet belonging to Malcolm Buckerfield and we needed to find it pronto. I just hoped it was a cat and not a teacup piglet or Yorkie. Nice enough though they were, it’s always easier to converse in one’s own lingo.

We’d arrived at the back of the house, and I was duly impressed by the scene that greeted us: long tables had been set up, where administrating caterers dressed in white were placing dishes, cups and plates and the other paraphernalia of a garden party. I saw bowls of punch, trays of amuse-bouches and an outside bar where a snazzy-dressed bartender was practicing his cocktail-making skills. A DJ was spinning tunes at a low volume to the far end of the garden, where a dance floor had been set up. This clearly had all the makings of a great shindig, and the guests who were streaming in seemed to agree.

“Nice,” I said.

“A little inappropriate,” Dooley said with a disapproving frown.

“Why is that?”

“Malcolm Buckerfield was Chris Ackerman’s soon-to-be-ex-publisher, right?”

“Right.”

“Chris Ackerman died two days ago and here his publisher is holding a party. Seems indelicate to me, not to say downright unkind.”

Dooley had a point. It was indelicate. In fact it was suspicious. The man obviously was so happy that his most famous author had died that he was throwing a party to celebrate the fact. “You know, I hadn’t looked at it that way,” I said, “but you’re absolutely right.”

Dooley looked pleasantly surprised. “I am?”

“Yes.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I think it’s the baptism. It’s made me more intelligent.”

I would have responded with a choice remark but at that precise moment I finally saw what we were looking for: a black-and-white striped cat slinking along the garden’s perimeter. “Target located, Dooley. Let’s move in.”

Dooley followed my gaze, then nodded determinedly. “On it, Max.”

As one, we moved in the direction of the feline. Judging from the way she locked eyes with me, she’d spotted us. Only when we reached her, she seemed coy, eluding us by quickly shifting back to the house, where once again she awaited further developments.

We changed course and made a beeline for the striped cat, only to watch her tiptoe off, this time jumping up onto a windowsill then gracefully draping her tail around her butt.

“She’s toying with us, Dooley,” I said.

“You’d think she doesn’t want to talk to us,” Dooley observed.

“You take the left, I’ll take the right,” I said, deciding that a little military strategizing appeared to be required here. We did as planned, but once again the wily creature escaped capture by jumping up onto a nearby drainpipe and quickly scooting upwards.

Dooley and I met at the foot of the drainpipe and stared up at the elusive cat. By then she’d reached the roof and sat staring down at us.

“She’s making fools of us, Max,” Dooley said.

And she was. As I explained, cats don’t smile, but this cat was clearly having fun at our expense. “There’s only one thing to do,” I said.

“I know,” said Dooley. “Let’s give up.”

“What? No! Let’s climb this drainpipe,” I countered.

Dooley checked the drainpipe, then glanced up, then down again at me. “No way, Max. We’re sick cats. We can’t be expected to perform a series of complicated acrobatics.”

“It’s not complicated. We simply climb this drainpipe and we’ll have her cornered.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Max.”

I decided to play my trump card. “What would Jesus do, Dooley?”

This made him think a bit. “I’m not sure. Maybe we should ask Chase.”

“Jesus would climb this pipe. I just know he would.”

Dooley didn’t look convinced.

“Fine,” I said. “Then I’ll climb this pipe.”

And I did, fully expecting Dooley to follow my lead. Only when I’d reached the second floor and looked down, I saw that Dooley was still on the ground, staring up at me.

“I’m sorry, Max!” he cried. “I thought about it and I figure Jesus would stay put and look after his sheep.”

“Dooley!”

“Everybody knows sheep can’t climb, Max!”

Oh, for God’s sakes… I quickly scooted up that pipe, wanting to get this over with. And I’d finally reached the roof when I saw that the cat was patiently waiting near the chimney, this time giving no indication she was about to escape capture again.

“Hey, there,” I said suavely. “My name is Max.”

She threw me a sly look over her shoulder, then looked away again.

“Um… nice view, huh?” I said, glancing at the landscape surrounding us. It was pretty stunning. I could see more cars zooming up the driveway, rolling hills of green all around, and not a cloud in the sky. If I wasn’t mistaken I would have said the mansion was located right next to a golf course, which would make sense. For some reason rich people like to kick a little white ball and then chase it. Just like dogs. They also love chasing balls. Silly business.

“Who are you?” finally asked the female. She had one of those sultry voices.

“Like I said, my name is Max and—”

“I got that. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’m a feline sleuth,” I said. “My friends and I are trying to figure out who killed—”

But she was quick to stop me by placing a paw on my face and effectively interrupting my flow of words. “Let’s not waste time by flapping our gums,” she said in a sexily hoarse voice. “Our eyes met in the crowd. You followed me. I think we both feel it.”

“Feel… what, exactly?”

“Oh, Max,” she cooed. “You know.”

“Know what?”

“Oh, Max,” she repeated, then proceeded to give me a head bump.

“Um…”

To my surprise, she suddenly turned and started smelling my butt!

What happened next is one of those things you tell your grandkids about on those long winter evenings when there’s nothing on TV. It all went so fast it was over before I knew it. She pressed her nose against my butt, and in a reflex action I folded down my tail to protect this most sensitive area and effectively shielded it off from her inquisitive sniffing. Call me a prude but I don’t usually allow strange females to sniff around down there.

She didn’t take it well. A dark look came over her face, she produced a loud hissing sound, and before I knew it she’d given me a kick that send me skipping across the roof.

And then I was going over the edge, plunging headfirst into the abyss…