The Kitten Files, Season One

by Perry Kirkpatrick

  So I did.

  It wasn’t that hard, really. I was used to being in control of my own movements all the time, but the car was moving me at speeds and in directions I hadn’t asked it to. Pretty soon my head was spinning, and I gave myself up to disgusted meowing.

  “Sorry, Mia,” I heard Keith say from the driver’s seat. “But there’s really no other way to get there.”

  I was just beginning to wonder if I’d make it without losing my lunch all over the cardboard box, when I felt us slow to a halt. Keith turned off the engine. I breathed a sigh of relief. I tried my best to smooth my ruffled fur, but I didn’t get too far before Keith picked up the box and jostled me around again. Oh, well. If car rides were supposed to be a traumatic experience for cats, I decided it was probably okay to look a bit traumatized.

  Keith stopped walking. “Hello, Ms. Thornblood,” I heard him say.

  A kind, cultured voice said, “Hello, Detective. Thank you so much for thinking of such a creative plan. I’m just sure it will work! Is your cat in there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s put her in the kitty crate I picked up. She’ll be more comfortable than in the box, I think.”

  Keith set the box down and opened the flaps, silently lifting me out.

  “Oh, she’s lovely. She won’t try to escape will she?” Ms. Thornblood was young and pretty, with dark brown hair and lips as red as her skirt-suit.

  “No,” said Keith. “She won’t.” Since when was Keith so stingy with words?

  Ms. Thornblood stroked my fur as Keith set me inside the new cat carrier.

  It was plush. Literally. There was a red plush cushion on the floor of the carrier. This woman knew how to shop for cat accessories, and she obviously liked red. I wondered if Keith had known that when he picked out my collar.

  She closed the gate-like door and then peered in at me. “Think you’ll be comfortable in there?”

  Did I think so? Yeah, I did.

  “I see she has the collar on already. I’ll leave it just the way it is.” She turned to Keith. “Oh, I’m relieved to be finally getting to the bottom of this. Thank you ever so much, Detective.”

  I peered out at them. Either my eyesight was goofed up from all the red around me, or Keith’s face really was looking redder than his usual skin tone. “You’re welcome. I hope everything works out just the way we’ve planned,” he said.

  “I’ll take good care of her,” Ms. Thornblood promised, sliding my carrier into the back seat of her expensive-looking car. As she was getting in the driver’s seat, she asked, “Oh, what should I call her?”

  There was a pause. And then I heard Keith’s reply. “Uh—Kitten.”

  Five

  Back at her house, Ms. Thornblood set my carrier on the floor and knelt down beside it. “Hello, Kitten,” she said.

  I still couldn’t believe Keith had done that to me. Just when I had gotten a proper name, I had to endure being called “Kitten” for another week. Oh, well. The whole alias business had been my idea after all. And besides, Ms. Thornblood seemed so nice I figured I could handle it.

  She opened the door of the carrier and said, “You can come out whenever you’re ready. I’ve heard cats can be rather shy in new places, so take your time.”

  She had a good point there. And it made me realize just how deeply undercover I must go. I was there on a mission, and I’d arrived ready to get to work. But a less-clued-in cat would not come charging out of the carrier ready to take on the world. No, when any ordinary cat finally did emerge, it would be to spend a few mopey hours hiding under the nearest bed.

  As I peered out at my surroundings, I realized I wouldn’t have far to go to find the nearest bed. The huge, gorgeously decorated room I’d been brought to was, in fact, Ms. Thornblood’s bedroom. Wow. Keith needed to read up on decorating; this place looked amazing!

  I watched Ms. Thornblood straighten up a few things and check her hair in the mirror. I felt I’d spent a respectable amount of time in the carrier, so I made a great show of working up courage to nose my way out. Ms. Thornblood was very helpful by not coming over to me or turning around. I would have needed to act spooked and return to the carrier if she had. She did watch me in the mirror, though.

  I was fine with that. I was putting on a pretty good “timid cat” show. Someone ought to get to see it.

  I slunk forward a few more steps and swiveled my head as if nervously checking for predators. Really, though, I used the opportunity to further admire the decor. I loved how the warm, deep red bedspread complemented the dark wood of the furniture. If I had a bedroom... but cats don’t have bedrooms.

  And then it was time to make a dash for the underside of the bed.

  Which I did.

  And—well—I rammed my head into a hat box. Seriously? I was mortified. After that, it was with great sincerity that I hid under the bed for the next half hour or so. Eventually, though, my curiosity and desire to get to work got the better of me and my embarrassment.

  I further explored Ms. Thornblood’s bedroom, getting a good feel for the layout and memorizing all the good hiding places. When I had thoroughly investigated the huge, shining white bathroom as well (and discovered the faint scent of mouse around the wall cabinet) I ventured outside the bedroom.

  Ms. Thornblood’s room opened onto a vaulted loft that ran the length of the great room below. The other doors in the loft were closed, but by sniffing underneath them I was able to determine with fairly certain accuracy what was in each room.

  One was a closet, I was pretty sure. It smelled like cardboard boxes and an old wool coat. The second was another bedroom, I guessed. It smelled similar to Ms. Thornblood’s room: it obviously had linens that had been washed in the same detergent, but it also smelled dusty, making me think it was set up as a guest room and was rarely used. The third smelled just slightly dusty, but mostly like paper, ink, glue, and—Ms. Thornblood. This had me puzzled, so I fished around under the door with one paw to see if I could feel anything.

  “Oh, hello, Kitten,” said Ms. Thornblood’s voice from inside the room. I heard her footsteps coming closer and then the door opened. “Going exploring? Good for you. This is my library.”

  Indeed it was. It wasn’t a gigantic room, but it was lined in grand floor-to-ceiling bookcases that looked like they would be fun to climb. Many of the books looked pretty old, and I guessed they had probably been part of her inheritance. In the center of the room was a spacious desk where she had likely just been sitting, and at the back of the room—a tall, arched window.

  It was a nice room, and Ms. Thornblood looked right at home as she resumed her seat at the desk. She picked up a pen and began writing something. I jumped up to get a better look. I purred soothingly so she wouldn’t get too annoyed by my intrusion and walked slowly back and forth over the open book she was trying to write in, scanning the contents of the desk. She automatically began petting me as I paced.

  There was a desk calendar, several pens, a stack of papers, a couple of letters, a photograph of someone in a scuba mask—it was hard to tell if it was her or someone else—and the book I was walking across. I glanced at the book on my next pass. At the top of the page was the date. Below, in Ms. Thornblood’s small, neat handwriting was an account of my arriving at her house.

  I was flattered to be included in her journal, but I didn’t have time to luxuriate in it; I needed to move on with my investigation. I jumped down to the ground again. Ms. Thornblood readjusted herself in her chair and brushed a few stray pieces of my fur off her hands.

  “Have fun exploring, Kitten!” she said in her kind way. She really was a nice lady. It made me more determined than ever to discover something that would help Keith solve the case.

  Tail held high, I padded my way out of the room. After a quick sniff of the large, soft couch and a terribly uninteresting coffee table in the loft, I headed down the stairs. The rest of the house was huge and, although amazingly decorated, pretty boring in the way of interest
ing smells. I realized Ms. Thornblood did most of her living in the rooms in the loft. I would feel strange living in such a gigantic house all by myself. But it wasn’t as if she could choose what size house she’d inherited. Maybe someday she would get married and fill up the house with a dozen kids.

  Things didn’t get interesting again until I found the kitchen. When I arrived I got my first glimpse of any of the staff. One woman was stirring something on the stove, and another was writing something on a notepad. I froze in the doorway and then sat down silently to observe them, curling my tail around myself. What was she writing? I wondered, staring hard. Was it something to tell the tabloids?

  “Oh, and baking powder,” said the one stirring the pot. The cook, obviously.

  The other woman—the housekeeper—scribbled on her notepad again. I realized it was nothing more sinister than a shopping list. “It’s time for another mop head,” she added.

  “Again? What does Tiffany do to the mops?” asked the cook.

  “Goodness knows,” replied the housekeeper, adding admiringly, “but she’s thorough.” She rubbed at her throat as she surveyed her list. “Hope I’m not coming down with something,” she muttered. “I really don’t have time for that.”

  “Taking your vitamins?” asked the cook kindly, turning to find something on her spice rack. Before the housekeeper could reply, the cook spotted me. “Oh, hello there!”

  The housekeeper turned and saw me. She groaned. “Oh, the cat. I forgot about him.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. I’m a her, I said in my head. Too bad the lab hadn’t managed to make it so I could talk. Not that I would talk in front of just anybody either. But at times like this...

  “Ms. Thornblood said it was a ‘her.’ Kitten, I think she called her.”

  Bless you, Cook. I’m rooting for you to not be the culprit.

  The housekeeper pinched the bridge of her nose. “Beth, I don’t care whether it’s a he or a she. I’m allergic to it either way. Oh, this is going to be a long week. She did say it was only going to be here a week, right?” She hurried out of the room still holding her nose. “I guess we’ll be finding out just how bad my allergy is.”

  Beth, the cook, shook her head in sympathy. Then she looked down at me. I hadn’t budged. “Well, I’m not allergic to you, Kitten, and you seem well-behaved. As long as you stay off the counters and don’t make off with any steaks, you’re welcome to hang around here.” Her ruddy face lit up even more. “Speaking of steaks—well, it isn’t really steak—but I do happen to have a bit of leftover roast from the other night. I’m not sure why I saved it. There’s really too little to do anything with. Think you could do something about that?”

  She returned from the refrigerator with a small container. She took the lid off and set it in front of me.

  Beef.

  Double bless you, Beth.

  I really liked this talkative, friendly, beef-sharing cook. As much as I hoped she wouldn’t turn out to be the culprit, I knew I still had to keep an eye on her. Not that it would be too much of a trial, considering she spent most of her time in the kitchen and was generous with leftovers...

  Six

  A short time later, I found the housekeeper and followed her at a distance. She paused at a downstairs bathroom and blew her nose vigorously. “It’s only a week,” I heard her tell herself reassuringly.

  I felt rather guilty, but I knew I couldn’t help it that her body didn’t care for cat fur. I couldn’t keep completely away from her since she was someone else I needed to keep an eye on. The best I could do for her was keep my distance. She seemed efficient and dedicated to keeping Ms. Thornblood’s house running smoothly, so it was hard to imagine her as the culprit. But until I knew otherwise, everyone was a suspect.

  There were only two other members of the staff I needed to meet. Tiffany, the thorough maid, and a man named Jeff who served as groundskeeper, fix-it man, and sometimes butler. I went on the prowl for Tiffany first. Follow the sound of the vacuum cleaner, I told myself.

  I hate vacuum cleaners.

  The best thing to do when there’s a vacuum cleaner around is to hide under something. Unless they have the hose attachment on. The hose attachment means they’re likely to be vacuuming your hiding place, so it’s really best to just streak out of the room and try to stay ahead of the monstrosity. I peeked into the room where the vacuuming was coming from. It appeared to be a room entirely dedicated to a piano. But—hey—a piano as big as this one would need its own room. I wondered if Ms. Thornblood played or if it was something else handed down to her like the books in the library.

  I felt like taking myself somewhere far away and thinking on that question rather than facing the vacuum. But Tiffany needed some observation, so I instead skittered into the room and hid under a nearby wingback chair.

  Tiffany didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by the noise of the vacuum, but cheerfully pushed it back and forth in tidy rows, humming a bit off-key. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a perky ponytail, and she wore sneakers. I guessed she was just out of high school. She was actually pretty boring to watch, and I couldn’t wait to get away from that awful machine. After a few moments, I left her and her vacuum to their own devices. I would watch her some more when she wasn’t making such a racket.

  Once I was far enough away, I shook my head to make it stop buzzing. Clean floors were great and all, but I’d be inclined to put in hardwoods so I could sweep instead of having to vacuum carpet. That was a funny thought: me sweeping. I puzzled over how I could possibly hold a broom. Figuring out how to use a pen had been a problem for me when I was first trying to write. Now it was easy: I simply held it in my mouth and guided the tip with both paws. Thinking about this made me realize I was going to miss writing during my week with Ms. Thornblood. Oh, well. I had spent several weeks at Keith’s not writing. I could do it again for one more week.

  It took me awhile to locate Jeff. I found him outside one of the upstairs windows. That sounds strange, and it looked strange to me at first. But then I realized he was perched on a tall ladder. He had apparently been cleaning out the gutters, but was done now. He tossed his work gloves to the ground below him, headed down the ladder, shortened it to a manageable size, and disappeared with it around the back of the house. If most of his work was outdoors, it would be hard for me to keep a very close eye on him. Likewise, it would be hard for him to get much of the gossipy information that was being leaked. I had almost decided he was probably not the culprit when something happened that made me change my mind.

  I watched from the window as he returned from the shed and headed toward the house. The housekeeper came out to meet him, and they talked together for a moment. Jeff looked at her with concern. What was going on with these two? I wondered if they talked often. It appeared that even if Jeff did work outside most of the time, he could still be the culprit with a contact in the house. Of course, if the housekeeper were passing information to him, that would actually mean there were two culprits!

  My mind was full of theories as I headed downstairs. I had seen both of them coming inside, and I wanted to hear what they were talking about if I could. But by the time I reached the side entrance, the housekeeper was nowhere to be seen. It was just as well; I didn’t want to make her cat allergy flare up all over again. Following Jeff around would do for now.

  I didn’t get to do that long. He either had extraordinarily sharp hearing or else a suspicious mind, for he looked behind him as he headed down the hall. “Hey, cat,” he growled. “Quitch’yer following me.” Then he turned and started coming toward me. “Scat!” he said.

  I know when I’m not wanted, and, as my stealth had failed me, I could see it was time to fall back and regroup before he took a boot to me. Seriously, he looked willing to do it. I took off in the other direction and hid behind a potted plant until I could no longer hear his footsteps. This suspect had a very bad attitude. And bad attitudes often mean something to hide. Yes, Jeff would need to be watched very ca
refully.

  After that brilliant bit of deduction, I decided I’d earned a nap, and curled up in a nearby sunny spot.

  Seven

  I discovered that Mary, the housekeeper, held a staff meeting in the kitchen each morning. This is how she kept everything running smoothly. I decided to attend these meetings since it was the only time when all the suspects were together in the same place. I figured my culprit might tip me off by something they’d say or in the way they’d interact with the others.

  If I was expecting the meetings to be enlightening, they certainly were—in how to run a house in the most efficient way by running a most inefficient meeting. Mary might have been able to lead the meetings fairly smoothly if it weren’t for talkative Beth who tended to derail the discussion constantly and very-thorough-Tiffany who was so detail-oriented she’d ask a million questions about one task.

  Seriously. I had to bite the end of my own tail once or twice to keep from yowling. Jeff sat stoically in his place and just looked bored, waiting for it to be over. I don’t know how Mary handled it, especially with me in the room making her want to sneeze the whole time.

  When Keith and I had first been discussing the idea of my being a spy, I had mentioned that I could snooze in the middle of the room and nobody would notice me. Well, I hadn’t known how much Jeff would dislike me. The first meeting I attended, my plan was to do some of this public snoozing. But no sooner had I gotten into position than Jeff scooped me up and deposited me—not so gently, mind you—outside the kitchen. I had to listen through the crack under the door.

  After that experience with Mr. Grumpy-pants, I decided I’d better show up early and hide somewhere in the room. Stealth was the only option when he was around. I couldn’t imagine what his problem was...it’s not as if I’d scratched him or anything.

  That was when I began to suspect that he might suspect. Did he know I was there as a spy? Of course he couldn’t have truly guessed my secret, but he might have noticed my odd-looking collar. Jeff could very possibly be the culprit.