the birds or Zack heaving his large frame out of bed, but the sensation that someone was staring at me. When I opened my eyes I discovered I wasn’t far from the truth: Dana was sitting not three feet away from me, studying me intently.
“Huh?” I said, my keen feline brain springing into action.
She merely shook her head in what I would describe as a censorious fashion.
“What’s going on?” I said, as I smacked my lips and suppressed a yawn.
“How you can sleep, at a time like this, is beyond me,” were her opening words.
I shook my head to clear out the cobwebs. I know you humans like to think cats are never fully asleep, that our razor sharp senses are constantly on the alert, that with the flick of a claw we are wide awake, ready to face any danger, and respond to any contingency with an alacrity that seems almost preternatural.
While this is perhaps the case with most cats, I like to put in my twenty hours of shut-eye and prefer not to be disturbed while doing so. FSA principals bothering me at home while I’m catching my Z’s are not well received, and I gave Dana both the glare and the puckered face as I tried to adjust my faculties.
Perhaps it’s living with a notorious lazybones like Zack that has eroded my natural impulses, but I like to think sleep is a necessary instrument for restoring the tissues and keeping oneself functioning at top level.
“What do you want?” I said, not enjoying this habit of Dana’s to give me the third degree every time we met.
“Something has happened,” she said, still staring at me with that look of mild reproach.
“So?” I said. “Something always does.”
“There’s been a second murder.”
23
Startling Revelations
I started . “What? Where? When?”
“Last night, while you were sleeping,” she said tersely.
I drew myself up to my full height. “I wasn’t sleeping last night,” I said with as much hauteur as I could manage on the spur of the moment. “I was… investigating.”
She scoffed. “Of course you were.”
“I was!” I exclaimed, now truly offended. Not only had this cat the gall to enter my personal space uninvited, she came loaded with all kinds of unfounded accusations. “In fact, Stevie and I discovered several extremely valuable clues!”
She seemed unimpressed. “And did any of those ‘extremely valuable clues’ point to the Brookridge Park serial killer?”
I gulped. “Serial killer?”
She nodded. “The same thing happened again. Under the same tree.”
“But how do you know it was the same guy?”
“Because someone saw what happened and described the killer as a fellow with a large and distinct pimple on the nose. Furthermore, he and the victim—a girl named Jamie Burrow—were practicing what sounds like the same scene from the Murder in the Park play, when he suddenly took out a big, shiny knife from the recesses of his costume and laid into her.”
“Oh, no!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, yes,” she said, a twinge of pain now marring her furry face.
“Jamie Burrow… she was Lucy Knicx’s understudy for the Zoe Huckleberry part.”
She looked up, surprised. “How do you know?”
“Stevie and I paid a visit to Father Sam’s study last night—he’s directing the play, you know—and Stevie said Jamie Burrow would be replacing Lucy in the play. She’d been coming by a couple of times.”
Dana looked up at this, visibly surprised, then nodded. “Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”
“Oh, all right,” I said, as casually as I could, though inwardly I felt as proud as a peacock. Seems like those Peterbalds didn’t give full satisfaction after all. Of course, that’s what you get when hiring the pure muscle: all brawn and no brains. Then, since thinking about brawn and brains reminded me too much of my recent encounter with Brutus, I banished all thoughts of muscle heads altogether and focused on Dana. She was saying something about grass blades.
“Uh-huh,” I said,
“Huh?” I said, my keen feline brain springing into action.
She merely shook her head in what I would describe as a censorious fashion.
“What’s going on?” I said, as I smacked my lips and suppressed a yawn.
“How you can sleep, at a time like this, is beyond me,” were her opening words.
I shook my head to clear out the cobwebs. I know you humans like to think cats are never fully asleep, that our razor sharp senses are constantly on the alert, that with the flick of a claw we are wide awake, ready to face any danger, and respond to any contingency with an alacrity that seems almost preternatural.
While this is perhaps the case with most cats, I like to put in my twenty hours of shut-eye and prefer not to be disturbed while doing so. FSA principals bothering me at home while I’m catching my Z’s are not well received, and I gave Dana both the glare and the puckered face as I tried to adjust my faculties.
Perhaps it’s living with a notorious lazybones like Zack that has eroded my natural impulses, but I like to think sleep is a necessary instrument for restoring the tissues and keeping oneself functioning at top level.
“What do you want?” I said, not enjoying this habit of Dana’s to give me the third degree every time we met.
“Something has happened,” she said, still staring at me with that look of mild reproach.
“So?” I said. “Something always does.”
“There’s been a second murder.”
23
Startling Revelations
I started . “What? Where? When?”
“Last night, while you were sleeping,” she said tersely.
I drew myself up to my full height. “I wasn’t sleeping last night,” I said with as much hauteur as I could manage on the spur of the moment. “I was… investigating.”
She scoffed. “Of course you were.”
“I was!” I exclaimed, now truly offended. Not only had this cat the gall to enter my personal space uninvited, she came loaded with all kinds of unfounded accusations. “In fact, Stevie and I discovered several extremely valuable clues!”
She seemed unimpressed. “And did any of those ‘extremely valuable clues’ point to the Brookridge Park serial killer?”
I gulped. “Serial killer?”
She nodded. “The same thing happened again. Under the same tree.”
“But how do you know it was the same guy?”
“Because someone saw what happened and described the killer as a fellow with a large and distinct pimple on the nose. Furthermore, he and the victim—a girl named Jamie Burrow—were practicing what sounds like the same scene from the Murder in the Park play, when he suddenly took out a big, shiny knife from the recesses of his costume and laid into her.”
“Oh, no!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, yes,” she said, a twinge of pain now marring her furry face.
“Jamie Burrow… she was Lucy Knicx’s understudy for the Zoe Huckleberry part.”
She looked up, surprised. “How do you know?”
“Stevie and I paid a visit to Father Sam’s study last night—he’s directing the play, you know—and Stevie said Jamie Burrow would be replacing Lucy in the play. She’d been coming by a couple of times.”
Dana looked up at this, visibly surprised, then nodded. “Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”
“Oh, all right,” I said, as casually as I could, though inwardly I felt as proud as a peacock. Seems like those Peterbalds didn’t give full satisfaction after all. Of course, that’s what you get when hiring the pure muscle: all brawn and no brains. Then, since thinking about brawn and brains reminded me too much of my recent encounter with Brutus, I banished all thoughts of muscle heads altogether and focused on Dana. She was saying something about grass blades.
“Uh-huh,” I said,
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