by Deanna Kent
Suddenly, a rather large jolt displaced the cucumber slices over her eyes.
Incredibly, the face of Oscar Fishgerald Gold, inventor number seventeen, was one inch from hers. His massive grin was (freakishly) magnified by his portable tank.
“What?! Why? How did you possibly get in here?” she sputtered. But it didn’t take her long to figure out how he’d done it. The airholes he’d drilled were now ever-so-slightly bigger than Oscar’s S.P.I.T. Sneaky fish!
“You won’t even believe how this happened,” he exclaimed.
Her reply was strangled. “Try me.”
“Well, as I was making the airhole adjustments, the mail carrier pulled up. I didn’t want her to ask any questions, so I grabbed my lab kit and a small travel bag and implemented a rather useful recent invention—my antigravity grappling hook—to pull me right in. I guess that means I’m going to Paris with you after all!”
The fish had tricked her! The crate’s airholes had been fine before. Ophelia was furious. She didn’t like being duped, and she didn’t want a fish distraction. “Oscar, don’t talk. Once we arrive inside the Mew-seum, you will stay in this crate and wait until I have the diamond.”
After several hours of silence, Oscar interrupted. “If I may, could we please just talk for fifteen seconds about my Global Positioning System? Indeed, the GPS is telling me that there’s a teensy problem with the trajectory of our flight path.”
Even though he was already proving himself as a total, royal, fin-tastic pain in the butt, Ophelia reminded herself that the fish was supersmart. Also, she appreciated his manners. “Okay. You have fifteen seconds. What’s the teensy problem?”
So there they were. One stowaway fish-out-of-water and one (fabulous) cat—both headed toward a tiny, cold peninsula on the edge of the sea.
“ The first rule of cat burglar club: You do not talk about cat burglar club. The second rule of cat burglar club: If you have to talk about it, don’t do it around any finned creature.”
—Ophelia von Hairball V
7
A SERIES OF UN-FUR-TUNATE EVENTS
Is it just me”—Ophelia raised her eyebrows wryly—“or should we be full-on panicking right now?”
“No, no! Much too early to panic,” Oscar replied. “Let’s just think. Wasn’t our plan to be delivered directly to the Belle Mew-seum?”
“That was my plan,” Ophelia retorted. “I’m not thrilled with this new turn of events. And let’s just be real: It’s entirely your fault. You were supposed to be my lookout!”
Oscar ignored her. “I read somewhere that one of your mottos is Be ready to pivot. Is that not true? Because you seem to be focusing on what’s wrong and not on finding a solution.”
The cat’s eyes narrowed. “There are limits to my flexibility, fish. I really need to be delivered inside the Mew-seum so I can bypass their entrance security. Look for yourself!”
“Hmmm,” the inventor agreed, “direct delivery would have been ideal … and Norway is quite a long ways from Paris.” Oscar tilted his head and looked at her. “But what’s plan B? I know your brain is already figuring out a plan B.”
Ophelia’s brain was moving a mile a minute. “We need to get us—in this crate—out of this plane. Are we anywhere close to Paris?”
“Yes.” He pointed to the water churning around inside his S.P.I.T. “There’s turbulence; that means wind. Still, I can land us near Paris with a bit of clever engineering … if we get out now.”
Inside the travel crate, the pair was being tossed around like a ball of yarn in the paws of a street cat. “My plan requires speed,” Oscar said, checking his GPS.
“Do tell.”
“I’m going to open the plane’s emergency hatch. This travel crate will be released into the air … along with all the other mail in the plane.”
Without further ado, Oscar poked Ophelia’s back-scratcher out of the crate and pulled the lever that opened the plane’s emergency hatch. “Get ready for some WIIINNNDD!”
“Umm … EEEeeee!” As the crate left the plane, Ophelia tried to control her screech. “Did we think this through? Did you happen to invent a Jetpack gadget to attach to this crate? Because I’m not so happy about the plummeting-through-the-air part of this plan! Or the crate-smashing-into-the-earth-at-high-speed part of the plan. And the cat-and-fish-SPLATTERING-EVERYWHERE ending to this plan!”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Oscar assured her over the wind. “There will be no splattering today! We’re going to maneuver this crate quite gently right into the heart of the city!”
A jolt of fear traveled from the tips of Ophelia’s well-groomed ears to the bottoms of her well-proportioned paws. “‘Maneuver’? We’re in a crate! In the sky! And we’re dropping, Oscar,” she yelled. “We’re dropping fast!”
“Affirmative.” He checked his GPS. “We have approximately sixty-five seconds to construct our parachute.”
“Don’t just stand there, feline! Thirty seconds until I pop the top of this travel crate open and we test our chute. And when the top comes off, everything in here is going to fly out. Whatever you absolutely need, put inside the trunk. I’ll bolt it down.”
Very quickly, Ophelia put her necessities, plus a few of her favorite possessions, into the trunk. Oscar shoved in a few gadgets and his suitcase and screwed the top shut. He bolted the trunk down, then attached ropes to the four corners of the Persian carpet and secured them to the floor.
“Ta-da! The trunk is shut tight and our parachute is ready. Fifteen seconds until I take the lid off this travel crate,” Oscar yelled over the roar of turbulence. “The air will catch underneath the carpet and we’ll float—like a fabulous feather boa—to Paris. Hold on to something! And whatever you do, don’t let go.”
“Not letting go!” Ophelia assured him, and dug her strong claws into the side of the crate. She made a mental note to thank the manicurist who kept her nails sharp and strong.
Like an astronaut tethered to a spaceship, Oscar attached his S.P.I.T. to the trunk and positioned himself to pop the top off the travel crate. “Three, two, one …” With shark-like speed, he freed the four corners of the lid.
Ophelia held her breath as the crate top spun off into the atmosphere (along with several priceless items).
She waited to hear the POP! of the rug snapping open to slow them down … but nothing happened. The carpet remained flat. The pair continued to drop toward the earth.
“So, fish, when do we start floating like that feather boa you promised? Exactly when is this parachute going to start working?” Ophelia yelled. But the fear in Oscar’s bulgy eyes said it all. It should have already started to work.
They say cats have nine lives. Ophelia closed her eyes and hoped she had at least one left.
“There will be times in life that aren’t fun. Try not to have too many of those.”
—Ophelia von Hairball V
8
NOT A-MEWS-ED
For a few very looong seconds, Oscar and Ophelia stared at each other, waiting for a gust of air to lift their makeshift parachute and slow the travel crate. But the heavy rug stayed stuck, flat to the crate’s floor. Their high-speed plummet toward the earth continued. A lifetime of heists flashed before Ophelia’s eyes; she’d come too far and worked too hard to let Pierre win now. Her last moments would not be in a travel crate with a random fish inventor. “Let’s do this!” Ophelia shouted at Oscar. “Let’s make this parachute inflate and get to Paris!”
“I can’t understand why it’s stuck!” he said, a bit panicked.
“This would be a very good moment to impress me with your genius mind,” Ophelia ordered.
Still tethered, Oscar wiggled himself to the middle of the crate. With all his might, he wedged his fin under the side of the rug and lifted it to look.
“Oh dear,” he said. “There’s something incredibly sticky under here. And glossy.” He peered closer and sniffed. “It’s claw polish!” He raised an eyebrow. “And if my identification skills are as
good as I think, I’d say it’s Sphynx Scarlet claw polish that’s sticking our parachute to the floor. Did you really need Sphynx Scarlet for a diamond heist?”
“We’re plummeting toward the earth with no parachute. Is there really time for so much judgment?” Ophelia inquired.
“No worries! We’ve got this.” Oscar wiggled himself under the carpet and pulled the rug with all his might. For a moment, the polish held the rug like glue. Finally, it came unstuck with a SMACK! “Come on, parachute! Come ON!”
WHOOSH! The wind caught under the rug. There was a hard jerk, and their descent toward the earth began to slow. Relief washed over the cat. “It’s working!”
“But of course,” Oscar retorted. He surveyed the ground below. “Hmmm. Looks like the brief delay set us off course a bit. The good news is that we’re not too far from Paris. The bad news? We might land in the water.”
Ophelia froze. Besides Pierre, pugs, and poodles, water was her greatest enemy.
“Don’t fret! I see a ship down there,” Oscar yelled. “I’m going to try to steer this thing. With any luck, we’ll land on it. Brace yourself!”
Ophelia curled up into a ball in the corner and prepared for a harsh landing.
Closer and closer they drifted, as Oscar chattered away, hoping to impress Ophelia. “Did you know the first scientist to measure speed as distance over time was Galileo? Now there was an interesting chap. He sketched several inventions, including a candle-and-mirror combo, an automatic tomato picker, a pocket comb that doubled as a sort of fork, and a ballpoint pen….”
“Do you mind zipping it, fin-boy? If I die, I’d like to hear the wind rushing through my glorious fur and not you nattering on about tomatoes. Just worry about where we’re going!”
“I am a gold-star navigator,” Oscar assured her. “Definitely the right fish for this job. Here we go!” They landed with a small thud.
“Are you okay?” the fish asked as he brushed himself off.
“I seem to be,” Ophelia answered, happy to be alive. “At least we didn’t hit the water.” She smoothed her fur in relief. “I’m really going to need some spa time later.”
Oscar hopped up and looked over the edge of the crate, surveying their location. “All right then! I’m going to recommend that you hold your nose,” Oscar warned. “It’s too bad you don’t have a S.P.I.T. It shields me from … THE SMELL!”
When Ophelia stood up and took a deep breath, the stench hit her like a rotten wave. It was like all the very worst odors were trapped together, then magnified and heated.
“I’m almost certain,” Oscar said, “that I know where we are, and it’s in the English Channel near France’s shoreline. Just a short two hour and forty-five minute train ride to the center of Paris.”
Ophelia nodded. They could easily get to the Mew-seum before closing time.
Oscar wasn’t done. “Unfortunately we may, in fact, be on, um, a garbage barge, and I’m not entirely sure how we’re going to actually get to the shoreline.”
“A-a-a gar … GARBAGE BARGE?”
“At least we’re close to Paris!” he assured her. “Imagine if we’d stayed on that plane and landed in Norway! Although, I’ve always wanted to swim in the fjords.”
“Double ugh.” Ophelia plugged her nose and gingerly stepped out of the crate. Their surroundings were grim. Heaps of moldy, rotten food, piles of old gym socks, cushions from decrepit couches, and a variety of unidentified horrors were all around them.
“Hey … what are those evil-looking creatures?” Oscar’s voice shook. “They look very hungry.”
“They’re excessively large rats.” Ophelia did a halfhearted hiss in their direction, and they scattered. “Thankfully, they’re scared of me.” Ophelia turned back to Oscar. “Depending on your next moves, I may or may not hand you over to them. But first, fish-face, what I’d like to know is HOW our destination changed from Paris to Norway. Please help me flip this crate.” Ophelia had a theory about how it might have happened. (It involved her shady cousin.)
Turning the crate over confirmed her suspicions—the address had been changed. And under the packing tape was Pierre’s calling card.
“See? I made the Paris address tag for this travel crate myself, and this new address must have been added after I was inside. Just imagine how helpful you could have been if you’d been outside the crate making sure the pickup was smooth rather than sneaking into it! Your insistence on being a stowaway cost us hours of time.” She stuck her nose in the air. “Not to mention the lasting damage to my delicate psyche. I’ll need aromatherapy for years.”
Oscar cocked an eyebrow. “Let’s not dwell on the past. According to my calculations, this garbage barge is precisely 8.047 kilometers—five miles—from shore. From there, Paris and the Mew-seum are a short train ride away.” He smiled. “Remember the custom scuba suit? We could swim to shore!”
“NO!” She shook her head. “Fur real, it would take me three years to swim from here to shore! I hate the water, and I detest swimming. Are you telling me that supersmart brain of yours can’t formulate any better plan than putting my body into the water?” Her voice rose with dramatic exasperation. “Fish, please! We’re on a boat! Get us to shore! As dry as possible!”
Oscar tapped his fin to his forehead in deep thought. “Even if I built a top-notch engine, this barge is too big to move quickly. But there is another scenario that will allow us to get to the Belle Mew-seum before closing today. I predict that you won’t like it, though.”
“Whatever your plan is, it’s better than being stuck on a garbage barge, and it’s better than swimming. Do what you need to do!”
“No complaining?” Oscar asked.
“No. None!” she solemnly declared. (He didn’t notice her paws were crossed.)
“Okay. Let’s see which of our possessions—”
“My possessions.”
“You’re so nitpicky! Let’s see which of YOUR possessions made it through the crash landing.”
Oscar’s head drooped. “Yes. It’s totally ruined.” The grab-and-switch device he’d so carefully constructed had been jolted with the impact of their landing. “On the bright side,” he said, “the gold-button-tornado feature was destroyed. Can you imagine the mess if we had accidentally triggered that on this garbage barge?”
“That’s the bright side?!” Ophelia hissed.
Oscar sighed and wiped the fine, purple powder particles off his S.P.I.T. “Such a fin-tastic plan up in smoke!”
“They say humility is the key. Thankfully, I can pick any lock.”
—Ophelia von Hairball V
9
SEA YOU LATER
Ophelia shook the purple dust from her fur and looked at her fish companion. “You resemble a famous little egg-shaped jewel I once stole,” she remarked wryly.
Oscar seemed flustered. “Ugh! Without that grab-and-switch gadget, once we find a way inside the Mew-seum, we’ll need an entirely new plan to steal the diamond!”
“Indeed.” His use of we grated on Ophelia, but he looked so silly trying to rid himself of his dusty purple film that she resisted the urge to correct him.
“How about you plot and find a new way to get into the Mew-seum and take the jewel,” Oscar suggested, “and I’ll make us a worthy sea vessel!”
For the next hour, Oscar worked. Piece by piece, he destroyed the luxury travel crate and almost everything in it. As some of her priceless items were transformed into a boat, Ophelia cringed. But true to her word, she didn’t complain.
“Almost done. Please go fetch—I mean find—ten plastic milk jugs,” he ordered, beads of sweat forming on his fins. “I also need some metal scraps. You might have to dig for those….”
“But my manicure!” Ophelia protested.
“Would you like to stay here forever?” As he pried the last of the travel crate’s boards apart, Oscar suddenly stopped. “Ophelia! Take a look at this!” He held up a minuscule metal disk the size of a pencil eraser.
“
Is that what I think it is?” Ophelia looked at the inventor, but she already knew the answer.
“Yes. I fear, dear cat, that this is a rather sophisticated tracking device. It’s amazing technology—the smallest I’ve ever seen. It seems as if your cousin did more than just switch the address on your travel crate. He’s also keeping a close eye on where we are.”
Ophelia was confused and examined the metal disk more closely. “That is not Pierre’s,” she declared. “It’s too well constructed. Too polished. Pierre uses cheap tracking devices. He buys them in bulk.”
“But who else would be tracking you?” Oscar didn’t wait for her guess. “Let’s look for a clue inside this thing.” He used a small paper clip from a nearby pile of rubble to pry it open.
Ophelia wasn’t amused, either. It dawned on her that she was now evading both Pierre and the Central Canine Intelligence Agency.
Oscar closed the bug back up and put it in a small chunk of moldy bread. He threw it up in the air and a humongous seagull swooped down to grab it. “That’ll throw the CCIA off for a while. They really would like nothing more than to nab you, Ophelia. Imagine those dogs being able to say they caught you, the top cat burglar in the world!”
Ophelia didn’t want to think about it.
“Back to work!”
Before too long, Oscar had finished his nautical masterpiece.
Ophelia plucked her special-ops handbag from the pile of things that Oscar hadn’t hacked to pieces.
“That bag looks too big,” Oscar told her. “Can you leave it here?”
“This,” she stated with conviction, “is an absolute necessity. I need it. In fact, I never go on a heist without it. My grandma gave it to me.”
