“You dropped your phone,” he said to Tiffany.
“Don’t let her have it!” Ms. Thornblood and Mary cried in unison. The paramedics just looked on, open-mouthed.
Mary crossed to the doorway, took the phone from Jeff who looked rather bewildered, and in a matter of seconds had found the picture and deleted it.
Ms. Thornblood closed her eyes and let out a long breath. “Thank you, Mary,” she said. She then turned to one of the astonished paramedics and said, “I just had a surprise; I think I’ll be fine if you would help me up.”
They did and in a moment she once more sat in her desk chair. “Tiffany,” she said sternly to the girl who stood scowling at her returned phone, “you’re fired. I will send this week’s pay in the mail. Jeff, please walk her out.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, grimly.
Eleven
After Ms. Thornblood again assured everyone she would be all right, the paramedics left. Mary helped her to her room. “It’s probably best if you rest a little after all that,” she said.
“I will. Thank you for all your help, Mary. I really do appreciate it.”
“Yes, ma’am!” said Mary. “I would have thought every one of us was devoted to helping you. Apparently I was wrong. I think I can confidently say it now that Tiffany’s gone.”
In a moment, it was just me and Ms. Thornblood left in her bedroom. I hopped up on the end of the bed. She sat forward with more energy than a recently-fainted person should have.
She looked at me keenly. “Did you really write a note to me?” she whispered in wonder. Then, before I could nod my head, she laughed and said, “Of course you did! Otherwise, how would I have known about Tiffany and the cell phone picture?”
That was a good deduction on her part.
She reached into the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out a small pad of paper and a pen, setting them in front of me on the deep red comforter. I picked up the pen.
“You’ll keep my secret, right?”
She laughed in delight. “That’s extraordinary, Kitten! Of course I will!”
“Good! Keith told me if anyone would understand my need for privacy, it would be you.”
I could see her putting all the pieces together in her head. “So you were going to keep an eye on my staff here and report all the facts to Keith when you got home.”
I nodded.
“The plan wasn’t to have you name the culprit to me and give away your secret, was it,” she said. “What made you do it?”
“When I saw what she’d be sharing with the tabloids, I knew we were out of time. I couldn’t let them gossip about that!”
She blushed. “I’m so glad you did it. Thank you for caring enough to trust me with your secret.” She hesitated and blushed some more. “Can—can I trust you with mine?”
“Absolutely. Keith won’t hear a word about that journal entry.”
Twelve
“That’s quite the story,” said Keith. It was Saturday night, and we were lazing around by the little fireplace in his apartment as I wrote out the story of my week at Ms. Thornblood’s. “I was looking forward to personally solving that case for her...” he looked a little troubled. “But I’m really glad you went ahead and finished the job before the maid leaked anything else. What was in the journal entry, anyway?”
I gave him the Don’t-Be-Ridiculous Look.
“I can’t tell you. Client confidentiality and all that.”
He sighed and shrugged.
“Oh, and, Keith? I should be getting a letter in the mail sometime.”
“Wait, you’re getting mail now?”
“Yes, Ms. Thornblood and I are going to be pen-pals.”
“You’re going to be pen-pals with Ms. Thornblood. Oh.” He looked a little envious.
“Don’t worry. I might let you read some of them. Anyhow, if we get anything addressed to Mia Thompson, just let me know.”
“Oh, yeah... sorry about that whole ‘Kitten’ business.”
I sighed. “I lived. But next time, I’m definitely choosing my own alias.”
The Kitten Files #2
The Case of the Missing Hero
Perry Elisabeth Kirkpatrick
One
Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike cell phones? They have this handy feature called a “ringer” that's supposed to notify the human in your life when someone is calling him. You’d think that would be enough.
But, no.
As if an annoying digital song piercing the quiet isn’t enough, these devices also vibrate.
Maybe it wouldn’t bother me so much if Keith wasn’t always losing his cell phone in the cushions of my chair. (He’d probably like me to call it his chair, but let's be honest.)
Take the other day, for example. There I was, just curled up peacefully in the corner of the chair when—ZZZZZTT! I think I must have jumped a couple feet into the air, because the next thing I knew, I was crouched on the back of the chair. Keith laughed at me as he fished the phone out from where I had been napping.
I glared at his amusement, and then focused on coaxing my fur to lie back down.
“Hi, Sis!” said Keith, answering the phone. “Oh—sorry, Dillon. I figured it was your mom.” He moved the phone away from his mouth for a moment and stage-whispered to me, “It’s my nephew, Dillon.” Then back into the phone: “No, you’re not interrupting. I was just talking to my cat. Eccentric, I know.”
I didn’t know he had a nephew. I wasn’t sure what I thought of this. The word “nephew” made me think of an unpredictable 3-year-old boy who would visit and clomp around in his chunky toddler sandals (beware, oh, Tail), and follow you—even to your hiding place under the bed—until his mother pulled him out by said sandals and gave him crackers.
I didn’t think 3-year-olds with clompy sandals knew how to use phones, so perhaps this nephew was a little older.
By the time I’d finished thinking all this, Keith was wrapping up the call. “...Sure! Let me know if you have any other questions. Hope you find him. Okay, bye.”
I jumped down to the end table and snagged the pen lying there. Ever since I had revealed to Keith I knew how to write, we’d left pens and small notepads in convenient places around the apartment.
I wrote:
How old is your nephew? Does he wear clompy sandals?
Keith read what I’d written and gave me a weird look.
Just answer.
“I don’t know what kind of shoes he wears or if they’re ‘clompy,’" he said, still looking like he thought I was slightly crazy. "I’m guessing they’re probably not sandals, considering they have some land and he’s a bit of a country kid. Boots are more likely."
Boots. Hmm. That didn’t sound much more comforting according to my tail.
“And he’s 12—no, must be 13 now.” He seemed to be doing some complicated calculations in his head to verify that. Then he nodded. “Yeah, I think he’s 13.”
That was good news. A kid who was 13 probably wouldn’t chase me under the bed at least. But those boots—
“Mia? What’s with the wacky questions? Is this an interrogation or something?”
I guess I probably had come off a little strangely. I decided to explain.
Sorry. I was just worried he was a 3-year-old who might like to chase me and accidentally stomp on my tail.
As I was writing this, it occurred to me what he’d said at the end of the call: “Hope you find him.”
Who’s missing? Do we have a new case to work on?
“Listen to you talking—er—writing like an honest-to-goodness private-eye,” Keith teased. “No, we don’t have a case. He wasn’t calling Uncle Detective to come help him out. He just wanted some advice. His dog has gone missing. He’s put up lost dog posters, but he wondered if there was anything else he should do.”
You didn’t tell him your cat would say the posters might make the thief extra careful—right?
“No, of course not. He didn't say the dog was stolen.”
Oops! You fail the test. The correct answer is, ‘Of course not, because that would be telling him my cat could communicate with me.’
Keith grimaced. “Weird day when your cat’s correcting you. Don’t worry. I’m not going to let the cat out of the—er—that is to say, I won’t spill the beans.”
I snickered. Which sounded a little like I had a hairball. I managed to ignore my ruffled dignity and replied.
I was teasing you. I guess that doesn’t come across too clearly on paper.
He looked relieved. “I told him he might try calling the animal shelter and maybe try a Craigslist ad. If the dog still hasn’t turned up by the time I drive out there next week—”
At that, I began scribbling furiously.
What? You’re leaving? You didn’t tell me that! There’s no way I’m letting you leave me here all by myself!”
“Mia, come on. I haven’t been out to visit them in forever, and it will only be for a week. Maybe you could stay with Claire—I mean Ms. Thornblood.”
Nothing doing.
Keith grimaced and rubbed his hair until it stood on end. Ugh! How could he STAND that? I had the urge to lick it down for him, but I refrained. “You know you detest car rides," he said.
I detest being left home alone even more.
“What if you don’t like my nieces and nephew?”
I laid down my pen and jumped from the end table.
"Mia!" he protested.
I just glanced at him over my shoulder and continued to the kitchen where my food bowl was.
I could hear him behind me in the living room wondering aloud, “How often do cats need potty breaks, I wonder? How do you even take a cat on a potty break?”
Yep. He was going to take me.
As I crunched away on my fishy-smelling cat food, I thought about this nephew Dillon and his missing dog. Keith didn’t seem to think the dog had been stolen, but I thought it was a good idea to keep all the possibilities on the table.
Goodness! There I went again! Ever since my adventure solving The Case of the Tabloid Tattler, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking like a detective. Keith teased me about it sometimes, but this kind of thinking came more and more naturally to me. Often it seemed to come more naturally to me than to him even though he’s the professional.
Despite my theories, I knew we didn't actually have a case. Throughout the rest of the week, I tried to keep my mind off the missing dog—I really did. After all, it was a dog who was missing, and weren’t they supposed to be a cat’s worst enemy?
Two
By Saturday night, we were packed and ready to go. When he returned from church the next day, he loaded his duffle bag, a couple water bottles, a bag of cat food, and some kind of snack into the car.
“Come on, Mia. Let’s hit the road.” He opened the door of the fancy cat carrier Ms. Thornblood had sent home with me after the week I spent undercover at her house.
Instead of getting inside, I wrote a note:
I don’t want to ride in that. Remember how sick my last car ride made me feel? I think it might have been the box. I want to be able to see out the windows.
Keith looked at me dubiously. Apparently he’d never gone on a road trip with a cat loose in his car. “Well... You’d have to avoid getting under foot, literally. And you couldn’t—you know—make messes of any kind.”
Right. No getting in the way of the brake pedal and no losing my lunch. I wouldn’t dream of it.
“Okay, then.” He shrugged and put away the carrier. I followed him out the door and sniffed around our patio while he locked up. We headed down the short flight of stairs leading to the ground level, and then I trotted behind him to the covered parking where his old blue car sat.
***
I was right. Car rides were much less nauseating if I wasn’t trapped in the carrier. Being able to see out the window and anticipate the car’s movements kept me from getting dizzy. I really liked it once we were on the highway with no more stopping, starting, and turning.
I stood up on the back seat and rested my front paws on the edge of the window so I could see the cars beside us. A minivan slowly inched its way forward and was soon neck and neck with Keith’s car. In the back seats, there were four children: the oldest had his nose buried in a book, the youngest kicked his legs against his car seat as he chomped on a cracker, and two little girls began nudging each other, pointing, and waving at me.
I guess it was unusual to pass a car with a cat in it. The minivan eventually pulled out ahead and I sort of spaced out, wondering if little girls were as fearsome as my concept of little boys.
Suddenly, with a jolt, I remembered something Keith had said: “What if you don’t like my nieces and nephew?”
How had I not remembered that before? We weren’t going to be visiting with just a 13-year-old nephew and his parents. There were also nieces—plural! I began to feel a bit nervous, but we were already on our way. There was nothing I could do about it.
After a while, I joined Keith in the front, sitting primly in the passenger’s seat and washing my paws. Keith was eating something from the bag he’d brought along. Its shape was similar to a bag of cat food, only smaller. I read the side.
Goldfish.
Fish?
Hmm...
I couldn’t write a note without fear of being seen by someone in a passing car, and he wouldn’t be able to read it while driving.
So I stared at him.
Until my green eyes grew a bit glassy from not blinking.
Hurry up and notice me, Keith!
“What?” he finally said, looking a little disturbed as he glanced at me and then back at the road. He was in the process of getting more goldfish from the bag, so I switched my gaze to his hand. He withdrew it from the bag, and I kept my eyes locked on it all the way to his mouth. Then I flicked my gaze up and stared at him meaningfully.
“Ohhhh... you want a goldfish?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled one from the bag and tossed it to me. “That sure was a creepy way to ask for one.” He shivered a little.
I snickered to myself. Yeah, but it worked!
I began to investigate this alleged goldfish. I had quickly put my paw over it in case it tried to flop off the seat. But it wasn’t flopping, and it most certainly was not a fish. It was a cracker and didn’t smell a bit fishy. It did smell salty, though, which was intriguing. I picked it up gingerly between my teeth and gave it an experimental crunch.
Next thing both of us knew, I was cramming my head down into the open bag, trying to reach more.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Keith said, trying to pull the bag off my head without swerving. “Don’t go sticking your head in my—oh, nevermind. I guess we’re sharing.”
Yes, Keith, that is correct. We are now sharing the goldfish.
Three
I was in the middle of a nap when we arrived. I felt the car stop, but I didn’t wake up all the way, figuring it was just a pit stop. Keith poked me, and I jerked my head up, glaring at him. He was grinning with an inordinate amount of glee.
“We’re here,” he said. He turned off the car and glanced up at something through the windshield. “I’d say you have about 3.7 seconds to brace yourself. We have nieces—” he was interrupted by two thumps and excited squeals from outside the car “—incoming.” Two freckle-faced little girls with auburn hair in braids pressed their noses against the driver’s side window and then commenced jumping up and down.
Keith shot me a glance and quickly whispered, “What’s it gonna be? Scaredy cat or friendly cat?”
He then opened his door and stood up, bracing himself just in time for the nieces to pounce on him with hugs and more words than I’d heard in a week. They were really happy to see their uncle, and I guess their delight sort of rubbed off on me. Not that I was even remotely as excited to see their uncle; I guess it just made me feel a little more personable—catable—whatever.
Friendly cat it was.
I crossed over fr
om the passenger’s seat and, waving my tail gently, jumped down to the gravel driveway.
“Oh! Ariana!! Look at the kitty!”
“Where did he come from? Oh! Is he yours, Uncle Keith?”
“He’s not gonna run away is he?”
“He has pretty green eyes, Natalie!”
And then together, “Can I pet him?”
Keith blinked twice as if it helped him process all the words. “Yes, this is my cat. You can go ahead and pet her; she won’t run away.” It took him a moment, but much to my relief he added, “Oh, and she’s a girl cat. Her name is Mia.”
Ariana and Natalie cooed my name as they stroked me. They were surprisingly gentle. I paced back and forth, enjoying the petting but also wanting to go exploring.
Just then, Keith’s sister joined us with Dillon not far behind. Keith introduced me to both of them, but I observed Dillon with the most interest. He was a brown-headed, active-looking kid who seemed just on the verge of shooting up to a height that would make him look positively lanky. He watched Keith with a lot of respect in his eyes. He didn’t seem like much of a cat person, but he didn’t seem like a cat hater, either.
“Hey, Mia,” he said.
And then he patted my head.
Yeah. He was definitely a dog person.
Keith slung his duffle bag over his shoulder, grabbed my bag of cat food from the trunk, and we all headed for the house. I brought up the rear, breathing in all the country smells blowing across the fields and trees. I was trying to identify one particular scent on the porch when Keith’s sister opened the front door, letting out the most amazing smell ever.
Bacon.
Needless to say, I forgot all about unidentified animal scents.
Now I couldn’t wait to get inside, but Keith was holding everyone up. He had entered right behind his sister, but had forgotten to properly maneuver the duffel bag through the doorway. As he wedged it through with him, he’d scraped off the luggage tag on the door frame. Dillon, who was right behind him, picked it up.
The Kitten Files, Season One Page 4
