by Nic Saint
“My funeral indeed,” Marge muttered as she tucked away her phone. A voice sounding nearby had her jump about a foot in the air.
“So a dead body, huh? How about that?”
It was Marcie from next door. Marge moved to the hedge dividing the two backyards and gave up a sigh of exasperation. “It’s been one hell of a morning, Marcie, let me tell you that.”
“I’ll bet it has. First the water thing and now this body, huh?”
Marcie and Ted had been Marge and Tex’s neighbors for twenty-five years. In fact both couples had moved into their respective homes around the same time, and had become firm friends and friendly neighbors ever since. Not that they dropped in on each other all the time, but they had regular chats over the dividing hedge, just like now.
“So do they know who it is?” asked Marcie. She was a dark-haired woman, going a little gray now, with a stern face and a deep groove between her brows that looked as if it had been cut with a knife. She had a slim figure Marge had always envied, even though she was quite slender herself.
“No idea,” said Marge. “Though I have a feeling it could have been there for decades.”
“The first thing Ted told me was that Vesta must have dumped one of her old boyfriends down there.” She laughed, but Marge wasn’t laughing along.
“Is that what people are saying?”
“No, well, yes, probably. But you know I don’t take any of that stuff seriously, right?”
Marge nodded. She could probably expect some curious glances when she went grocery shopping. “Do you remember the Bakers?” she asked.
“Phyllis, yes. Her husband? I don’t think so. We moved in a couple of months after you and Tex did, remember? The only people I remember are the Coopers, though we only met once. They’d moved out before we took our first look at the house. We mainly dealt with the realtor at the time.”
“Well, the husband wasn’t in the picture when we moved in. I remember Phyllis very well, though, and her daughter, of course. Rita Baker was Odelia’s babysitter for years.”
“Oh, of course. She moved into an apartment on Grover Street, didn’t she?”
“She did. And was so wonderful to knock ten percent off the price when Odelia bought the house. She had a brother, too, though we never saw much of him.”
Rita’s mother Phyllis had moved into a nursing home twenty-five years ago, but Rita had stayed in the house next door until five years before, when she decided the house was too big for her, and had bought an apartment. Odelia had jumped at the chance to move in next to her parents, and Marge and Tex helped her out with the down payment.
“Funny, though, right?” said Marcie now.
“What is?”
“Well, first the Bakers lived here, with their daughter living next door, and now you and Tex live here, with Odelia where Rita used to live. Almost as if history repeats itself.”
“Yeah, I guess in a way that’s true,” Marge agreed, though she didn’t really want to think of herself as an old lady being forced to move into a nursing home just yet.
“Whatever happened to Phyllis Baker?” asked Marcie now, leaning on the hedge.
“She passed away. About ten years ago, I guess.”
“What about her husband?”
“We never met. As I remember it, Rita once told me he walked out on them. But this must have happened when Rita herself was quite young, her brother still in his teens.”
They shared a look of significance. “We may just have figured out that skeleton’s identity, Marge,” said Marcie.
“Yes, we may have done just that,” said Marge.
Marcie gave her a sympathetic nod. “If you need anything, just give a holler.”
“Thanks, Marcie. That means a lot.”
And as she moved back to her laundry and hung up one of Tex’s checked shirts, her mind kept going back to the mystery of Mr. Baker, and whether he might be the skeleton in her basement. Somehow she doubted it. Phyllis Baker hadn’t been a murderer, and Rita and Tom definitely weren’t. Still, it was all very intriguing.
Chapter 10
Dooley and I had arrived in Morley Street, the place where, according to Kingman at least, and I had no reason to doubt him, as Kingman is usually one of the best-informed cats in town, the oldest animal in Hampton Cove lived.
“So what is a macaw, Max?” asked Dooley.
“I think it’s a kind of parrot,” I said. “One with very colorful plumage, too. It’s also an endangered species, as humans tend to catch them in the wild and sell them as pets.”
“Is that what happened to us? Did someone catch us in the wild and sell us?”
Dooley has a tendency to ask tough questions from time to time, and I guess now was such a time. “I don’t think so, Dooley. I don’t think we ever lived in the wild. Or at least I can’t remember that I did.”
“Me neither,” he admitted.
“I seem to remember Odelia telling us she got us straight from our mothers,” I said. “And that doesn’t sound very wild to me.”
“Straight from our mothers,” Dooley echoed, and already I could see the wheels turning in his head. “So… who was my mother, Max? And my father?”
“No idea, Dooley. You’d have to ask Odelia. Or Gran.”
“I will,” he said.
We’d been wandering up and down the street, wondering where to find this old bird, when suddenly I was struck with an idea. Yes, it happens.
“We’re going about this all wrong, Dooley.”
“We are?”
“Yes, where do birds live?”
“In the trees?”
“Apart from the trees.”
“Um… in cages?”
“Unfortunately, yes, but also in backyards. So why don’t we go from backyard to backyard and try to find this bird that way?” I suggested.
And now that we had a plan of campaign, we decided to put it into action immediately. So we moved between two houses, where a narrow strip of lawn divided both structures, and arrived in the backyard of what looked like a very ordinary house, not unlike our own. Looking here and there, we kept an eye out for our colorful feathered friend, hoping we’d find her soon and she would be able to enlighten us.
“Have you noticed how all these houses look exactly the same, Max?” asked Dooley as we traversed one backyard and then moved into the next.
He was right. It was almost as if we were home, even though we weren’t. There were backyards that had swings and plastic toys for kids, and others that had lawn chairs out where people could snooze, while still others had small pools installed, or even fish ponds where colorful fish swam. It all looked very suburban and very cozy to me.
“I think it’s because humans all like the same thing,” I said.
“What is that?”
“Whatever the neighbors have. If the neighbor has a pool, they want the bigger pool. If their neighbor has a new car, they also want one, only bigger and flashier and more expensive. The human mind is a parrot, Dooley. A mimicking machine.”
“Like Camilla.”
“Like Camilla.”
“So if Odelia has a cat, her neighbor also wants a cat, only bigger and better?”
“Um… well, maybe this parrot thing doesn’t apply to cats,” I allowed. Odelia’s neighbor Kurt Mayfield hates cats, for some reason, and each time we hold one of our impromptu rehearsals in the backyard likes to show his lack of appreciation by throwing shoes in our direction, and not because he likes us so much and ran out of bouquets.
We’d arrived in a backyard where the owner had added a nice verandah to the house, with a lot of nice-looking flowers blooming inside the structure. It all looked very colorful, and reminded me of the rainforest, or what little I’d seen of it on TV.
“There!” Dooley suddenly cried, and pointed with his paw in the direction of the verandah.
I glanced over, and discovered he was right. What initially I’d taken for another flower turned out to be a very large bird of colorful plum
age instead. It had red plumes, but also green ones and blue ones and yellow ones. As if a kid had been given a box of crayons and told to draw the most vivid and most colorful bird imaginable.
We moved closer to the house, and I saw that a window in the verandah was ajar, so we hopped up onto the garden table and I put my face against the crack. “Hey, there,” I said by way of introduction. “Is your name by any chance Camilla?”
The parrot slowly turned in my direction, a visible frown on her face. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Max,” I said. “And I would like to have a word with you, Mrs. Parrot.”
“I’m not a parrot,” said the parrot. “I’m a macaw.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Macaw.”
“Who’s that scrawny mongrel next to you, big cat?” asked the macaw.
“That’s Dooley. He’s my friend and also a detective, just like me.”
“A detective, eh? Now that’s a first. Most cats I know are hunters. Killers.”
“We’re not that kind of cats,” I assured her. “In fact I can’t even remember the last time I did any hunting. Or killing, for that matter.”
“No, I guess you prefer your meals straight from the can or aluminum pouch.”
“Exactly,” I said. “So the thing is, we would like to pick your brain, Mrs. Macaw.”
“You want to do what with my brain?” asked the parrot—or macaw.
“Pick it,” I said. “You know, like, pick your brain.”
“I knew it. Stay away from me, cat. And don’t come anywhere near my brain. I like my brain just the way it is, and don’t want it picked to pieces, if it’s all the same to you.”
“No, it’s just an expression,” I said. “All we want to do is ask you a couple of questions, that’s all. There will be no picking of brains going on. No brain business whatsoever.”
“She thinks we’re Hannibal Lecter, Max,” said Dooley, seated beside me and following the conversation with rapt attention. “She thinks we like to eat brains.”
“We do not want to eat your brain,” I said, just to make my meaning perfectly clear. “No brain will be eaten in the course of this interview. We just want to, um, consult it.”
“Download it,” Dooley added.
“She doesn’t know what downloading is, Dooley. She’s obviously very, very old, and probably has never even seen a computer.”
“Oh, I’ve seen a computer,” said the big parrot. “I even use it from time to time. If you stay right there and don’t come any closer, I’ll show you.” The parrot moved over to a round-shaped device that stood in the corner of the verandah, and cleared her throat for a moment, then spoke into it, enunciating very clearly, “Alexa, are cats dangerous?”
The device immediately answered, “Cats are predators and prey on birds and small mammals. It is estimated that the seventy-six million cats in the United States hunt and kill billions of animals annually. My advice? Steer clear if you’re a bird or a mammal.”
“Thanks, Alexa,” said the parrot gratefully. “I will.”
“Hey, that’s pretty cool,” I said.
“What is it, Max?” asked Dooley, who couldn’t see very well, since the window was a little steamed up because of all the plants inside the verandah—a regular rainforest.
“Here, take my place,” I said, and switched places with him.
“You want another demonstration? Fine? Watch this, cat,” said the parrot. “Alexa, who is the most lethal pet in existence?”
“The cat is the most vicious pet in existence.”
“That’s not very nice,” said Dooley.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s not true,” I said. “What about snakes and spiders and scorpions?”
“I specifically asked most vicious pet,” said Camilla.
“Snakes and spiders and scorpions are pets,” I said. “At least to some people.”
“Can you please stop leering at me, cat?” asked Camilla. “And salivating?”
“I’m not leering, though,” said Dooley. “I’m just trying to figure out if the skeleton in our human’s basement belongs to someone who used to live there. That’s all. I don’t want to leer at you, Mrs. Parrot. Or salivate, whatever salivate means.”
“It means you want to eat her so much saliva is dripping from your mouth,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” said Dooley, and licked his lips just to be sure. “Is it?”
“Look, Mrs. Macaw—” I began.
“Call me Camilla,” said the macaw, a first indication she was not as anti-cat as we thought.
“I’m Dooley,” said Dooley, “and this Is Max.”
“Yes, you told me before,” said Camilla. “So you want to know about a skeleton you buried in the basement of your human’s house, is that it? Probably a mouse or a rat, or even a bird like me. Cats don’t mind leaving behind the evidence of their villainy.”
“It’s a human skeleton, actually,” I said, putting my face into the window again.
“A human skeleton? Well, you’ve outdone yourselves this time, haven’t you?”
“We didn’t kill it,” I said. “It wasn’t us.”
“Alexa,” she said, turning to the device once more. “Do cats eat humans?”
“Only very rarely do cats feast on human flesh,” this Alexa machine spoke in its weirdly mellifluous voice, “and usually only if that human is dead already.”
“Thanks, Alexa,” said Camilla cheerfully. “See? You probably killed this human and don’t even remember. That’s cats for you. They are such prolific killers they don’t even remember their last kill.”
“Um, we don’t eat humans, though,” I said. Just the thought. Yuck.
“Mostly we eat Purina,” said Dooley.
“Purina? That’s an animal I’m not familiar with,” said Camilla. “Alexa, who’s Purina?”
“Purina is a brand of pet food,” said Alexa.
“Oh, of course. Now I see. So you killed this human, then had Purina for dessert.”
“Look, cats didn’t kill this human,” I said, slowly this time. “Another human either killed this human and buried the body, or they died of natural causes and for some reason someone—not a cat—decided it was a good idea to bury them in our basement.”
“I see,” said the parrot, frowning. “So are you quite sure cats didn’t do it?”
“Yes, I’m one hundred percent sure. One thousand percent.”
“Cats are devious. So how do I know you’re not lying to me? How do I know you’re not simply distracting me while other, even bigger cats than yourself are sneaking up on me right now, ready to strike!” And to indicate she was considering this a likely contingency, suddenly she turned around and yelled, “Better show yourself, cats!”
“I’m right here,” said Dooley.
But Camilla kept scanning her surroundings, searching for those elusive hunting cats.
“I have a feeling we’re not going to get a lot out of this old bird, Max,” said Dooley.
“I have the same feeling,” I said.
“So you don’t remember a human going missing in Harrington Street several decades ago?” I asked, deciding to give this one final try.
“Alexa,” said the parrot in response, “do cats hunt like velociraptors, meaning one cat keeps its prey busy and distracted while two other cats sneak up on it and flank it?”
“Cats are solitary hunters,” Alexa intoned cheerfully. “They do not hunt in packs.”
“Thanks, Alexa,” said the bird, turning back to face us. “What were you saying?”
“I think we’ll be on our way, Mrs. Macaw,” said Dooley.
“Yes, we’re very sorry to have troubled you, Camilla,” I added.
“Is this a trick question?” asked the parrot, narrowing her eyes.
Instead of responding to what I frankly considered a rude question, I heaved my paw in a gesture of goodbye, and then we were off, leaving the paranoid bird to her no doubt very inspiring and lively conversations with this Alexa thing.
&n
bsp; “Poor parrot,” said Dooley. “She seems to have a lot of weird ideas about cats.”
“Yeah, she really hates us,” I agreed. “Hates our guts big time.”
“Too bad. She could have told us a great deal about the things she knows.”
We were quiet as we traipsed through the backyards on our way back to the street. So far our investigation was a bust. But I still held hope we would be useful to Odelia some way soon. Not by hunting mice, or by interviewing the oldest living pet in Hampton Cove. And as we made our way back through the backyards suddenly a man threw a shoe at me and yelled, “Get out of here, you vermin!”
“Is it just me, or are we not very welcome in this part of Hampton cove, Dooley?”
“It’s not just you, Max,” he said, as a second shoe hit my back.
So we both went off at a trot, glad to leave these dangerous backyards behind.
“Let’s go home,” I said. Frankly I’d had enough for one day.
“I’m hungry,” Dooley intimated, and I had to admit I shared his sentiments exactly.
At least Odelia would never throw shoes at us, or ask Alexa a series of very insulting and insinuating questions.
“Maybe by now Odelia already knows who that skeleton belongs to,” said Dooley. “And maybe she already knows who killed it, too.”
I perked up at that. “I’ll bet you’re right.”
We may be pet detectives—or detecting pets—but that doesn’t mean we’re always raring to go. Sometimes we simply want to curl up into a ball and have a nice nap, and let the world pass us by, with its skeletons, annoying parrots and shoe-throwing humans.
Chapter 11
Odelia was at the office of the Gazette, talking to her editor. She’d flung herself down on the leather couch he kept in his office for visitors, and was staring up at the ceiling while Dan had gone in search of something in the Gazette’s archives. The skeleton had carefully been exhumed by the county coroner’s people and shipped off to the lab for examination. As soon as they knew more they’d call Alec. Meanwhile Odelia, who wasn’t accustomed to waiting around, decided to dig a little deeper into the history of the house her parents inhabited, and come up with a clue to the dead person’s identity that way.
