Chihuahua Conspiracy (Pet Whisperer P.I. Book 6)

by Molly Fitz

  Nan paused and studied me with a furrowed brow. “What worries me more is that one of the animals has to be very sick to make such a huge mess.”

  Paisley kneaded her front paws against my leg and begged for me to pick her up. “It wasn’t me,” she said in a soft, sad voice. “Honest.”

  “It couldn’t have been Paisley,” I relayed to Nan, setting the dog back down and then slipping on a pair of thick yellow rubber gloves to help clean up the mess. “She was with me the whole time you were out, and this mess wasn’t here when we left for our walk earlier.”

  “Even still.” Nan moved to another spot on the carpet and scrubbed vigorously. “We should take both of them to the vet. Maybe she’ll have some tips on helping them adjust to their new living arrangements.”

  “But Paisley isn’t the problem,” I reminded her. “Octo-Cat is just being stubborn.”

  “Well, we have to do something.” Nan frowned at the spot and sprayed some more cleaner. “What if Octavius isn’t just being mean for meanness’s sake? What if he’s seriously ill?”

  That thought hadn’t occurred to me before, but now that Nan had mentioned the possibility, it was all I could think about. As much as Octo-Cat had irritated me the last few days, he was still my best friend and I couldn’t picture life without him.

  “I grabbed a doodie sample before I started cleaning up, so the doc will have that to test. I’ve already called and let her know we’ll be coming in shortly.”

  “Then let’s go,” I said, peeling my gloves off, then picking my purse back up from the coffee table. “We can clean the rest of this up after.”

  Nan followed suit. “I’ll wash up real quick, then grab the sample and get Paisley and myself settled in your car. You go on upstairs and get Octavius.”

  Right.

  My cat didn’t like car rides under the best of circumstances, but now that he was sick and expected to take today’s ride with his sworn nemesis, it would be downright impossible to convince him to come willingly.

  I briefly considered my options as I jogged upstairs to collect him. I could try asking nicely, but that would alert him to my intentions and ultimately make catching him so much harder after he refused to come peacefully. I could also try forcing him into his walking harness, but I knew well enough from experience that this was more of a two-person job. That left only one option, and it was the one I knew he would hate most of all: the cat carrier.

  I hadn’t ever used it before, but the very fact I kept it in the house for emergencies was a constant source of discontent for Octo-Cat.

  Well, at least we’d finally have the chance to make use of the thing.

  I grabbed the greatly despised carrier from storage and blew off the thin coat of dust that had settled on top of its plastic shell. Climbing the stairs to my tower just as quietly as I could, I let myself into the bedroom while attempting to hide the bulky carrier behind me.

  It didn’t work.

  “I see you,” my cat hissed from beneath the bed. “And whatever you want from me, the answer is an emphatic no.”

  “I’m sorry about this,” I answered, pulling my bedframe away from the wall with a series of grunts and tugs. “But I can’t let you waste away in here any longer, especially seeing as you’re sick.”

  Octo-Cat moved with the bed, remaining dead center, which made him incredibly difficult to reach. Even when I dropped to my belly and extended my arms at full length, my fingertips just barely brushed the tip of his tail.

  “I’m not going, and you can’t make me.”

  Ugh. Why did he have to be so difficult?

  I didn’t want to manhandle him given his upset belly, but bribing him to come out wasn’t exactly a possibility either. Some things about our relationship were easier because of our ability to talk to each other, while others were infinitely more difficult. This was one of those infinitely more difficult things.

  Think, Angie. Think!

  And then I had an idea that I was about ninety percent certain would work. I moved to my desk and grabbed the small keychain I kept in my top drawer in case of an emergency, then I gathered my comforter from the bed and bundled it up in my arms. Holding tight to the wad of blanket with one hand, I used the other to activate the keychain light.

  And the red dot came to life on the carpet before me.

  One of our past acquaintances had used the power of the red dot to trick two unwitting cats into doing something very bad. At the time, Octo-Cat had explained to me that while most cats logically knew the dot was just a result of a laser pointer, they also couldn’t resist pouncing whenever that little sucker made an appearance.

  That’s precisely what I was counting on now.

  The dot danced when I wiggled my hand—and when I flicked my wrist, it jerked wildly to the side.

  This sent Octo-Cat shooting out from beneath the bed at lightning speed.

  Thankfully, I was just fast enough to toss the blanket on top of him as an impromptu net, and—gotcha!

  He was captured and spitting mad about it, too. “I will never forget this betrayal, Angela. Never. Not in all my lives.”

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered again, picking up the blanket with him in it and then releasing him into the plastic carrier.

  There.

  I’d done it, and by some miracle neither of us had managed to get hurt in the process.

  “Don’t worry,” I cooed softly even though my breathing was now labored from this whole debacle. “We’re going to get you all patched up at the vet. You’ll be feeling like yourself in no time at all.”

  “But I’m not sick,” he argued before coughing up a hairball right inside the carrier.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Our usual veterinarian wasn’t at the office that day, but the newest member of her practice was able to squeeze us in for an emergency visit. From the looks of her smooth skin and perky posture, Dr. Britt Lowe had only finished veterinary school quite recently. If her supposed lack of experience caused me to worry, though, her friendly demeanor and knowledgeable speech instantly put me back at ease.

  “On the phone you said one of the animals—probably the cat—is experiencing a bout of diarrhea. Anything else to add?” she asked looking from her chart to the place where Nan and I sat in twin bucket seats inside the cramped exam room.

  Octo-Cat growled in the carrier that I’d set on the floor beside me.

  “Oh, he does not sound happy,” Dr. Lowe added with a frown. “Do you mind if we take him out while we talk? When animals get this worked up, it’s best to get things over with as quickly as possible. Poor guy.”

  “Sure, if that’s how you want to do it.” I lifted the carrier onto the metal table between us, then allowed the vet to open the latch.

  Octo-Cat immediately tried to make a run for it, but she caught him without much trouble and used her hold on the angry feline to examine his eyes and teeth.

  “There’s a good man,” she said soothingly. My guess is the only reason she managed to avoid getting bit was the fact she hadn’t referred to him as kitty. Something about the vet’s skilled hands calmed him a bit. Perhaps he knew that she was on his side in all this. That she just wanted him to be happy and feel better.

  Not that I didn’t want those same things, but…

  Dr. Lowe set him on the table, keeping one hand on Octo-Cat’s back as she motioned for me to join her. “Now hold on tight to him. Most cats don’t like this next part.”

  Before I could ask any questions, she stuck a thermometer up his backside.

  Octo-Cat’s eyes widened to a comical size, but he didn’t make a single peep until she’d finished. “I feel so violated,” he moaned.

  “You can let him go now,” the vet informed me, and as soon as I did, Octo-Cat hurled himself back in the carrier he had loathed only minutes before.

  Dr. Lowe frowned. “His temperature is normal, and he seems very healthy. Are you sure it wasn’t the dog who made the mess?”

  “We’re sure,” Nan
piped up. “But I did bring a sample in case it helps.” She handed Paisley off to me and then fished around in the disposable shopping bag she’d brought with her until she found the triple-bagged fecal sample.

  “Oh, dear,” the veterinarian said with a laugh. “I think I see the problem.”

  “Don’t you need to test it first?” I asked, unable to see what was so funny about this disgusting situation.

  “No, I don’t think I do. That’s not cat feces. It’s not dog, either.”

  “I told you I’m not sick,” Octo-Cat pouted from inside his carrier.

  “Then what is it?” I asked, completely at a loss for ideas.

  Dr. Lowe held the sample up to the light, and we all stared at it as she explained, “This definitely came from a wild animal. Judging from the size, I’d guess a raccoon.”

  Raccoon!

  Now it all finally came into focus. Octo-Cat had been able to be in two places at once by employing the help of his biggest fan, the raccoon that lived under our porch. His name was Pringle, and he worshipped the ground my spoiled cat walked on.

  “Could you maybe give us a moment?” Nan asked politely. It seemed she too had figured out exactly who was to blame for all the strange happenings around our house as of late.

  “Of course.” Dr. Lowe nodded, then let herself out through the back door.

  Once we were alone again, I bent forward so I could look Octo-Cat straight in the eye. “Please tell me you didn’t really hire your raccoon fanboy to frame Paisley for your bad behavior.”

  “I didn’t,” he said, but even he didn’t seem to believe it.

  Placing both hands on my hips, I narrowed my gaze and waited.

  My cat came to the edge of the carrier and laid back down with a sigh. “First off, hire would imply that I paid him. He did it for free. Secondly, it’s not my bad behavior. I didn’t do anything.”

  “But you’re the mastermind,” I pointed out.

  And then it occurred to me… “Why would you break your own teacup?”

  He let out another heavy sigh. “Pringle isn’t the best at following instructions. He grabbed the wrong cup by accident. Believe me, I’m quite upset over it. We haven’t even had the funeral yet.”

  “How could we have when you’ve been either hiding or scheming all day?” I asked, shaking my head with fury.

  “You make a decent point,” Octo-Cat conceded. “But my point also remains. I don’t want the dog to live with us.”

  “Why not?” I demanded.

  “I don’t like dogs,” he groused.

  Oh, no. He was not pulling this one again. If he really hated Paisley, then he needed to be able to tell me why. I doubted he could, and I was more than ready to call him on that bluff.

  “But why don’t you like her, specifically?” I asked, raising an eyebrow in suspicion.

  “Because she’s a dog. Duh.”

  “Mommy, can I try talking to him?” Paisley asked from my arms. She was so light I’d almost forgotten I was holding her.

  At the Chihuahua’s request, I gently set her on the exam table so she and Octo-Cat could sit face-to-face. It struck me then that she’d never once had this kind of opportunity with him. The cat had always yelled, complained, and then run away to hide. But would he actually have a conversation with her now that he was stuck inside this tiny room?

  “Hello, Octopus Cat,” Paisley began with a reverential dip of her head.

  “My name is not Octopus Cat,” the tabby growled. For a moment I worried that he would take another swipe at her, but he kept his claws under control.

  Brave little Paisley either didn’t know that she was talking to an animal on edge or she was ready for whatever consequences she reaped as a result of this conversation. “Oh, then it seems I might have misheard,” she said, blinking slowly. “What is your name?”

  “My name—and you better remember this, because I’m only going to say it once—is Octavius Maxwell Ricardo Edmund Frederick Fulton Russo, Esq. P.I.” He rolled each of the Rs as if doing so were required to pronounce the monstrous moniker properly.

  I put a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. Every time Octo-Cat gave out his full name, he added something to it. I was starting to doubt he’d ever been given any middle names at all.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Octavius Maxwell Ricardo Edmund Frederick Fulton Russo, Esq. P.I.” The Chihuahua said, carefully mimicking the cat’s pronunciation and causing my mouth to fall open in shock. I’d known this cat for over a year and still didn’t have all his names memorized. Had the young dog really picked the entire train wreck of a name up after hearing it just once?

  “My name is Paisley Lee,” she informed him with another slight bow of her head. “When Nan adopted me, she gave me her last name, so I guess we aren’t really brother and sister. I’m sorry if my calling you brother upset you. I know now that I was wrong.”

  “It’s all right,” Octo-Cat mumbled, obviously charmed by the little dog’s impeccable manners even though he most certainly wished that he wasn’t.

  “I really would like us to be friends, but if you don’t want that, I understand,” Paisley squeaked. Tears lined each of her large black eyes, but she continued on bravely. “I will try my very best not to chase you anymore or to make you unhappy in any way, but please can I stay? This is my family now, too.”

  “I guess that would be okay with me,” Octo-Cat said and then retreated deeper into his carrier.

  The conversation had reached its natural end, and somehow everyone had managed to survive.

  We really were going to be all right, after all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  True to his half-hearted words, Octo-Cat quit hiding in my bedroom non-stop and started to rethread his life with ours. He didn’t even leave the room when Paisley entered anymore, which I considered a huge step in the right direction.

  Paisley adopted the practice of not speaking to him unless he spoke first, and occasionally he actually would initiate a brief conversation with her.

  Several days passed, each better than the last.

  Now that we’d solved the mystery of the broken household items and both pets were on their way toward forming a lasting friendship, my thoughts returned to Trish.

  The county police had found enough evidence to charge her with Class C Theft after a bank teller in Dewdrop Springs identified Trish as the person who had cashed Nan’s and my donation checks the week before. She’d then used that money to purchase several hundred dollars in stolen pet supplies. Together, the stolen cash and goods tallied up to just over one-thousand dollars, which marked her actions as a felony in our great state of Maine. She was still awaiting her trial at the moment, but Charles had informed me that the punishment could be both a hefty fine and possible jail time.

  I still remembered how kind she had been to Nan and me outside the shelter when we first met her and how she’d mentioned not having much money herself. But was she really the type to steal from animals in order to line her own pockets? And if so, then why did she use the cashed checks to purchase supplies for them?

  Something wasn’t sitting right about the whole situation, but I couldn’t quite figure out what. At a loss for answers, I let my questions about Trish and the embezzlement at the animal shelter simmer at the back of my mind as I worked on building a website for Octo-Cat’s and my new P.I. company. Eventually we’d have customers, and I wanted to be ready to wow them when they finally came calling.

  Maybe someday soon, he’d agree to let Paisley join the investigative team. I, for one, knew the little dog would love the chance to play—and win—Detective again.

  That morning, Paisley decided to celebrate her new kind of sort of friendship with Octo-Cat by bringing him a present. We’d just finished tea when the little dog skittered in through the electronic pet door. Her collar was now outfitted with a coded chip, too, which meant she could come and go as she pleased—just like her new hero, Octo-Cat.

  Our raccoon friend Prin
gle, on the other hand, had been given a massive lecture and a warning that we were to never, ever see him in the house again, no matter what Octo-Cat said was or wasn’t okay.

  “Hey, girl,” Nan called when she saw the dog’s small, dark form traipse through the foyer. “What have you got there?”

  Sure enough, Paisley had something large stuffed inside her mouth, which she brought straight to Octo-Cat and laid at his paws, her tail a waggly blur of joy. Thank goodness, the tabby had been laying on the floor rather than the couch, because the gift in question was a very large and slightly bloody mouse.

  Dead, of course.

  Octo-Cat studied the corpse before him, then looked back up at Paisley. His eyes softened as he asked, “For me?”

  She blinked and shivered and wagged. “Cats like mice. Right?”

  I think Octo-Cat surprised us all with his genuinely large smile.

  “Yes, and the deader the better. Good job, kiddo.”

  The sight made me want to throw up, but I felt too happy to let my roiling stomach stand in the way of this important bonding moment. “You know cats are supposed to be the ones to catch mice,” I informed them both.

  “That’s old-fashioned thinking,” Octo-Cat protested. “Besides, she caught this mouse for me, which kind of means I’m the one who did it, anyway.”

  Paisley beat her tail against the ground, hanging on every word that spilled forth from Octo-Cat’s lips.

  “Nice try,” I said with a sarcastic chuckle. “But you can’t just take credit for someone else’s…” My words trailed off, and I looked toward Nan.

  “What is it, dear?” she asked, then took another sip of tea.

  “Trish,” I said, thinking back to how sure I had been that we’d caught the bad guy and put the mystery at the shelter to rest. Too sure. The evidence was too neatly wrapped up in a nice little bow.

  “What about her?” Nan said as the animals continued to share their gross bonding moment separate from us.