by Nic Saint
And that’s when things started to get even weirder. And a lot scarier!
A strange odor suddenly permeated the small space. Dick wrinkled his nose as he took a sniff. It smelled like… poop.
Had he just pooped himself? No way. He wasn’t that far gone. He was only sixty-two, for crying out loud. And he didn’t have problems in that area. Yet.
And then he saw it: some species of sludge was pouring into the safe through a vent in the ceiling. He sniffed again. Yup. Definitely poop. Horrible, liquid, greenish poop!
And then panic really set in. The song, the picture, the poop.
Oh, God. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening to him!
“Hey!” he screamed. “Let me out! I’ll give you the files! Just let me out of here!”
But of course no response came. This wasn’t a scare tactic. They had the files. They’d taken them along with all of the other secrets he’d assiduously collected over the years.
They weren’t here to scare him off or send him a message.
They were here to kill him. Drown him in poop.
If he hadn’t been so scared he might have laughed at the irony.
The poop was up to his knees now, streaming in at a steady clip.
The stench was unbearable and he was retching, wading in the toxic stuff.
And as he screamed in horror at the fate that was awaiting him, a voice came from the other side of the door—muffled, of course.
“Little message for you, Dickerson. What goes around, comes around!”
“I’m sorry!” he bellowed. “Don’t do this to me. Have a heart!”
“Yeah, right. Like you had a heart, huh? Screw you, Dickerson!”
The poop was reaching his waist now, ruining his nice Rocky boxing robe. And then he got an idea. He quickly took it off and waded over to the hole where the sludge was pouring in, then shoved the wadded-up robe into the hole, trying to stem the deadly flow.
In the process he got poop all over him. The yucky stuff got into his eyes—into his nose—into his mouth! But he would prevail. No one got the better of Dick Dickerson!
He shoved the thing home and held it in place in spite of his retching.
There. He’d done it! He was like that little Dutch kid who plugged his finger in the dike and saved his entire frickin’ village!
Unfortunately Rocky’s robe was no match for this particular hole. The pressure was too great, and soon the stuff was seeping in again. Pretty soon the safe was filling up so fast not even an army of little Dutch boys with little Dutch fingers could have stemmed the flow.
And the worst part? Dick knew exactly what he’d done to deserve this.
Chapter 1
I opened a lazy eye when some sort of light tapping drove away the slumber I’d enjoyed for the past couple of hours. I know what they say about cats: that they’re never really asleep. That they take ‘catnaps’ and wake up in the blink of an eye, ready to fight or take flight when danger lurks. Poppycock. I’m a cat and I like to sleep. In fact I can sleep so deeply not even the sound of a cannon can wake me up. Not that I’ve ever heard an actual cannon being fired in my vicinity. Do people even still use cannons? Somehow I doubt it.
But whatever. The thing that woke me up wasn’t a sensation so much as a nuisance. An annoyance. A burden, a plague, a pest or even a pain in the neck, if you catch my drift.
For I found myself staring into the impudent eyes of the latest intruder to invade my household: Milo, the cat that belongs to Odelia’s across-the-street neighbor Mrs. Lane.
He was grinning at me now, the white menace. Grinning like a regular fiend.
I closed my eyes again, hoping he hadn’t noticed he’d managed to wake me up. But to no avail. He simply tapped me on the head again with that infuriating cheek he possesses.
“Wakey, wakey,” he said. “Rise and shine, old man.”
“I’m not old,” I growled at him, and now he was grinning even wider—a regular Cheshire grin if ever I’d seen one.
“Oh, you are old,” he said. “Ancient. In fact before I met you I didn’t even realize cats could get that old. You even have hair growing out of your ears, did you know that?”
“You have hairs growing out of your ears.”
“Yeah, but they’re tiny and they’re soft. Like fuzz. Yours are long and hard. Like the hair on the back of a pig.”
I would have snarled at him, lifting my upper lip like a dog and actually snarled, but I’m a cat, and cats don’t snarl. Instead I produced a soft hissing sound, hoping to indicate my displeasure. It only made him grin even wider, the annoying little runt!
“So how old are you, Max? If I’d have to make a guess I’d say you’re pretty ancient. So you were probably around before humans drove around in cars, right? Did you see the horse and buggy? Were you alive during the Civil War? Were you here when the English were bopping around Long Island, creating trouble for Washington and the Colonists?”
I didn’t even dignify this last jab with a response. Instead, I hopped off the couch with as much dignity as I could muster under the circumstances, and strode off, my tail high—and a little fluffed-up because of the residual annoyance—and was just about to take the stairs to the second floor to wake up my human when that human came stumbling down those same stairs, looking like death warmed over and almost tripped over me and fell.
“Max,” she muttered. “Sorry, dude. Hey, there, Milo. Settling in all right?”
“Settling in just fine, Mrs. Poole,” said Milo, now scratching his unhairy ears.
“Just call me Odelia, will you?” said Odelia. “I’m too young to be Mrs. Poole.”
Milo cocked an eyebrow, indicating he thought Odelia was pretty ancient, too, and very deserving of the moniker he’d just awarded her, but then strode off in the direction of the kitchen, where Odelia had put out an extra bowl for our latest guest, and dug in.
I kept a keen eye on him, as Milo had been known to dig into my bowl, too, and even drink from my milk.
“What are you doing up so early?” I asked my human.
She gave me an ‘Are you kidding me?’ look and gestured with her head to the backyard, where Grandma Muffin was digging into the soil, dressed like a regular gardener.
“Oh, right,” I said delicately.
Ever since Gran moved in with Odelia things have been a little rocky. Grandma has a way of doing things, and Odelia has a completely different way of doing things, and the twain are hard to reconcile. Like the fact that Gran loves her soap operas and her reality shows while Odelia prefers a good movie from time to time. And then there’s the fact that Gran doesn’t approve of Odelia’s boyfriend hanging around all the time, and even sleeping over. She feels that Chase should just go ahead and propose and make an honest woman out of her granddaughter so she can get all this ‘fooling around’ over and done with.
I doubt whether Odelia approves. She probably feels she’s too young to get married just so she can have her boyfriend stay the night from time to time. And since I’m a modern cat—in spite of what Milo might think—I heartily approve.
My name is Max, by the way, but I guess you already figured that out from the way Milo keeps addressing me. I’m a blorange cat—a very tasteful combination of orange and pink—while Milo is one of those horrible white cats with the bristly, stiff hair. He’s also very young and was obviously raised by a woman who doesn’t know the first thing about cats. She probably never taught him manners which has turned him into an obnoxious monster.
But enough about Milo. I’m sure he’ll only be around for a few days—until Mrs. Aloisia Lane returns from her trip to Florida and is ready to assume command once again.
Just then, Dooley wandered in through the sliding glass door, followed by Harriet and Brutus. Those three are my best friends in all the world—yes, cats have best friends—don’t you believe everything you read on the Internet about us being loners and curmudgeons and all that nonsense. We like our fellow felines just fine thank you
very much.
“Hey, Maxie, baby,” rasped Brutus by way of greeting, holding up a paw.
I high-fived him, then low-fived him, then hooked my nail behind his, gave a little tug while we both blew raspberries, then we paw-bumped and shared a hearty guffaw.
Once upon a time Brutus and I were mortal enemies but those days are long gone. Nowadays we get along like gangbusters, whatever a gangbuster might be. Brutus is a strikingly butch black cat, by the way, and Harriet, a gorgeous white Persian, is his girlfriend.
“Hey, Max,” said Dooley, looking like he wasn’t fully awake yet. Dooley is a Ragamuffin, which in his case means he’s on the small side and has a thick gray coat. He’s also very fluffy, which makes him very popular with his human, Grandma Muffin, and a little less popular with Marge, who has to vacuum the carpets and couches at least twice a week.
Milo returned from the kitchen, and immediately my eyes were drawn to the drop of liquid on his chin. It was milk, and I knew for a fact that Milo’s milk bowl had been empty. I pointed an accusing paw at him. “You stole my milk!”
“I did not, sir,” said Milo, quickly wiping away the incriminating evidence.
“I saw you! You had a drop of milk on your beard! Didn’t he have a drop of milk on his beard, Dooley? Tell me you saw that!” I turned to my friends for corroboration but they appeared less than excited to wade into the argument.
“For your information, cats don’t have a beard, Max,” said Milo calmly. “Except for you, of course, but that’s because you’re ancient. Like Methuselah. He had a beard. At least I think he had. What do you think, Dooley? Did Methuselah have a beard? You’re the expert.”
Dooley stared at the young whippersnapper. “Huh?” he said finally.
“Odelia tells me you’re a very smart cat. Smartest one she knows, in fact. A real know-it-all. So I’m asking you: did or didn’t Methuselah have a beard just like Max?”
“I don’t have a beard!” I cried. “You’re just trying to confuse the issue!”
“And what is the issue, Max?” asked Milo kindly, like one addressing a feeble-minded old fogey.
“The issue is that I just caught you stealing my milk!”
Milo tsk-tsked mildly, probably the first time I’d ever seen a cat do that. “Mi casa es su casa, Max. Which means my milk is your milk and vice versa. Now what can I offer you guys?” he continued, this time addressing Brutus, Harriet and Dooley. “I’ve got milk, kibble, some excellent Fancy Feast Seafood and of course the always-tasty Cat Snax.”
“Those are mine!” I cried. “Those are my Cat Snax and my Fancy Feast Seafood!”
“Oh, don’t be a miser, Max,” said Harriet as she strode right past me.
“Yeah, sharing is caring, pal,” said Brutus as he did the same.
“Thanks, Max,” said Dooley cheerily. “I love those Cat Snax of yours.”
And then they were all digging into my bowls, snacking on my favorite food!
Sharing is caring my furry butt!
I sank back on my haunches, haughtily draped my tail around my buttocks, and gave them all the stare. And the first one I directed my fearsome stare at was Milo, who was overseeing the feast as if he was the one who’d personally arranged all of it, the impudent jerk!
I have to admit, though, that no matter how hard I stared, it didn’t affect the others one bit or deter them from gobbling up all of my food. And when they’d finally polished off my last bowl, they all had drops of milk stuck to their beards, crumbs of Cat Snax decorating their whiskers, and Fancy Feast Seafood stuck to their lips.
Ugh. What a way to start the day.
Chapter 2
Odelia was staring out into the backyard, where her grandmother was digging holes into the ground, presumably to plant some of the bulbs she’d acquired. When Gran first moved in she’d mentioned how the backyard looked like a wasteland and that someone ought to do something about it. So now, since she didn’t have a lot to do, she’d just decided to dig in and do it herself.
Problem was, Odelia liked her backyard just fine. She liked grass. She liked how low-maintenance it was. And she liked the few rhododendron bushes she’d planted near the back, because all she needed to do was prune them from time to time, deadhead them, and sit back and enjoy the riot of color come springtime.
And now Grandma was determined to turn her backyard into some sort of garden of Versailles! There was even talk of installing a water fountain, a rock garden, and a fish pond!
Odelia didn’t know the first thing about fishes, or the dozens of plants Grandma had gotten at the garden center and was now transferring to the soil. They’d probably all need a lot of work to maintain, as would the fountain and the fish pond and its dozens of fishes.
She shook her head, still dressed in her Hello Kitty PJs, sipping from the coffee Grandma had made—extra-strong, just the way the old lady liked it—not so much the way Odelia liked it. And it was then that she noticed her cats seemed to be arguing about something.
“What’s up, guys?” she asked, popping a slice of bread into the toaster.
She frowned when Max suddenly jumped up onto the kitchen counter, something he never did.
“Max?” she said when he gave her a look of annoyance. “What’s wrong?”
“They’re eating my food,” he whispered.
She leaned in. “What was that? I didn’t catch that.”
“They’re eating my food!” he hissed, gesturing with his head to the four cats who sat licking and grooming themselves.
And true enough, the bowls were all empty.
“Oh, right,” said Odelia, and automatically reached into the cupboard where she kept the cat food and started filling up those bowls again.
“No, don’t do that!” Max hissed, and she moved closer.
“Aren’t you hungry, Max?” He rarely refused his food, and then only when he was sick. “Are you coming down with something?”
“Yes, I am! It’s called Milo and it’s worse than swine flu or flesh-eating bacteria!”
She smiled. “Max, I told you it’s only for a little while. Now please be nice to our guest. Sharing is caring, after all.” When Max produced a strange sound at this, like steam escaping from a pipe, she gave him a closer look. “Are you sure you’re not coming down with a bug? If you want I could call Vena. She does house calls, too.”
“No!” he yelled, horrified. “No, it’s fine.” Then, resigned, he added, “I’ll handle it.”
And he hopped from the counter, a defeated air about him.
Cats. Sometimes they had a hard time making new friends. Then she got a bright idea. She moved to the TV nook and turned on the TV, then fiddled around with the remote for a moment, flipping through the Netflix menus until she hit on the one she wanted.
This should do the trick.
“You guys!” she yelled. “Come in here for a moment, will you?”
Five cats came trotting up, Max the last one to join the small troupe.
On TV, an episode of Kit Katt & Koh was playing, the new Netflix show that was such a big hit. It told the story of Kit Katt, a regular young woman from a small town who worked as a reporter for the local newspaper and could talk to her cat Koh, who fed her bits of news he picked up from his feline friends. Almost as if the show’s creators had taken a long, hard look at Odelia’s own life!
“Ooh, it’s Kit Katt!” Harriet cried happily as she hopped onto the leather couch.
The others quickly followed suit, and Odelia watched on as her cat family settled in for the duration of the eppy. They all loved Kit Katt and especially the funny and feisty Koh.
Just then, her phone belted out the latest Dua Lipa hit and she hurried to the kitchen, where she’d left it on the counter. Her toast had popped and she took it out and placed it on a plate while she pressed the phone to her ear.
“Yeah, Chase.”
“Hey, babe. You’re up early.”
“Grandma,” she said, only needing one word to make her meaning clear.
<
br /> “I feel your pain,” said Chase. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve got a case for you—and a hot tip straight from the front lines.”
“A murder? In Hampton Cove? No way.”
“Way. Does the name Dick Dickerson mean anything to you?”
“He’s the editor of the National Star, right? The supermarket tabloid?”
“He’s also dead. Killed in a pretty creative—and gruesome—way, I’m afraid.”
“You want me to join you?”
“Please. Your uncle is out of town for a couple of days, so I could use a hand.”
Odelia’s uncle, a widower, had recently met a woman. She worked for Dos Siglas, the famous beer company, and traveled the country handling the company’s PR and overseeing the shooting of their equally famous ‘Most Fascinating Man in the World’ commercials.
“I know. He told me. He and Tracy are going hiking in the Appalachian Mountains. Tracy’s company owns a cabin out there, where they often put up executives and guests.”
“For some reason I never pictured your uncle as the hiker type,” said Chase, and Odelia could hear the smile in his voice.
“He’s not,” said Odelia, also smiling. Uncle Alec was easily three times as big as she was, and had probably never worked out a day in his life. In fact he’d smoked like a chimney until only recently, and his cholesterol levels always made his brother-in-law, Odelia’s dad, who was a doctor, give him that unhappy look doctors like to give their worst patients.
“He must like that woman a lot, to give up a lifelong habit of being a couch potato.”
“Yeah, he’s smitten,” said Odelia, who was happy that her uncle, whose wife had died years ago, was finally ‘playing the field’ again, as they said. Even if there was only one woman on that field as far as Alec was concerned. “She’s nice,” she added. “I like her.”
“I like her, too,” said Chase. “So are you game, Poole?”
“Count me in, Kingsley,” she said.
“Pick you up in five. Oh, and you better bring a clothespin,” he said before hanging up.
