jumped down. Slowly, he sat up.
I don’t know what had delayed Flavia in Craig’s apartment . Perhaps she was looking around for a baseball bat or a cast-iron skillet to bean Cat Hater with, in case things got out of hand and Craig turned out to be as ineffectual a fighter as she feared he’d be. Or perhaps she’d felt a sudden urgent call of nature. Whatever had been keeping her, she came up the stairs empty-handed. She screamed when she saw Craig sitting in a crumpled heap on the stairs, blood streaming down his face and a large scrape festooning his left arm from wrist to elbow.
“Help! Somebody help!” Flavia yelled.
Mrs. Jackson, half a flight up, popped her head out her door.
“What’s going on?” she demanded. “Why are you yelling?”
“Jimmy tried to kill Craig! He pushed him down the stairs.” Flavia sounded hysterical.
Mrs. Jackson stopped looking irritable and moved on to looking frightened.
“Where did he go?” she demanded. “Which way did he go? Is he armed? Does he have a gun?”
Flavia didn’t actually say that Jimmy had a gun, but somehow Mrs. Jackson got the idea that a heavily armed and homicidal Jimmy was hiding somewhere in the building, or at least that was the impression which Mrs. Jackson must have given the police when she called 911. I say this, not based on hearing the substance of her call, but on what happened soon after.
Five minutes later, we were all in Ann’s apartment. Flavia was pressing a pack of frozen peas to Craig’s forehead while she glared at Cat Hater. Ann was cleaning the grit out of the gash in Craig’s arm while she glared at Craig. Cat Hater was glaring at me because—realizing that I might never have another chance—I’d taken this excellent but fleeting opportunity under the cover of chaos to finally fulfill my long-standing ambition to pee in Cat Hater’s shoes.
It was about then that we became aware that the police had the place surrounded.
“Come out with your hands in the air!” was our first clue. I peeked out the window. There were several officers with their guns trained on the apartment. The officer who was holding the megaphone repeated his order, “Leave your weapons and come out of the building.”
Immediately, stunned residents began to emerge.
Mrs. Jackson came out, wearing the world’s ugliest bathrobe and a mud mask obscuring her features—I’m still confused about when she found time to apply it and why she chose that task to perform after making a call to emergency services. Perhaps she was trying to soothe her rattled nerves. At any rate, she gave the officer-in-command such a fright that he dropped his megaphone.
The occupants of 12B came out accompanied by an agitated Fred who , in an effort to calm himself, immediately set to work on liberating Mrs. Jackson’s geraniums from their pots.
Flavia and Ann, still holding ice packs and gauze to Craig’s various injuries, stepped out onto the balcony. It was not until we were all assembled outside that I realized Cat Hater was not among those present.
I was the one who finally located Mr. James Pigget, not that I was given any credit in the headlines the next day. I don’t think I was even mentioned in the police report. Nevertheless, it was I who flushed him from his hiding place.
While the human residents of the building were held under close observation in the courtyard, I was free to come and go as I pleased . When a contingent of the police force—informed by a zealous Flavia that there was a malfeasant member of our party unaccounted for—went into My Lady’s apartment to investigate, I followed.
I discovered Cat Hater’s whereabouts within seconds. I could detect his niffy aroma emanating from the closet.
The officers searched the apartment. They looked in the closet, turning over boxes and scattering My Lady’s shoes and accessories. They did not find Cat Hater. I tried to push my way into the closet to assist them in their search, but I
I don’t know what had delayed Flavia in Craig’s apartment . Perhaps she was looking around for a baseball bat or a cast-iron skillet to bean Cat Hater with, in case things got out of hand and Craig turned out to be as ineffectual a fighter as she feared he’d be. Or perhaps she’d felt a sudden urgent call of nature. Whatever had been keeping her, she came up the stairs empty-handed. She screamed when she saw Craig sitting in a crumpled heap on the stairs, blood streaming down his face and a large scrape festooning his left arm from wrist to elbow.
“Help! Somebody help!” Flavia yelled.
Mrs. Jackson, half a flight up, popped her head out her door.
“What’s going on?” she demanded. “Why are you yelling?”
“Jimmy tried to kill Craig! He pushed him down the stairs.” Flavia sounded hysterical.
Mrs. Jackson stopped looking irritable and moved on to looking frightened.
“Where did he go?” she demanded. “Which way did he go? Is he armed? Does he have a gun?”
Flavia didn’t actually say that Jimmy had a gun, but somehow Mrs. Jackson got the idea that a heavily armed and homicidal Jimmy was hiding somewhere in the building, or at least that was the impression which Mrs. Jackson must have given the police when she called 911. I say this, not based on hearing the substance of her call, but on what happened soon after.
Five minutes later, we were all in Ann’s apartment. Flavia was pressing a pack of frozen peas to Craig’s forehead while she glared at Cat Hater. Ann was cleaning the grit out of the gash in Craig’s arm while she glared at Craig. Cat Hater was glaring at me because—realizing that I might never have another chance—I’d taken this excellent but fleeting opportunity under the cover of chaos to finally fulfill my long-standing ambition to pee in Cat Hater’s shoes.
It was about then that we became aware that the police had the place surrounded.
“Come out with your hands in the air!” was our first clue. I peeked out the window. There were several officers with their guns trained on the apartment. The officer who was holding the megaphone repeated his order, “Leave your weapons and come out of the building.”
Immediately, stunned residents began to emerge.
Mrs. Jackson came out, wearing the world’s ugliest bathrobe and a mud mask obscuring her features—I’m still confused about when she found time to apply it and why she chose that task to perform after making a call to emergency services. Perhaps she was trying to soothe her rattled nerves. At any rate, she gave the officer-in-command such a fright that he dropped his megaphone.
The occupants of 12B came out accompanied by an agitated Fred who , in an effort to calm himself, immediately set to work on liberating Mrs. Jackson’s geraniums from their pots.
Flavia and Ann, still holding ice packs and gauze to Craig’s various injuries, stepped out onto the balcony. It was not until we were all assembled outside that I realized Cat Hater was not among those present.
I was the one who finally located Mr. James Pigget, not that I was given any credit in the headlines the next day. I don’t think I was even mentioned in the police report. Nevertheless, it was I who flushed him from his hiding place.
While the human residents of the building were held under close observation in the courtyard, I was free to come and go as I pleased . When a contingent of the police force—informed by a zealous Flavia that there was a malfeasant member of our party unaccounted for—went into My Lady’s apartment to investigate, I followed.
I discovered Cat Hater’s whereabouts within seconds. I could detect his niffy aroma emanating from the closet.
The officers searched the apartment. They looked in the closet, turning over boxes and scattering My Lady’s shoes and accessories. They did not find Cat Hater. I tried to push my way into the closet to assist them in their search, but I
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