Shirley Link & The Black Cat

by Ben Zackheim

  Yes, this has gone from an investigation to a rescue.

  When I tell Wylie and Marie my plan, they’re more excited than they should be.

  “You’re always a sucker for dumb, innocent animals, Shirley,” Marie says, smiling and patting me on the shoulder.

  “He’s an awful singer, but he doesn’t deserve to die because his owner is a thief.”

  “I was talking about Wylie, but okay.”

  “Haha, funny. As in funny looking!” Wylie says back. Marie and I roll our eyes.

  “I should have known it was him. All these valuable items disappearing. It had to be someone who knew his stuff.”

  “But how do we confront him? It’s not like we can just march up to him and point our fingers.”

  “Not if we want to save Elvis,” I say.

  “Let’s follow him around then,” Wylie shoots off.

  “Let’s,” I answer.

  I was wrong about what kind of person the criminal is. Yes, I'll admit when I’m wrong. It happens once in a while. A long while. I shouldn’t have been looking for a young person starting their criminal career, or a new resident, or an out-of-towner. They were all good guesses, mind you. But they failed to cover the one type of person who could pull off a series of robberies like this.

  A desperate man, with the connections and means to sell off valuable items for the best possible price.

  The wind blows cool, wrapping me in that Spring scent I love so much. When New England shines, it’s as bright as the sun.

  What a beautiful day to catch a thief.

  Wylie, Marie, and I watch Mr. Gilbert, the pawn shop owner, close up shop. We’re hiding behind a delivery van down the street. If he looks our way and spots us, he may be convinced we’re just hanging out. Of course, with my reputation he’d probably get suspicious. It’s a chance we need to take.

  “Okay, stick to the plan,” I whisper. Marie runs across the street and works her way to the pawn shop. She’s going to poke around to see if the cat is in there. It’s possible Elvis is in the basement, or in the storage shed behind Mr. Gilbert's store.

  Meanwhile, Wylie and I start to follow Mr. Gilbert. He’s walking pretty fast, like he’s in a rush to get somewhere. He reaches his house within a couple of minutes and walks through the front door into darkness.

  Look at that. His Honda Accord is parked on the street and it's packed with suitcases and boxes. I wonder where Mr. Gilbert thinks he's going.

  Wylie makes a signal like he’s going to go around back. He has a good nose for sneaking. He’ll make a good assistant detective one day.

  Hey, I made myself smile!

  "What are you smiling about?" Wylie asks.

  "Something about you," I answer.

  "Glad I could amuse you, standing here watching your back."

  "Sorry. Let's do this. Ready?"

  He nods and runs off. My plan is to go around to the other side of the house and see if there’s any sign of our fuzzy target. If we run into Mr. Gilbert, Wylie knows the drill. Scream. Loudly. And use the pepper spray if he needs to, but only as a last resort.

  I spot Wylie snooping around the back yard. He sees me and shakes his head. Nothing yet. I’m about to gesture for him to join me in the front when I hear a faint bump near my head.

  Mr. Gilbert stands in full view in a large window above me, glaring down.

  Our eyes meet.

  He runs. I hear his footsteps pounding on the wood floor in his house and I run, too. Wylie, realizing what’s happening, breaks for me as fast as he can. I grab my pepper spray from my belt and get ready.

  I decide to run toward the front door, which is where I think Mr. Gilbert was running. It could give me the element of surprise.

  Oh, no! He went for the back door and now he's about to lunge at Wylie from behind. His hands grip a baseball bat.

  “Wylie! Behind you!”

  But it’s too late. Gilbert’s bat connects with Wylie’s neck. My friend falls to the lawn in a gross clump.

  I clasp my pepper spray tight and move toward them.

  “Stay there,” Gilbert says, the bat held high over his head. He’s threatening my friend while he’s unconscious. At least I hope he’s just unconscious.

  “You don’t have anywhere to go, Mr. Gilbert,” I say, with a growl in my voice. “We told the police and they’re on their way.” Which is completely untrue.

  “Then I better get going. Drop the spray, Shirley.” He raises the bat again, even higher. It starts to come down on Wylie.

  “Okay!” I drop the can.

  The bat hits the ground and Mr. Gilbert smirks. Is he enjoying this?

  “I did a little digging and see that you filed for bankruptcy a few months ago,” I blurt out, hoping to stall him a little longer.

  “Such a detective, you are.”

  "So you went from charging criminal prices for your junk, to being a criminal. Good move."

  "It's better than getting stuck in this town any longer. You people wouldn't know quality if it was sitting on your own shelves. So I thought I’d take it off your shelves for you. You know the last sale I got? Three months ago! And the best part is that all of you come into my store looking for top dollar for your garbage."

  I don't have time for this, and soon enough he'll realize that too. "Where did you find a cat that could sniff out empty houses?"

  "He's been doing the rounds for a few guys I know.”

  Then, as if he smells the police coming, he runs away from me, toward the backyard and tears down the other side of the house to his car.

  He has some trouble starting up the old thing. The engine turns over a couple of times. When it catches, he screeches off, leaving long black marks on the road.

  I run for Wylie. The distance between us is probably twenty feet. It feels like a mile. I won't be able to do much to help, but my urge to be next to him is strong.

  I hold his hand. His eyes are flickering open and closed. That can't be good. His breath is steady and strong, though. He could have suffered a concussion. I need to call 911. I pull his cell phone out of his pocket. He has it password protected. The three of us know each other's codes, though. For situations just like this one.

  Oh, no!

  Oh, Wylie. You changed your password! It used to be his birthday month and year. Wait. I bet I know what he changed it to.

  Marie's birthday.

  Please work, please work, please work...

  Bingo.

  "We need an ambulance," I say when the operator answers.

  As the EMTs take care of Wylie, I break into Mr. Gilbert's house. I'm not going to disturb anything. I just need to see if the cat is in here.

  What a mess. I'm not sure how anyone could live like this. The house is crammed with stacks of magazines and newspapers. I weave my way through them like walls of a maze.

  "Kitty?" I ask the silence.

  Nothing. I listen for a scratch on the wall, a meow, a soft sound of any kind. But I'm surrounded by decades of junk. I stumble past a door that could be to the basement. I push over a stack of newspapers to get to it.

  Yup. The stairs go down into darkness. I flick on the light. It doesn't sound like anyone is down there.

  I turn the light off and hear a small noise. Like someone just ran their hand over the dirt floor. Maybe I should wait for the police.

  I know I can't. Curiosity is my weakness and my strength. I'm a lot like a cat in that way.

  Wylie's phone rings and scares the kitty litter out of me. Caller ID shows it's Marie.

  "Hey," I whisper. I keep my eyes on the blackness from the basement below.

  "Shirley? Why are you answering? Is Wylie okay?"

  "He got hit on the head but he'll be fine.
I'm in Mr. Gilbert's house. Any luck?"

  "No, but Mrs. Smiley says she thinks she heard Elvis an hour ago near the library."

  "Good. Check that out and let me know. Call this phone."

  "What happened to your phone?"

  "I gave it to the bad guy," I say, and snap the phone closed. That should keep Marie wondering.

  I descend the stairs sideways, back against the wall. I don't want anyone sneaking up behind me.

  "Hello?"

  Again, that weird sound emerges from the darkness. I have a bad feeling about this. The lone light in the room is a dangling bulb near the stairs. I snag the wire and pull it free from a couple of wood staples. Now I can walk around with a little more light at my disposal.

  Five steps in, I see him.

  Elvis is in a cage. He's lying on his side, eyes half-closed. He glances up at me and manages to let out a small meow. Gilbert locked him up to die down here. He probably thought that, with the mess upstairs, Elvis wouldn't be found for months, or longer. But then, Gilbert didn't think he'd get caught just before skipping town.

  And he doesn't know I planted my iPhone in his car.

  "Hang in there, buddy," I tell the cat. I open the cage and gently lift him out. He's limp as a doll and settles into my shoulder. A small purr erupts, but I know he's in trouble. My guess is that he's been poisoned on top of everything else.

  I look around the basement and my fear is accurate. An open bottle of antifreeze sits on a work table. A little taste of that and the cat could die pretty fast.

  I run up the stairs as fast as I can.

  "Where's the cat?"

  I love my friends like they're family. They're kind people. They're curious. And they're compassionate. We work well as a team because we trust each other, and we admire each other's strengths.

  I've never felt stronger about this than I do now. Wylie has awakened in a hospital bed fresh off a knock on the head, and his first question upon seeing me is, "Where's the cat?".

  "He'll be okay," I answer. "He was in the basement. Poisoned and left for dead. But the vet pumped his stomach and rehydrated him."

  "He's meowing like old times," Marie says.

  "Driving the vet's office crazy," I add.

  Marie smiles. "They love him."

  "Did they get the jerk?" Wylie manages to croak.

  "Yup, thanks to Shirley's fast thinking," Marie beams.

  Wylie manages the large grin that only emerges when the Red Sox win or when I stick it to a criminal. "What did you do now?" he asks me.

  I try to be humble, but I think I might be smirking a little. "When you were running around Mr. Gilbert's house, I slipped my iPhone in-between his car seats. I have the phone tracker on." Every iPhone has a GPS that can be used to find lost, stolen or purposely-placed-to-find-a-bad-guy phones.

  Wylie shakes his head, and then winces in pain. "Nice job, Shirley."

  I shrug. "Mom and Officer Sparks found him transferring all the stolen items to a rental van in Springfield. So we got him just in time."

  Marie sits down next to Wylie and holds his hand. He smiles at her and seems to relax.

  "Another case closed," Marie sighs.

  I slip out the door and say, "Almost."

  I walk down the hospital hall. "Is there another twist to this ending?" I hear Marie ask Wylie.

  I'm afraid there is, Marie.

  It wasn't hard to track Erin down. There are only a dozen motels and roadside Inns in the area. All I had to do was call and ask for someone who checked in with her own last name or Bobby’s. She used Bobby's: Trimble.

  Mr. Gilbert may be a creep, but he didn't steal Mrs. Olivander's ring. She said that she hid the ring in a shoe box in her closet, and he only stole things that were out in the open. He had to leave no sign of a robbery. That was his style. Plus, it was his voice I heard last night. Elvis was only in the house for five minutes, max. Not long enough for Mr. Gilbert to sneak in, find the treasure without me seeing a sign of him, and then escape. Elvis bolted from the house before Mr. Gilbert had a chance to get inside.

  Which means, for the first time ever, Erin is suspect number one. Parents have no idea how many secrets we kids know. We have a keen sense of where things are hidden. I'm sure Erin was as aware of where her mom hid the valuable ring as she was of where her mom hid the Christmas presents.

  I knew she hadn't skipped town yet because Bobby is still around. I saw him packing his motorcycle a couple of hours ago, with a few rolled up posters sticking out of his bike's carry pouch. He looked exactly like a teenager trying to escape.

  I'd already guessed that they would leave town together. They really are in love. And I'm going to do everything I can to make sure they have a chance to be happy together. But first I need to stress to Erin how close she got to losing everything. She won't like a fourteen-year-old preaching to her, but tough luck.

  I knock on the motel door. The curtains rustle a little bit, and I hear someone whispering to herself.

  "Please let me in, Erin," I say, gently. "I know what happened, but I want to help you."

  She throws the door open and points at me. "You should mind your own business, Link! What gives you the right to hound me like this?"

  "What gives you the right to steal your mom's ring?"

  "Is that what she told you?"

  "That's what she thinks. And I believe her this time."

  "You've accused me of being a thief from the start. You're just like everyone else in this garbage town."

  "Don't blame us for your problems, Erin. No one told you to steal stuff all the time. I know you don't want to. I know you always return things. But if you leave now and take the ring, then you will be a petty thief. You'll be exactly what you fear people call you."

  "I don't care what anyone says, except Bobby."

  "You'll also be everything you fear about yourself. Please give me the ring and I won't say a word. It's precious to your mother." She stares at me. Her look is softening. "Please."

  She cries. The tears flow silently. She closes the door. I wait. I stare at the room number for what seems like forever. I distract myself by running my pinky over the fake brass. When a couple of minutes have passed, I fear I've failed.

  The door opens. She holds the ring out and drops it into my palm.

  "Now leave us alone, Shirley. Please."

  "I will. Good luck, Erin."

  "Thanks."

  As I ride back home on my bicycle, with the ring in the front pocket of my jeans, I glance at the beautiful light outlining our hills. It's silver, with a touch of pink along the top. It makes me wonder how some of the kids in town could possibly hate Shelburne Falls. But the fact is, everywhere in the world can feel like jail if you don't fit in, no matter how nice it is. We all get stuck in our roles at home, in school, at work, in our neighborhoods. People think they figure us out, and then there's no escaping that role. We're pegged. It's hard enough when you're an adult to live with that trap, but it's even harder when you're a perfectly nice kid with a flaw that people latch onto.

  Bobby passes me on his motorcycle going in the other direction. He doesn't recognize me in my helmet, which is a relief. His departure should be private. He should be able to leave on his own terms. Maybe now he and Erin have a chance to be who they are, living somewhere else.

  And maybe they can be happy.

  Speaking of which, I need to make a call when I get home. I think the nine o'clock show of Avengers 2 would be the perfect celebration for the end of this case. Plus, I might not know boys too well, but I do know that Jacob loves the Avengers.

  Hey, it’s just a movie. It’s not like a date or anything.

  Thanks for reading Shirley Link & The Black Cat!

  About the Author

>   Ben Zackheim lives in Massachusetts, at 42.5098° N, 72.6995° W, surrounded by the Forbidden Forest, with his wife and son. He’s also the author of:

  Shirley Link & The Safe Case (FREE!)

  Shirley Link & The Hot Comic

  Shirley Link & The Treasure Chest

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  Because I love to introduce people to great new books, I’d like to present John Logsdon’s Nanoagents. The series is just kicking off, but it’s as fun as any yarn I’ve read recently.

  Nanoagents is a secret government agency created to protect the world against all kinds of crime, whether it be terrestrial or intergalactic.

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