Sheriff McKnight glanced at us over the rim of his glass. “Princess seems to have a friendly disposition.”
“Very much so,” said Edna. “Unlike … unlike the actual winner of the so-called competition.”
“You’re talking about Queenie?”
“I’m not in the habit of talking negatively about anyone.”
“Of course not,” the sheriff said. He sipped his iced tea. “Do you have any reason to think the competition was fixed?”
“Goodness, no. I wouldn’t ever want to suggest such a thing.” Edna stirred a spoonful of sugar into her glass. “Even if it was sticking out like a sore thumb.”
“Very commendable of you.” The sheriff rose. “Now I’d like to take a look at the screen Queenie tore through.”
“Certainly,” said Edna. “I haven’t had it repaired yet—a long waiting list down at the hardware store this time of year.”
Edna led us out of the kitchen through … through another door, one I possibly hadn’t noticed, surely not an important door. Down a hall we went, Edna first, then the sheriff, followed by me and Princess, her tail sort of curling into my coat. At that moment I got hit by a strange thought: I preferred Queenie. And it wasn’t even close.
We entered a small den with lots of musty quilts around. Edna pointed out the open window, the big hole in the screen, and hole-shaped piece of screen lying on the floor.
Sheriff McKnight knelt and examined the piece of screen, running the edges through his hands. Without looking up, he said, “Queenie didn’t break out.”
“I don’t understand,” Edna said.
“This piece was cut out with metal shears,” the sheriff said. “Someone broke in and grabbed her.”
Edna put her hand to her chest. “Someone broke into my house?”
The sheriff nodded.
“Do you think they’ll come back?”
“No,” the sheriff said. “But I’d get that screen fixed as soon as you can and in the meantime keep the window closed and locked.”
“Gracious.” Edna went the window, closed, and locked it. She turned to the sheriff. “I was thinking of asking the Reddys to pay for the repair.”
“Were you?”
“It being their cat and all.”
The sheriff said nothing.
“Probably not appropriate,” Edna said. “What with this new development.”
The sheriff nodded a very small nod.
Edna tested the window, made sure it was locked up tight. She gazed outside. “Who would do such a thing?”
“We’re going to find out,” the sheriff said. By we, he meant me and him, just in case you missed that. We were the law in this here county.
WE DROVE UP TO MY PLACE, THE Blackberry Hill Inn, in our cop car, me in the shotgun seat, where deputies sat, and Sheriff McKnight in the sheriff’s spot, behind the wheel. We got out, both from his side, possibly a bit of a crowded moment, but I couldn’t wait to be home, so who could blame me?
The sheriff stood by the car door, maybe about to hop back in and drive off to the station. Should I be checking into the station, too? Was it possible I had my own snack supply, just waiting there? I was wondering about that when the sheriff said, “How about I walk you to the door?”
Fine with me. We walked up the brick path together. “You did good, Arthur,” he said.
How nice of him! I’d had a notion that I’d done good—especially for my very first day on the job—but now it was for sure. True, we hadn’t actually cuffed anybody yet and thrown them in the hoosegow, but we’d let Edna Fricker know what was what in a way she wouldn’t soon forget! She’d probably be spreading the news to all her buddies in the knitting world: There’s a new sheriff running the county and he’s got a deputy you don’t want to mess with.
The sheriff opened my front door and we went inside. Harmony ran out from behind the desk.
“Have you found Queenie?”
“Not yet,” the sheriff said. “Is your mom around?”
“She went into town,” Harmony said. “But did you find out anything? Do you have any leads?”
Sheriff McKnight looked a little surprised by the question. So was I. What were leads, exactly? I knew lead was another way of saying leash. We hadn’t found any leashes, me and the sheriff, and besides, Queenie didn’t have a leash. I got a little confused.
“We did learn something,” the sheriff said. “I was hoping to tell your mom.”
“You can tell me, sheriff,” said Harmony. “I’ll pass it on.”
“Of course,” said the sheriff. “Should have thought of that myself. The main discovery is that Queenie didn’t escape from Edna’s place. Someone broke in and took her.”
“I wondered about that,” Harmony said.
“You did?” said the sheriff.
Harmony gave him one of her clear-eyed looks, plus a little nod.
“What made you think of it?” the sheriff said.
“The hole in the screen was so big,” Harmony said. “Why would Queenie need to waste time with that? She can squeeze through hardly any hole at all. Plus, the edges were so straight on the cut-out piece. Isn’t that a human thing?”
Sheriff McKnight took out his notebook. “Mind if I steal that?”
“Steal what?”
“The part about straight edges being a human thing.” The sheriff wrote in his notebook and put it away. “Here’s the kind of question you’ll hate. I know I hated it when I was a kid, but—any idea what you want be when you grow up?”
“Bro and I both want to be pro hockey players.”
The sheriff laughed. “I said the exact same thing when I was—how old are you? Eleven?”
“Yeah.”
“When I was your age. How much fun would that be—flying all around the country, suiting up every night in front of thousands of crazy fans, playing with and against the very best!”
Harmony grinned.
“But,” the sheriff said “if it doesn’t work out, consider law enforcement.”
Good advice. Maybe I could … could take Harmony under my wing, as humans say, although of course I don’t have wings. At that very moment I got itchy in the exact places where my wings would be attached if I had them. Both of those places were suddenly very itchy and also very hard to scratch. There was really only one way to do it. I lay on my back and wriggled around wildly, mouth open, tongue out and flopping all around. You’d have done the same.
“In a way,” the sheriff said, “we’re better off. A lost cat wandering off on her own can very soon be a dead cat. A stolen cat is more likely to be alive.”
“But stealing our cat?” Harmony said. “Who would do such an awful thing?”
“Someone who wanted Queenie,” said the sheriff.
“Why?”
“Hard to say. One thing for sure—Queenie’s a very beautiful cat.”
“So this is like stealing one of those famous paintings that can never be sold?” Harmony said. “Just so you can have it?”
The sheriff gave her a long look. “That’s one possibility.”
He gazed down at me. By that time, I’d gotten rid of the itchiness from the wings I didn’t have, and was sort of just lying there, paws up in the air and my tongue hanging out the side of my mouth in a comfortable manner. In short, I was nice and relaxed.
“Has Queenie ever had kittens?” the sheriff said.
Harmony shook her head. “She’s been fixed.”
“That takes care of that idea,” the sheriff said.
“What idea?”
“That our culprit is some sort of renegade cat breeder.”
And now Harmony was giving the sheriff the same sort of long look he’d given her, like … like they were thinking together. Could that really happen?
“So what else is left?” she said.
“I don’t know,” said the sheriff. “But that’s all right. Searching for why when it comes to crime is just one way to go. For example, we could start with—”
“Who,” Harmony interrupted.
“You got it,” said Sheriff McKnight. “Any ideas?”
Harmony shook her head. What was this about? Queenie? Queenie and where she was? Didn’t we already know that? Or … or was it just me? Uh-oh.
DARKNESS.
Then the linen closet light flashed on. The door opened and Marlon Pruitt, my enemy, stepped inside. There are many kinds of human sweat, some of them—like the sweat just after a hard workout—smelling not too bad. Then there’s nervous sweat, very unpleasant. You want to keep your distance from it. As Marlon came in, the closet filled with the odor of nervous human sweat. I couldn’t keep my distance from it. Marlon closed the door after him. There was nowhere to go.
But … but when he closed the door, it made that same faint cracking sound high up that it had made that last time, when Marlon had slammed the door right in my face. That was something to think about, except there was no time. On one of Marlon’s hands was a thick, heavy glove that reached almost to his elbow. Elrod wore gloves just like it for chain-saw work. In his other hand, Marlon held a long, shiny needle. He came toward me, both hands extended. Of all the outside things about a human, the most interesting is the hand. Sometimes I even think of the hand as a very small person.
So now it was three against one.
“I had no idea you’d be so difficult,” Marlon said. “Bottom line—I’m not going to have my plans upset by some dumb animal, no matter how beautiful in the eyes of some.”
Had I heard right? Was he suggesting that I was a dumb animal? The man was deranged.
He took another step. “Now we’re going to take another picture of you, focusing on that gold-tipped tail that’s got Dr. Park so excited. This has to be a good picture so I’ll need you to be nice and relaxed.” He gestured with the long shiny needle. “This will help you get in the right mood.”
Oh really? What I needed for getting into the right mood was the complete absence of him. I needed my freedom! I needed to be home!
And another step. “This can be easy,” he said, “or it can be hard. Up to you. But it’s going to happen and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Marlon smiled. I’d seen nasty smiles once or twice, but never one as nasty as this, like some monster was inside him, almost ready to climb out. He raised the needle up high. The syringe part held some sort of cloudy liquid. I did not want that cloudy liquid anywhere near me, and certainly not in my body. Oh, yes, I knew what was going on. Bertha and I sometimes watch the little TV on the kitchen counter when she takes a break. I’ve seen all kinds of things on that little TV, although I don’t pay close attention. Except for the fishing shows, which I can’t take my eyes off for some reason.
But the point was I had no intention of letting that needle come any closer. Now it quivered slightly and a single drop of the cloudy liquid appeared at the tip of the needle and hung there. The sight maddened me. I sprang up—not with my usual speed, oh, far from it—aiming for Marlon’s upper arm, nowhere near the needle, where I would sink my teeth in deep, making him cry out, drop the needle, and collapse moaning to the floor. I had it all thought out.
But none of it happened. Instead, while I was still in midair, that other hand, the one wearing the chain-saw glove, shot out and grabbed me, circling tight around my neck. I writhed around in Marlon’s grip, I hissed, I screamed, I thrashed, but all of that in the air, my claws and teeth scratching and biting at nothing,
Marlon smiled that smile again. “Meow,” he said. The needle came flashing down. What happened right after that? I don’t know. But I was aware of the door opening and closing—closing once more with that faint creak or splintering, up high.
And then nothing.
Darkness.
Alone.
Alone in the closet. Some things came back to me and some did not. But have you ever noticed that once in a while you wake up knowing something you didn’t know when you went to sleep?
This was what I knew: I had to climb that slatted door.
Up and at ’em, Queenie! That’s what Bertha says when she sets out my morning cream, fresh cream she pours into the special china saucer known as Queenie’s saucer. I missed my saucer. I missed my cream. And missed Bertha as well, I suppose I should add. But most of all I missed my cream. I was weak from lack of cream.
Up and at ’em, Queenie. I rose, all wobbly, and sank right back down. I rose once more, still wobbly, and made my way across the closet floor. The smell of nervous human sweat lingered in the air. I … I was going to die in this closet. I had to get out.
Faint light—as though from a lamp in a room not too far away—shone dimly through the spaces between the slats. It’s hard to imagine anything easier to climb than a slatted door. On a normal day for a normal Queenie. But this was not a normal day and I was not a normal Queenie. Although I was still the most beautiful cat in the county. That hadn’t changed and never would. How could it if life made sense? Fact one: Queenie, the most beautiful cat in the county. Or was it the state? Or the whole country? My mind was a bit confused, as yours would be, too, if you were in a situation with a bad person, a needle, and cloudy liquid. Just the thought of it made me want to puke. I puked, and felt a little better. I placed a front paw on the lowest slat in the door.
Climbing is not something I have to think about. I just do it. If I want to go up—say onto a tree branch—I simply go up. If I want to go down, I simply go down. I never think about any of my movements. My body handles them on its own, thank you very much. But now, with one front paw on the lowest slat, I found myself thinking: What next?
My other front paw, perhaps? I tried that. It seemed to work. How about getting a back paw involved? I tried that, too, and ended up losing my balance and sinking back down to the floor. And while I was down on the floor, defeated, as you might say—although I never would—two things happened that made me try again, which I would have done anyway. Please remember that when you think of me.
First, I heard a phone ringing and Marlon saying, “Pictures turned out great. Yes, I got the gold tip. Don’t you trust me, babe? See you soon.” Click.
Second, lying on my back the way I was and gazing upward, I understood where that cracking sound was coming from. One of the slats—almost at the very top—had split down the middle. Not split totally: The slat was still sort of in one piece, but now it sagged in the middle, so the gap between that slat and the slat above was a little bigger. Here’s something you should know about me: I can squeeze through very very small spaces.
I rose again. And again I placed a front paw on the lowest slat in the door. Then—oh, thank you, my lovely body!—then my body took over and carried me straight up the door, slat after slat whizzing by, the whole trip effortless! I stuck my head through the gap—a very narrow gap, by the way, much narrower than it appeared from below, meaning that at first just my nose was poking out the other side—and then my body flowed through, no other way to describe it, simply an easy flow from inside that horrible closet to outside, and on down to the kitchen floor, all of this in total silence, Queenie-style.
I looked around the kitchen. A small, simple cabin-in-the-woods-type kitchen, of no particular interest. But what was this? A mouse? Oh, but yes, a fat mouse sitting up right in the middle of the floor, nibbling lazily on a chunk of what smelled like cheddar cheese. Ordinarily I would …
But this was not an ordinary time. And so I made the most difficult decision of my life, and did the most difficult thing. I ignored that fat mouse completely, didn’t give him a second look. I allowed him to sit right there in the middle of the floor, munching away, oblivious to the fact that if I so desired, I could—
Better to leave it right there. I walked out of the kitchen, partly because I saw no obvious way to the outdoors and partly to get away from temptation. The only door from the kitchen led into a hall lined with open lockers filled with skis, boots, poles. The hall was dimly lit, the only light coming from an open doorway to one side. At the far end of the h
all stood the front door, a front door with a letter slot. Letter slots are narrow—I’d never even tried one—but this seemed wider than most. I headed for the letter slot, glancing into the open doorway on one side as I went by.
And there, on a couch and gazing at his phone, sat Marlon. Why would he look up at that moment? I hadn’t made a sound. But he did look up. Our eyes met. He shouted something nasty and leaped to his feet, so fast. I tore off down the hall, sort of fast, although not my fastest on account of my still not feeling that good. I reached the door, leaped up to the letter slot, stuck a paw inside, wriggled, and struggled. But got nowhere. Meanwhile Marlon’s running feet pounded down the hall, closer and closer. I twisted around to face him, bared my teeth, which was when I saw he had a fireplace poker in his hand. I jumped to one side, very quick, but he was quick, too. He didn’t swing that poker, instead poked it into my side and pressed hard, pinning me to the floor. I wriggled and struggled and—
And that was when the front door opened from the outside. Marlon turned his head to look. It was Pamela Vance. “Hi, Marlon, are we all—”
“Shut the door!” he screamed.
But in taking his eye off me, he’d let the poker slip, and now I squirmed free. Ms. Vance’s eyes widened. Half in the cabin and half out, she pivoted, grabbed the edge of the door, tried to slam it closed. Too late! I shot through the narrowing gap and into the night! Freedom!
“Oh my god! How could you let that happen?”
“I let it happen?”
“Who else was in charge of the cat?”
The furious voices of Marlon and Pamela rose behind me, something about their anger making them sound similar, like they were almost one person. One very bad person, and now after me. I glanced back and saw their running silhouettes, framed in the light of the cabin doorway, and heard their running feet. I, too, was running, but silently of course, across a small lawn and into the woods. Ah, the woods. The woods, the night, and me. I was safe in the woods, and the deeper I got the safer I’d—
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