Dooley studied Kingman closely. “You don’t look worried, Kingman,” he determined.

  “And that’s because I’m not worried! Because cats always land on their feet!”

  “So you have no idea where she could be?” I asked, not hiding my sense of disappointment. Usually Kingman is a fount of information, but today he was more like a fount of frustration, with his pleas to let Wilbur Vickery and Father Reilly back on the neighborhood watch, something I was pretty sure Gran would be dead set against.

  “Sorry, fellas,” said Kingman as his eyes wandered in the direction of a petite Siamese who’d come walking along. “Can’t help you.” And it was clear our audience with our town’s feline mayor was at an end when he called out, “Trixie! Long time no see!”

  So we decided to move on and soon were treated to a rare sight: our very own human, putting up flyers on lampposts, depicting the very cat we were looking for.

  3

  Odelia had decided that the best thing she could do was to print out some flyers of Mrs. Bunyon’s missing cat and distribute these around Hampton Cove. And she’d just started doing this when she came upon her grandmother, who was sipping her usual hot cocoa in the outside dining area of the Star hotel, along with her friend Scarlett Canyon.

  “I’ve got a job for you, Gran,” said Odelia as she placed a little stack of flyers in front of both ladies. “A cat’s gone missing, and I want you to put up these flyers for me.”

  “Missing cat?” asked Gran with a frown as she glanced at the flyer. “I’m sorry, honey,” she promptly added as she handed the little stack back. “The watch doesn’t do missing cats.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Of course I’m serious. The watch takes care of the big stuff—serious crime—hardened criminals. Missing cats is not something we’ve got time for, I’m afraid.”

  “Vesta, we could look into this one missing cat for Odelia,” said Scarlett, who was dressed to the nines in a nice little floral top, her red hair done up and her makeup tastefully applied. “I mean, it’s not like we’ve got anything else going on at the moment.”

  “No, but we could have something else going on soon, and if we’re locked into this cat business we won’t have time for the other, more important stuff, now would we?”

  “Just… do it already, will you?” said Odelia, who didn’t want to waste time standing around arguing with her recalcitrant grandmother.

  And she placed the flyers in Scarlett’s hands, who took them gratefully, and said, “Don’t you worry about a thing, honey. We’ll take care of this for you.”

  “Scarlett!” said Gran. “What are you doing?”

  “Missing cats are part of the watch’s mission statement, or didn’t you get the memo?”

  “What memo? What mission statement?”

  Scarlett grinned. “Okay, so there’s no memo, but I think finding missing pets definitely should be part of our mission statement.”

  “Oh, all right,” Gran grumbled. “But if the big one hits and we’re too busy looking for this… Chouchou of yours, I’m going to blame you.”

  Just then, Max and Dooley came trotting up. “We just talked to Kingman,” said Dooley, “and he says at least half a dozen cats have gone missing, but he’s not worried, because cats always land on their feet.”

  “Half a dozen cats?” said Odelia.

  “What did he say?” asked Scarlett.

  “That more cats have gone missing,” said Gran.

  “At least half a dozen,” Dooley reiterated. “But he’s not worried and so neither should we. Isn’t that right, Max?”

  “Absolutely,” said Max, though the large blorange cat did look slightly worried.

  “Kingman thinks that these missing cats went on a toot and they’ll be back soon.”

  “Cats don’t go on toots,” said Odelia with a frown.

  “What did he say?” asked Scarlett, trying to read Dooley’s lips and failing.

  “That Kingman says the missing cats have gone on a toot.”

  “Do cats go on toots?”

  “No, they don’t. Cats don’t drink,” said Gran. “So correct me if I’m wrong, but if half a dozen cats have gone missing, shouldn’t the police be out looking for them?”

  “The police aren’t interested in missing cats,” said Scarlett. “They’ve got better things to do—just like you, by the way, Vesta.”

  Gran had the decency to pull a remorseful face. “Okay, so maybe you were right.”

  “Can you please repeat that?” asked Scarlett, placing her hand to her ear.

  “You were right, all right?!”

  “This is a momentous occasion,” said Scarlett, giving Odelia a wink. “Vesta Muffin admitting she was wrong.”

  “I didn’t say I was wrong. I just said you were right. There’s a difference.”

  “Oh, and Kingman says Wilbur and Father Reilly want to rejoin the watch,” said Max.

  “No way in hell,” Gran growled.

  “What did he say?” asked Scarlett, starting to look a little frustrated.

  “Wilbur and Francis want back on the watch.”

  “No way in hell,” said Scarlett, a rare frown marring her smooth brow.

  “That’s what I said!”

  “So what do you want us to do?” asked Max. “About Chouchou, I mean?”

  “I want you to keep looking,” Odelia instructed. “Meanwhile I’ll drop by the police station and see if they’ve received any of these missing cats reports. If they all went missing around the same time we just might have a catnapper on our hands.”

  “A catnapper!” Dooley cried.

  “Better ask the people from the shelter, too,” said Gran. “They may have hired some overzealous newbie, who goes around picking up any and all pets that are roaming free.”

  “But I don’t want to be napped!” said Dooley, much disturbed. “I don’t think I’d like it.”

  “You’re not going to get napped, Dooley,” said Max reassuringly. Then, turning to Odelia, he added, “We’re on the case. If those cats were nabbed, we’ll find them for you.”

  Gran shook her head. “People kidnapping cats. What is the world coming to?”

  4

  Dooley and I decided to go a little farther afield. We’d already covered the downtown area, and since Odelia was taking charge there, along with Gran and Scarlett, it didn’t seem necessary for us to stick around. Instead I decided to follow a crazy hunch: our primary source of information might be Kingman, but we had more contacts we hadn’t yet exhausted. And one of those contacts was our old friend Clarice.

  “Maybe we can ask Clarice?” said Dooley now, obviously on the same wavelength.

  “And how do you figure that?”

  “Well, if Chouchou and those other missing cats would have stayed around the downtown area, Kingman would have seen them, wouldn’t he? And so maybe they’ve gone to the woods, and if anyone knows those woods like the back of her paw, it’s Clarice.”

  I smiled. It’s always nice to see your own ideas reflected in the cats closest to you. So I patted my friend on the back, and said, “Let’s go pay a visit to Clarice, then.”

  “But… where will we find her, Max?”

  Now that’s one of those problems facing any cat looking for our feral friend: Clarice is one of those cats that don’t have a fixed abode. Whenever we need to talk to Kingman, we always know where to find him, and the same goes for our other friends. Clarice, on the other hand, likes to roam wild and free, and since like most cats she doesn’t have a cell phone, it can be tough to pin her down.

  “Let’s start with the back alleys,” I said therefore, since Clarice doesn’t like to depend on a human for her nourishment, and does her hunting and gathering all by herself.

  And so we proceeded in the direction of those back alleys that Clarice likes to prowl, looking for her meal of the day.

  The first alley was a bust, and so was the second one, but when we passed through the third alley, we hit pay dirt.

  “Don’t tell me you guys are looking for a bite to eat,” said Clarice when we found her underneath a nearby dumpster.

  “Clarice!” I said with a start. That cat never ceases to startle me.

  “We’re not looking for food,” said Dooley. “We’re looking for Chouchou and the others.”

  “Who’s Chouchou and the others?” asked Clarice. “Some new girl band?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Chouchou is a Maine Coon, and she’s recently gone missing, and so have a couple of other cats.”

  “Missing, huh?” said Clarice, emerging from underneath the dumpster. She started to lick her claws with customary languidness. But don’t let her seemingly laid-back air fool you: she can lash out as quick as a cobra, and her nails are amongst the sharpest I’ve ever seen. Good thing she never uses them on us—and I hope she never will!

  “Yeah, a woman came into Odelia’s office this morning,” I explained, “asking her to find her Maine Coon for her. Chouchou went to cat choir last night but never came home.”

  “I always knew cat choir was bad business,” Clarice growled. As usual, she looked a little wild. Her mottled fur was missing in patches, and there was a fresh scratch across her nose that hadn’t been there the last time I saw her.

  “I don’t think cat choir is to blame for Chouchou’s disappearance,” I said, not wanting her to get the wrong idea.

  “Stay away from crowded places,” Clarice advised somberly. “That’s where you stand the most chance of being infected.”

  “Infected by what, Clarice?” asked Dooley, interested in this novel theory.

  “Anything! Any bug that goes around will focus on the places where plenty of cats are gathering, jump over on you the moment you set paw in those surroundings and zap!”

  “Zap!” Dooley cried, jumping a foot in the air.

  “It’ll hit you so fast you don’t even notice before it’s too late.”

  “But… do you think Chouchou and the others got zapped by a bug?”

  “Sure! They’re probably dying in some corner right now, suffering terrible pains and dying a horrible and prolonged death. That’s what you get from going to cat choir.”

  Dooley gave me a look of shock, but I shook my head, wanting to convey the message that things probably weren’t as bad as Clarice was making them out to be. Clarice, on top of being something of an einzelgänger, is also a worrywart, and seems to think that the worst thing that can happen to a cat is meeting other cats in large gatherings.

  “Look, can you help us or not?” I asked. Even though I always enjoy seeing Clarice, long moments spent in her company have a tendency to depress me, her world views not exactly the most uplifting ones.

  “Sure I’ll help you find them,” said Clarice, “but I’m not sure if Dooley should join us.”

  “Why not?” asked Dooley, blinking rapidly.

  “Because when we do find them the sight will be a pretty horrible one.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as all that,” I countered.

  “And I’m sure it will be. Have you ever watched The Walking dead, Dooley?”

  “Um… I don’t think so,” said Dooley. “Is that on the Discovery Channel?”

  “No, it’s not on the Discovery Channel,” said Clarice. “The Walking Dead is a documentary about what happens when a deadly virus affects the world’s population, and turns humans into these disgusting, monstrous, homicidal, flesh-eating—”

  “It’s not really a documentary, though, is it?” I said quickly. “It’s fiction, Clarice.”

  “It could be real.”

  “But it isn’t.”

  “But it could be.”

  “Okay, so let’s just find Chouchou and the others, shall we?” I suggested, tiring a little of this talk of flesh-eating whatevers.

  “Suit yourself,” said Clarice with a shrug. “But when we find them, and Dooley is traumatized for the rest of his life, don’t blame me, all right?”

  “I won’t blame you, Clarice,” I said.

  And so we set out for the woods, in Clarice’s wake. I have to hand it to her: if anyone can find a cat, whether dead or alive… or even undead, I guess—it’s her. She’s simply more in touch with her wild side than us pampered cats—Clarice’s words, not mine!

  It didn’t take us long to arrive at the outskirts of town and enter the woods that Clarice calls home, and soon we found ourselves at the little cabin in the woods where many an aspiring or even unaspiring writer likes to spend time working on their next masterpiece. It’s called the Writer’s Lodge, and provides a secluded spot where writers work on their craft in peace and absolute quiet. And while they’re at it, they enjoy the distraction of seeing Clarice roam around, keeping them company, and never cease to provide her with those precious little nuggets of food your hungry feline enjoys so much.

  “Do you think they’re around here somewhere?” I asked, a little breathless, for we’d traveled uphill for the past half hour or so.

  “No idea,” said Clarice, “but the dumpsters proved a bust today, and I’m starving.”

  She made a beeline for a battered bowl, and when we arrived thither, I saw that it was filled to the brim with what looked like… liver pâté.

  “Ugh,” she said, making a face. “Liver pâté. Again.”

  Liver pâté is one of those things every cat considers a delicacy, and gobbles up without delay when given the chance, so Dooley and I gave our feral friend a look of surprise.

  “You don’t like liver pâté?” I asked.

  “Well, you know how it is,” she said. “When you have to eat the same thing every day it quickly loses its attraction.” Nevertheless, she still dug in and manfully ate it all.

  Dooley and I shared a startled look. Odelia is probably the best human for miles around—perhaps even the best human a cat can hope to find in the whole world, but even she doesn’t give us liver pâté on a daily basis.

  “You eat this stuff every day?” I asked.

  She licked her lips. “Oh, sure. James Patterson is staying at the Lodge this month, and he’s always generous with the liver pâté, bless his heart. Last month John Grisham was here, working on his next bestseller, and with him it’s always beluga caviar.” She sighed. “And then next month Danielle Steel will be here, and I already know it’ll be lobster sushi rolls again, just like last year. Can you imagine? Three weeks of lobster sushi rolls?”

  I would give my right paw for three weeks of lobster sushi rolls, or beluga caviar.

  “I like liver pâté,” said Dooley. He gave Clarice a hopeful look. “Can I have some?”

  She smiled. “Oops, sorry. I’m afraid I ate it all.”

  We both took in Clarice’s skinny frame, and were probably wondering the same thing: for a cat who eats liver pâté, beluga caviar and lobster sushi rolls on a continuous basis, not to mention the contents of half the dumpsters in Hampton Cove, how did she manage to stay so thin?

  “Okay, let’s go,” she said now. “Or don’t you want to find this choo-choo of yours?”

  “Chouchou,” I corrected.

  And then we were off again. I was a little troubled by the lack of sustenance. You see, I’m not as skinny as Clarice, and us full-bodied, big-boned types need our intake of food at regular intervals. And if my calculations were correct it had been at least three hours since I’d last had a bite to eat and I was starting to feel a little faint. Still, we’d promised Odelia we’d find those missing cats for her and that’s what we’d do.

  And as we traipsed after Clarice, deeper into those woods, Dooley whispered, “Couldn’t she at least have left some for us, Max?”

  “Apparently not,” I whispered back.

  “I heard that!” Clarice growled.

  We followed her up what looked like some kind of mountain trail, and soon had left civilization behind, an area where no man or beast dares to tread, and before long I was starting to question the wisdom of this mission. What if we encountered some wild animal preying on innocent and soft-bellied cats like myself? Then again, we were in the company of the wild animal, and as far as I could tell no other wild animal would come anywhere near Clarice.

  “I think I’ve got the trail,” suddenly Clarice declared. She put her nose to the ground and was sniffling freely.

  “You have?” I asked, surprised. I put my nose to the ground, too, but all I got was a noseful of the musty scent of decaying leaves and moss.

  “Cats have definitely been through here,” she grunted. “Let’s keep going.”

  “Clarice is pretty amazing, isn’t she, Max?” said Dooley admiringly.

  “She is,” I confirmed. She might have fooled us all into thinking that all these years she’d been feeding on rats and mice while actually enjoying a steady diet of the most delicious and expensive food known to man, but she did have a good nose on her, that much was definitely true.

  We were in a part of the woods where the brush was thick on the ground, and brambles were thick on the brush, and suddenly Clarice halted, her tail in the air and her ears pricking up. “We’re close!” she declared excitedly. “We’re definitely close, you guys.”

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear,” I said, feeling her excitement rubbing off on me, too. I just hoped we wouldn’t find Chouchou and the others dead or dying—or even undead!

  And then suddenly we arrived in a clearing, and lo and behold: five cats were sitting there, looking at us with fear written all over their features, hugging each other close, and shivering freely!

  “Don’t hurt us!” said one of the cats, a very hairy Maine Coon. “Please don’t hurt us!”

  5

  The cats all looked pretty bedraggled—and also pretty scared.

  “We come in peace,” I said therefore, holding out my paws in a peaceable gesture.

  “Are you the pussies that have gone missing?” asked Clarice, a lot less peaceable.

  The Maine Coon, who seemed to be the spokescat of the bunch, blinked. “Max? Is that you?”

  “Yep, it’s me,” I confirmed.