Food Bowl Mysteries Books 1-3

by Katherine Hayton

  My inward thoughts turned outward as a man began to shout from a room down the hallway.

  Chapter Seven

  The man’s voice shook with anger, sometimes catching in a guttural growl. “I’ve already explained this to you a million times. When my accountant Humphrey left, I thought that the new guy I hired had fixed things up the same. Until your fake government goons came along to shut me down, I didn’t know anything was wrong!”

  I snuck along the corridor, nosing an ajar door into opening further so I could stick my head inside. A tall man, sharply dressed in a three-piece suit, paced the length of the room. When he reached the windows, he spun on his heel and marched back. I withdrew my head an inch, hunching my shoulders, but I needn’t have worried. The man was so caught up in his telephone conversation that he wasn’t looking at the door.

  “Didn’t it occur to you to just give me a call and let me know? I’m running a business here—I don’t know every little detail of what’s going on with the finances at every minute of every day. That’s why I pay an accountant. He’s meant to look after that stuff for me.”

  Another turn on his heel and the man headed for the window again. I relaxed more now that he faced away.

  “Even the Inland Revenue Department cuts business owners a bit of slack now and then. How dare you just walk in and shut me down? How do you think I’m going to get the money to pay you when nothing is coming in?”

  Oh ho ho. That sounded familiar. The distributor who I’d met the day before had held the same conversation. I would bet my food bowl it concerned the same man.

  Hopefully, the conversation would end with him calling off the two thugs that the fat boss man had ordered out the day before. If this was just a simple misunderstanding, it might be cleared up in time for dinner!

  “Now, you listen here—”

  The man’s voice cut off as a babble of excited conversation poured out of the phone’s receiver. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it from this distance—not with the device pressed up against the man’s head. It seemed to give him pause, though.

  “Fine,” the man said, finally stopping his pacing to stand and stare out the window. “I’ll get my accountant, and we can meet on neutral ground.”

  Another excited babble.

  The man’s posture straightened up, his head jerking from side to side in negation of what was being said.

  “I’m not having that! My wife’s at home. She doesn’t need to know the ins and outs of my business affairs.”

  Apparently, the person on the phone wielded more power than the man in front of me. A few minutes later, he was nodding his head. “Okay, I’ll have him come around, and we’ll meet you here. Just make sure that you—”

  Even I heard the click as the other end of the phone disconnected.

  I withdrew my head so fast that my whiskers twanged against the door frame. Turning, I ran down the hall to Beamer’s side and called to him to follow me.

  The heavy footsteps from the man’s room told me he was heading out and I didn’t want him to catch sight of Beamer or me when he emerged. From the gist of his phone call, he was already in a bad mood.

  Beamer joyfully followed me back along the hall and downstairs. We were almost at the cat flap when a bell on the main door rang. I wouldn’t have minded, but it was the same door that the animal entry was carved into. Instead of hurrying out to the relative safety of the yard, Beamer and I reversed direction and hid behind a lounge suite in the next room.

  Boy, that had been quick. The man upstairs had only hung up the phone a minute ago, yet here his guests were, ringing the bell.

  I poked my head out from around the side of a cushion. From that vantage point, I could see straight through the hallway to the front door.

  The heavy tread came thundering down the staircase, and the well-dressed man reached out for the front door handle. It was at that moment, a familiar head poked through the cat flap.

  One-Eared Whitey.

  With a sinking stomach, I realized that the men at the door weren’t the boss man or the accountant. They were the two thugs here to hurt Agnes.

  Chapter Eight

  I scowled at One-Eared Whitey when his gaze turned in my direction. Meanwhile, the well-dressed man had paused, his hand on the doorknob, not finishing the turn that would open the latch.

  “What the—?”

  The man jumped back with a moue of disgust at the sight between his legs. One-Eared Whitey bared his teeth and nudged all the way through, making a beeline straight for me.

  “No, you don’t.” The owner bent down and scooped the cat up around the middle. He gave a yelp of pain as Whitey retaliated by digging in his claws.

  From outside, I heard the muffled giggles from the two men waiting on the step. “I guess Whitey don’t like ‘im,” a voice muttered.

  The owner of the house let One-Eared Whitey go, and the cat nimbly landed on his feet. The expression on the cat’s face was a mix of confusion and savage rage. He mightn’t know what I was doing here but didn’t like it one bit.

  “I don’t know what you’re here for,” the house owner said, opening the door at last, “but if you’re selling something, make it quick. I’ve got guests on the way.”

  “You don’t need guests,” one of the thugs said, placing one large hand on the owner’s chest and pushing him backward. “You’ve got us. Now, tell us where your wife is—we’ve got a job to do on her.”

  The second thug chuckled as the well-dressed man’s face turned white. The smell of fear wafted off him, thick and pungent. With the approach of One-Eared Whitey, the same odor was probably wafting off me.

  “What are you doing in here?” Whitey asked, then gave a surprised yowl as Beamer chose that moment to bounce up and down in greeting.

  From the doorway came a squeal—a sound that didn’t fit with the tall, well-dressed man, yet emanated from his lips. The first thug had given up on talking already, choosing instead to twist the man’s arm up behind his back.

  “I won’t tell you where my wife is,” the man insisted between panted breaths. “And your boss is on the way right now, so I don’t think he’ll be pleased to find you here.”

  His logic transformed into another yell as the thug twisted his arm further up as a reply.

  “If he didn’t want to find us here,” the second thug said with creeping menace. “Then he wouldn’t have sent us round to teach you a lesson, now would he?”

  “We’ve sorted it all out,” the owner insisted. “There’s no need for you to be here now at all.”

  “Well, how’s about we do our job, then the boss man can let us know later if that was the right call?” The second thug moved down the hallway, shooting a look at One-Eared Whitey as he did so. “Come on, cat. Heel.”

  With a bark of joy, Beamer shot forward and sat down in a begging posture by the man’s legs. The man laughed at the response, bending down to pat his head. I used the opportunity to talk in a quick whisper to Whitey.

  “I need your help. You must stop your masters from beating up Agnes. The boss man is on his way and he’ll be furious with them.”

  One-Eared Whitey tossed me a look as though I’d just crawled through Beamer’s leavings. “They’re doing their job.”

  “They thought that the other day and look where that got them.” I stared at Whitey and saw that he knew what I was talking about. No one ever wanted a second dressing down, not so soon after the first. “If you don’t stop them, they’ll probably end up this day in a worse state than Agnes. Then who’s going to take care of your needs? Fat Bobby’s barely coping as it is.”

  “What do you know about Fat Bobby?”

  I opened my mouth to reply, then jerked backward as Beamer gave a yelp of pain. I hadn’t seen what atrocity the thug had done to him, but he limped behind the safety of the couch, his pleasant and open face now petrified.

  “How dare you!” I shouted at the thug. “He’s my friend and a good dog. I don’t know who you think you
are, but you better leave him alone.”

  One-Eared Whitey tossed me another glance, one that openly expressed he thought I’d taken leave of my senses. “He’s a dog. He doesn’t matter.”

  “Come on,” the first thug said, walking the well-dressed man forward. “Enough of the livestock. Let’s get this job over with and get back home. I want to watch Strictly.”

  “Please say something to stop them,” I begged One-Eared Whitey. “Everything is sorted already. If they go torture Agnes, it achieves nothing except giving the police another reason to lock them up.”

  Whitey gave me an odd look. “Why do you think I care if they’re around or not?” He stuck his nose up in the air.

  “Because I have a human, too. I know how deep the bond runs between him and me and I’ve seen you look at your humans the same. That’s why you’re here now, isn’t it? They like to bring you along, and you like spending time with them? If they don’t stop, this could be the last you’ll ever see of them.”

  One-Eared Whitey stared at me, his eyes seeming bigger. After a moment, I realized the largeness was due to welling tears. He turned and ran over, straight in the path of his thuggish humans.

  “Get out of the way, cat,” the first thug yelled, nearly tripping over him because of the restricted view around the homeowner he was shoving along in front of him. “Go back in the car, there’s a good fella.”

  “You must stop. Even though you were told to hurt Agnes, it appears the situation has changed. I think it’s best we go back to the car and drive to Christchurch. We can hide out there until this mess is over and done with.”

  My heart swelled with pride at Whitey’s words. He’d taken what I said and run with it, delivering an impassioned speech that would surely stop his humans in their tracks.

  Nope.

  The second thug shooed Whitey out of the way so the first could push his captor down the hallway. Though the owner wouldn’t reveal the location of his wife, the first thug wouldn’t release his grip.

  “Get back to the car, Whitey,” the second thug said once they had passed. “We won’t be too long. Just time enough so this guy won’t forget us in a hurry, or forget what he owes.”

  “It’s sorted,” the well-dressed man protested before shrieking as his arm was twisted higher up behind his back.

  One-Eared Whitey took a step back. His face flushed with shame, enough so that he looked like a pinky rather than a whitey. For a split second, I thought of making fun of him, laughing at his inability to steer his humans. Then I thought of my own feeble efforts to communicate.

  “I’m sorry, Whitey,” I said instead, stepping forward, so I stood shoulder to shoulder with the mean cat. “You took a hard stance, but when those humans don’t want to listen, we can’t force them.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Beamer said, coming forward to stand on Whitey’s other side. “Those humans don’t seem to understand the first thing about communication. Sure, they’re keen on issuing orders but listening? That’s a skill that lets them down.”

  One-Eared Whitey shot me a look full of gratitude, but I pretended like I didn’t see the need for that. Just as I was trying to think what to do next, I heard a sound from the main door. Throwing a worried look at Beamer, I scampered forward, silent as I could be, to see what was coming for us now.

  Fat Bobby pushed his head through the cat flap and grinned at me. “Thought I might find you here, Wilber. I considered your proposal again in light of not being able to source myself any decent lunch and convinced the troops to rally.”

  He pushed his fat midriff through the flap, sticking at his widest point, then popping through all at once, like a cork from a bottle. The old soldier followed in his wake, then another member of the “Winners” gang.

  As I stood back to make room, another cat pushed through the door. This time it was a member of the losing “Winners” club—a usually sad cat who walked through the door prouder than I’d seen him strut before.

  More cats followed, five, ten, twenty. Finally, the room was so crowded we had to shift out into the hallway so more of the crew could make it through. At final count—and I’m not too flash with numbers once the total gets higher than my claws—it was more than thirty. Easily double the amount that Fat Bobby had rounded up this morning. My heart swelled with pride that as a species, we’d finally rallied.

  “Boss!” Fat Bobby exclaimed as he noticed One-Eared Whitey standing next to the sofa in the other room. “Nice dog you’ve got there. I always thought you should get yourself a pet.”

  While Beamer tilted his head to the side, Whitey and Bobby sniggered. I cut in between the pair of them, needing to get the troops under control. Time was of the essence.

  “There’s a woman in the upstairs room. Two thugs are headed up there to attack her. We must stop them. Otherwise, the pet food factory might never operate again!”

  A few cats, used to feeding on the same ambrosia as me, voiced loud concerns. They lined up, three across, and marched forward in unison.

  One-Eared Whitey took the lead, and I didn’t fight him for it. I was more than happy to drop to the back of the pack with Beamer at my side. In my time on the street, there’s more than once that I was bringing up the rear, so it was comfortable.

  Just as the first row of cats stepped onto the first stair, the front doorbell rang out again.

  I turned, sniffing, toward the main door. It must be my imagination, surely. There was no other reason for me to imagine the scent of my human in the air.

  The doorbell pierced the air again. Footsteps thumped across the next story, so heavy I expected them to fall through the ceiling at any second. The cats dropped back, scurrying to hide in the lounge, and thug number two ran past.

  “This better be important,” he yelled out. “We’re taking care of business in here.”

  I stuck my nose up and inhaled a deep breath. Although the tang of fear was redolent, the sharp notes of copper and blood were still absent. Thank goodness. There was time.

  The thug pulled open the door, his face screwed up into a grimace of anger then turned to surprise, before flattening into pure fear as he saw who stood on the other side of the door.

  The big boss-man—the fat one I’d seen in the distribution center the day before—stood in the doorway. He looked the thug up and down, his expression broadcasting that the boss man wasn’t pleased with what he saw.

  But I didn’t pay him much attention. My eyes were glued to another figure standing in the doorway. My human. Carrying a briefcase in one hand and a look of trepidation on his face.

  Chapter Nine

  Before I could recover from my surprise at seeing my human, the screams of a woman in distress drilled into my skull.

  I ran, streaking past the watching troops to lead them upstairs. Where Beamer hung back, scared of the noises, I couldn’t afford to be so complacent. I knew what was happening—had watched CCTV footage showing the same event happening to another woman—and I needed to move quickly to stop it. The weight of another Agnes’s torture would be too much for my small conscience to bear.

  The stairs and hallway blurred as I pushed myself to run faster. I thumped against the door to the woman’s room, popping open the latch.

  A man stood over a frightened woman, raising his hand to strike her again.

  Without thinking, I launched myself at the assailant. My claws extended as I sailed through the air, and I felt a thrill of satisfaction as they sliced into the thug’s face, tearing through his skin like butter, exposing the tender flesh beneath.

  I hung from him for a second, one set of claws digging deep into one cheek, the other piercing into his lips. As gravity took hold of me, I slid down, extracting my talons to fall to the floor at the same time he shrieked and reached up to pull me from his face.

  The thug’s hand brushed against the fur on my back, just missing me. I landed safely on all fours, immediately springing between his legs before turning, ready to pounce again.

 
The second thug advanced, Agnes forgotten in the thrill of their new chase. His hands reached out to me, and I scored five angry red wounds down his forearm. The thug yelped and withdrew a step, tripping over the chair the pair had tied Agnes to, falling to the floor with a solid thump.

  A blur of movement erupted from the doorway. Fat Bobby rushed forward and hefted his weight into the air, clawing at the back of the fallen man. Beamer growled in fury from just behind him. The first thug backed up a step, through the streaks of blood coating his face I saw pure fear.

  Good dog!

  Beamer ran forward, barking fit to raise the dead. Meanwhile, the doorway crowded with the other cats, each pushing forward to lend their bodies to the fight.

  The fallen thug disappeared under a writhing mass of fur as the felines went to work on him. I took a step forward, ready to extend my claws again when the dog’s bark turned to a whelp.

  The thug had kicked him in the stomach.

  “How dare you?” I yelled, drawing the attention of all the cats not already engaged in battle. “That’s our dog, and you’re not allowed to treat him like that!”

  I launched myself at him again, striking the thug in the belly. As his rough hands tried to pluck me from his body, the rest of the cats fell on him, dragging him down.

  “What’s going on here?” The boss man spoke with such commanding presence that everyone—man and animal—stopped what they were doing to turn and look his way.

  With a sniff, the fallen thug struggled to his feet, trying to stem the bleeding from a dozen different wounds. “We’re taking care of business, just like you told us.”

  “I phoned you this morning and ordered you to forget it! I’m handling it myself.” The boss man stepped forward. The thug withdrew a matching distance, looking to his mate for support.

  “We knew what you wanted. We were making sure you knew what we were capable of.”

  The boss man turned slowly on his heel, his eyes scanning all the details of the room. “When you’re busy explaining to your mates why you’re no longer on my payroll, be sure to tell them every last thing you see in this room.” He sniffed and gave an exaggerated shake of his head. “What’s with the cats?”