The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency

by Mandy Morton

  Mr Malkin and Mr Sprinkle stood either side of the escalator to welcome everyone, while a number of their staff collected tickets and showed the audience to their tables. Hettie had no pockets in her outfit, so Tilly had been entrusted with their passes and, as they neared the top of the escalator, Doris Lean from pre-packed meats scrutinised their tickets to make sure they weren’t fakes. Hettie noticed the ‘what are the likes of you doing here?’ look on the shop assistant’s face and made a point of sharing a few extra words with Mr Sprinkle, as if they had known each other for years. When the niceties had been exchanged, Doris marched Tilly and Hettie grudgingly to a table at the bottom of the catwalk, close to a roped-off area where a small dais had been set up for the band. By now, Tilly’s eyes were threatening to pop out of her head and even Hettie’s mouth remained slightly ajar in the wonderment of the occasion, but she adopted a casual air for appearance’s sake, and especially for the benefit of Doris Lean who – once the guests were seated – would be spending her evening in toilets and cloaks.

  Tilly sat on her paws for fear of touching anything she shouldn’t, and marvelled at the shiny cutlery in front of her. The snow-white napkins had been folded into conical peaks and there was a set of silver salt and pepper pots, but the best thing on the table – which held Tilly’s eye for some time – was a silver dish of butter curls.

  Poppa appeared minutes later, having successfully parked his van in a side street, and was just in time to partake of the first round of drinks. Tilly opted for a pink milkshake, full of bubbles and topped with cream and chocolate hundreds and thousands. Hettie and Poppa chose the more sensible option and relieved the waiter of two glasses of champagne which they downed in one, insisting on a refill before he moved on. ‘Decent gig this,’ noted Poppa, picking up the menu card. ‘The food looks good, too. There’s prawns to start, in some sort of sauce I can’t pronounce, then there’s pork and lamb kebabs with salad pittas and another sauce I can’t pronounce.’ Tilly released her paws and climbed onto the table to reach the top of her milkshake, licking the cream and chocolate off the top. Hettie discreetly drew her attention to the napkin, and Tilly did her best to wipe away her excesses as Poppa continued to entertain them with the menu. ‘We’ve got a choice of puddings – there’s creamed rice with chocolate crispies or sticky toffee pudding with a sauce I can’t pronounce.’

  Hettie laughed and snatched the menu away from him. ‘Sauce onglaze it says – that’s another word for custard, I think. And look – there’s a selection of cheese and biscuits as well.’ She downed her second glass of champagne and Poppa followed suit as the wine waiter passed close by, eventually responding to a rather loud hiccup that Hettie had tried to suppress. Once again he filled their glasses and, as Mr Sprinkle made his way to the podium on stage, all eyes turned in his direction.

  ‘My dear friends and valued customers,’ he began, ‘it is my great pleasure to welcome you all here tonight on behalf of myself and my partner, Mr Malkin. I’m sure you know that fashion is one of the jewels in our crown, and we are very pleased to bring you the latest work of Miss Cocoa Repel – one of our most innovative designers, who is revealing her autumn collection exclusively to those assembled here this evening.’ The ballroom erupted into riotous applause at the mere mention of Cocoa Repel, giving Hettie a much-needed opportunity to continue with her hiccups. Once the clapping had died down, Mr Sprinkle continued. ‘To make the night go with a swing, would you please put your paws together for our resident band, fresh from their summer season on Southwool Pier. I give you, Kit Krooner and his Hot Jumpin’ Sardines.’ Everyone looked eagerly towards the back of the ballroom as the band members found their places and took up their instruments. ‘Our chefs have surpassed themselves with tonight’s menu, and food and drink will be served throughout the evening. I have also been asked to mention that Miss Oralia Claw will be featuring her accessories to complement Miss Repel’s new designs, all of which will be available in store from Monday or by advance order with a discount this evening. Now – please enjoy yourselves, and let the music begin!’

  With a nod to the band, Mr Sprinkle joined his family at a table close to the stage. Kit Krooner and his Hot Jumpin’ Sardines were on their fourth number by the time the prawn starters arrived, giving Hettie and Tilly plenty of time to have a good look at the audience. They were pleased to recognise so many of the townsfolk. The Butters were dressed to the nines in matching sea-green evening gowns and shared their table with Lavender Stamp, who – although a little drab by comparison – looked smart and expensive. Turner Page had a table to himself and seemed a little lost among the finery, but he had made an effort and sported a bright yellow bow tie; he seemed to be doing a crossword puzzle as he waited for his dinner and tapped his paw to the music. Local newspaper veteran Hacky Redtop was making notes at the table he shared with Prunella Snap, the paper’s features photographer, who had made her name in the world of modelling before falling from grace over a rather rushed airbrush job. These days, she was much happier photographing weddings, guide troops and elderly cats who had reached a hundred.

  Hettie scanned the tables, looking for some of the Furcross cats, and eventually found them sitting closer to the stage end of the ballroom. She recognised a number of the residents, including Nola Ledge and Nutty Slack, but there was no sign of Marcia Woolcoat or Marley Toke. Marilyn Repel was holding court at her own table, joined from time to time by Mr Malkin and Mr Sprinkle, who both asked for autographs. She wore one of her most famous movie costumes, a dress of shimmering gold with a plunge neckline, finished off by a stunning diamond necklace and white fur stole draped across her shoulders. Poppa found it hard to take his eyes off her, and couldn’t resist speaking out loud what the rest of the room was thinking: ‘Whatever she had, she’s still got it in bucket loads.’

  The prawns arrived with a flourish, still in their shells, and the waiter placed small bowls of scented water on each table for cleaning sticky paws. Tilly sipped her water, thinking it was the next round of drinks, and ate the shells as well as the prawns without any ill effect. A drum roll from the band signalled the beginning of the fashion event, and the catwalk sprang to life with a procession of tall, thin models in a colourful explosion of silk and chiffon; they danced and swirled past the delighted audience – stopping, moving on and turning this way and that, making sure that everyone got a good look at the clothes on show. Hettie used the spectacle to summon a wine waiter to replenish their glasses, and Poppa – being extra helpful – relieved another of a full bottle of champagne, which he hid under their table in case the top-ups petered out. Tilly, less interested in fizzy drinks that caused hiccups, clapped along and cheered as the mannequins paraded to the bottom of the catwalk, where they turned on their very high heels and glided gracefully back to the stage, eventually disappearing from view.

  ‘Well, it’s all very pretty,’ Hettie commented, draining her glass for the fourth time, ‘but why would you want to get yourself done up like that? I mean – when would you wear that stuff? It’s not ideal for fetching the coal, is it?’ Tilly noticed that Hettie was slurring her words and had begun to speak a little louder than normal, and put the change in her friend’s demeanour down to the bubbles she was imbibing. Poppa had become completely fixated on Marilyn Repel and was about to chance his arm on an autograph request when another drum roll announced Mr Malkin’s turn at the podium.

  ‘And now to one of the evening’s highlights. I am thrilled to have in our midst one of Hollywood’s great stars. She has kindly agreed to perform a medley of her finest musical hits while our models prepare to reveal Miss Cocoa Repel’s hat, mac and fun fur collection, so would you please welcome to the stage Miss Marilyn Repel.’ The audience rose to its feet and everyone clapped with their paws above their heads as Marilyn took Mr Sprinkle’s arm and was guided through the dining tables to the band, where a tall stool and microphone awaited her. The stool proved a little tricky and Poppa sprang to her assistance, helping her haul herself and he
r very tight evening gown into position as the band struck up with a rousing introduction to ‘Diamonds are a Cat’s Best Friend’. Marilyn responded, blowing kisses to her fans before launching into the first verse, and Poppa sat at her feet and melted.

  Hettie and Tilly were equally mesmerised by the cat who had transformed herself from one of Furcross’s retired residents into a full-blown diva. Through a champagne mist, Hettie couldn’t help but observe that Cocoa Repel would have to go to some lengths with her ‘hacs, mats and fum furs’ to hold a candle to her mother, who was proving to be the real star of the evening. As Marilyn crooned and the band played on, waiters moved like unseen ghosts among the tables, clearing away the debris, replenishing glasses and bringing hot, silver-domed serving dishes to the diners. Hettie couldn’t resist lifting the lid on the one they were served, only to find a sizzling hot banquet of skewered kebabs surrounded by freshly baked miniature pitta breads; she replaced the lid with a loud clang of satisfaction which almost brought Marilyn tumbling off her stool, but Poppa steadied her as she completed the last verse of ‘Heatwave’ and moved seamlessly into ‘My Heart Belongs to Daddy’.

  Suddenly and from nowhere Jessie appeared at Tilly’s side and crouched low to whisper in her ear. ‘Can you and Hettie come backstage with me? I’ve got to show you something. It’s terrible, and I don’t know what to do.’ Jessie’s voice sounded urgent and frightened. Tilly looked across the table to where Hettie was helping herself to another glass of fizzy, and realised that there was very little point in her going anywhere in her present state; she was now singing along with Marilyn in a slightly off-key sort of way, so Tilly seized the opportunity to leave the table and the noise behind and follow Jessie to the backstage area.

  She found herself in a very different world from the glitz and glamour of the ballroom. Jessie led her through groups of half-clad models, preening themselves in front of mirrors and putting the finishing touches to their painted faces, chatting and squabbling excitedly as the minutes ticked by and the next round of garments waited expectantly in the dressing area. Cocoa Repel was fussing and hyperventilating in the middle of the chaos, and Oralia Claw was checking make-up and painted nails on some of the cats as they assembled, ready to be squeezed or pinned into hats, macs and fun furs.

  Jessie beckoned Tilly over to the rail of garments closest to the stage and pulled her out of sight. ‘Look at these,’ she whispered. ‘They’re Oralia’s accessories to go with Cocoa’s macs.’ Tilly looked at the legwarmers, mittens and scarves, thinking how warm they would be when the winter came. She was about to say so, when she saw the expression on Jessie’s face. ‘Look closer,’ her friend insisted. ‘What do they remind you of?’

  Tilly thought for a moment as she turned a legwarmer over in her paws. She sniffed it, then put it back with its partner. ‘I think they’re very clever – just like real fur. I wish I had markings like that, and look how the stripey ones match each other!’ Tilly was pleased with her assessment and Jessie was pleased with Tilly, but Oralia Claw – who had been listening from the other side of the clothes rail – wasn’t pleased at all. In fact, Oralia Claw was very angry indeed.

  Jessie pulled Tilly closer to her and lowered her voice even further. ‘They’re just like real fur because that’s what they are: REAL FUR! REAL CATS’ FUR!’

  Tilly gasped as the truth of the matter hit her. She shrank back from the pile of accessories in horror. ‘Pansy, Vita and Virginia! It’s them, isn’t it? It’s their fur. It was Oralia Claw who wanted those bodies. She’s used them to make this stuff.’

  Jessie nodded. ‘Yes, and she’s calling it fun fur. All I can say is it’s a very black day for fashion, and if it gets out she’ll bring Cocoa down with her. But what do we do? We have to stop the show before the audience claps eyes on this stuff and wants to buy it!’

  Tilly knew that they had a matter of minutes before the next parade of garments took to the catwalk. ‘We need help. You get hold of Cocoa and tell her what we’ve discovered, and I’ll go back out front and get Hettie and Poppa to create some sort of diversion to hold things up.’ Tilly moved swiftly from behind the rail of clothes and ran straight into Oralia Claw.

  ‘That’s as far as you’re going tonight – you and your nosy friend from the charity shop.’ Oralia Claw pushed Tilly back behind the rail and Jessie leapt to her defence, pulling the angry cat down onto the floor. Tilly seized her moment and made a run for it, as Jessie and her opponent rolled over and over in a bundle of spitting fur, much to the amazement of the models, who stood back to give the fight the space it deserved.

  Tilly didn’t look back. She quickly found her way to the ballroom and, as she approached her table, it became instantly clear to her that the diversion she was hoping to set-up was already well and truly underway. All eyes were turned on Hettie. Inspired by Kit Krooner and his Hot Jumpin’ Sardines, and fuelled by at least three glasses of champagne too many, she had climbed onto her table and was currently reprising her paso doble while conducting the band with an empty kebab skewer. Poppa was assisting by pretending to be a bull, using pitta breads for horns, and the audience clapped and cheered along as if the fashion show no longer existed. Kit Krooner slowed the pace for dramatic effect and played a daring trumpet solo to herald in the Hot Jumpin’ Sardines’ version of the habanera, while Hettie and Poppa turned their table into a bullring, acting out the drama for the delighted crowd. Hacky Redtop moved closer to the spectacle, making furious notes as Prunella Snap captured the scene for posterity, and Tilly stood frozen to the spot, knowing it would be impossible now to attract Hettie’s attention.

  Suddenly, while Hettie staged her triumphant kill and Poppa rolled over on his back as the conquered bull, the crowd’s gaze moved back to the catwalk. The spitting bundle of fur rolled down it, closely followed by the first appearance of Cocoa Repel. In a split second, the show was over. Jessie, scratched and bleeding, pulled away from her assailant. Oralia Claw leapt in the air with such force that she twisted badly and fell forward off the end of the catwalk – just as Hettie raised her skewer to acknowledge the death of her imaginary bull.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Oralia Claw was dead, of that there was no doubt: Hettie’s skewer had gone clean through her heart. Once her body had been cleared away with the remnants of dinner, a shocked Hettie, Poppa and Tilly were invited to join Marilyn Repel at her table. The movie star was comforting her daughter, who sobbed not at the death of her business partner, but of her own career, now in tatters and a very long way from the Hoot Cature to which she had aspired. Hacky Redtop, realising that he had the story of a lifetime and hoping that Prunella Snap had the pictures to go with it, jotted down some names, chatted briefly with Jessie, whose wounds were being tended by Lotus Ping, and left in a great hurry to capture the front page of the Sunday Snout. The rest of the audience filed out quietly, foregoing dessert for the comfort of their own homes.

  Mr Malkin and Mr Sprinkle ordered taxis for the stragglers, and Tilly crept backstage while no one was looking to load what was left of Pansy, Vita and Virginia respectfully into a box, hoping that there would be an opportunity to bury the fur with their bodies. As she turned to go, Cocoa Repel appeared, tear-stained and distraught. Seeing what Tilly was doing, she put a paw on her arm. ‘Thank you for taking them away. I couldn’t bear to look at them now I know who they are. I’ve been so stupid. It was happening right in front of my eyes. I trusted Oralia, and she has ruined me.’

  For the first time, Tilly saw a real person behind the celebrity of Cocoa Repel, and her heart went out to her. ‘I’m sure all this will blow over in time, and look at your beautiful clothes! Those lovely macs and the floaty dresses – Oralia Claw hasn’t spoilt those, has she?’

  Cocoa turned to the clothes that had seemed so alive earlier in the evening; now, they hung like shapeless shrouds, a sad testament to all her shattered hopes. ‘I don’t see how I can carry on. I’ll never live this down. As for the clothes, take what you like. They’re not bea
utiful for me any more.’ With that, the designer turned and walked away.

  Tilly stood for a moment, then moved towards the rail of macs and carefully selected a navy blue one with a good upturn on the collar and lots of deep pockets. She tried it on, appreciating the warm red detachable lining. The Cocoa Repel designer mac was at least two sizes too big for her, and that was exactly what she was looking for.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Hettie woke with a thumping head and no real memory of how she had got home. She knew that to open even one eye would be impossible in her present state, and lay quietly piecing together the reasons for her headache and extreme nausea. The more she tried to recall the events of the night before, the more unsettled she became. She was just beginning to convince herself that it had all been a nightmare, when the thumping in her head became louder and much more urgent. In the hope that the banging would stop, she cradled her head in her paws and pulled herself further into her blanket.

  ‘Wake up, wake up!’ urged Tilly as she pulled the blanket back. ‘You’re famous! Look! It’s all over the front page, with pictures and everything, and you’re continued on pages four and five. Oh, do wake up! Beryl Butter has just brought us a copy of the Sunday Snout.’

  Hettie lifted her head very slightly and opened one eye. ‘Why are you making such a terrible noise, and what’s Beryl Butter got to do with the Sunday Snout? We don’t read it, and anyway I’m too tired for all this. My head hurts and I’ll probably be sick in a minute.’ Hettie pulled the blanket back over her head and Tilly, realising that nothing could be done to rouse her friend until a hangover cure was found, left their room to seek advice from the Butters.