Purrfect Trap

by Nic Saint

  “I told you already, to talk to the parents of the missing kid—Nicky August.”

  “Better call them back and tell them I’m on my way,” said Chase as he got up from behind his desk.

  “You’re going to handle this yourself? I can always send one of the uniforms.”

  “No, they deserve an official apology, and maybe I can figure out what happened to the chief.”

  “Oh, and a bunch of people are calling about their missing cats,” said Dolores.

  “Missing cats?”

  “At least a dozen reports so far. I’ve handed them to your colleagues, but they’re less than excited at the prospect of looking for a bunch of missing pets.” They both looked in at the office, which was open-plan, with desks dotting the cluttered space. None of the other officers appeared particularly busy, and Chase heaved a disappointed sigh.

  “When the cat’s away…” said Dolores with a shrug.

  Chase clapped his hands. “Listen up!” he said. Instantly, they all sat up with a jerk. “Let’s get on this missing cats business, all right? They may only be pets, but that doesn’t mean they’re not important. So divide up the work and let’s get cracking, people!”

  At the office, Odelia was adding some spice to the article Dan had written about the upcoming Fall Ball, always a big thing in Hampton Cove, and an opportunity for the mayor to mingle with his constituents. The next election was still three years away, but Mayor Turner never missed an opportunity to sell himself to potential voters. Maybe the reason he’d been in office for as long as Odelia could remember. Suddenly Dan stuck his head in the door.

  “Have you heard about the case of the missing Duffer?” he asked with a slight grin on his bearded face.

  “The missing what?” she asked, looking up from her laptop.

  “The missing Duffer. The famous salami?”

  She leaned back. “Funny. My mom sent me a text this morning about the Duffer. How does a sausage go missing, exactly?” This sounded like a story right up Dan’s alley. He liked to fill the Gazette with colorful fluff pieces like that. And readers loved it.

  “Take the story and find out. The Mayor made a big scene at Fry Me For An Oyster when they announced they were all out of Duffers. Threatened to fire the entire staff.”

  “He can’t fire the staff. He doesn’t own the restaurant. Does he?”

  “Who knows with these local moguls.”

  “Is this really a story we need to pursue, Dan?” she asked, gesturing to the pile of files clogging up her inbox.

  Dan arched an eyebrow. “The Mayor? Blowing his top? Over a sausage?”

  She grinned. “I see your point. But can you finish this article about the Fall Ball?”

  “Will do, kid,” said Dan, rapping his knuckles on the doorjamb and returning to his own sanctum.

  She picked up her bag, which held a dictaphone, laptop, and enough notebooks to write up a dozen stories about a dozen mayors blowing their tops over a lack of salamis.

  She walked the short distance to the restaurant where the sordid scene had played out, and ten minutes later she was talking to one of the servers who’d actually witnessed the incident, and gave a vivid blow-by-blow account of the Mayor’s darkest moment.

  Next came Wallace Banio, the maître d’, who was more than happy to spill the beans, provided his name wasn’t mentioned in the article. “I don’t know what came over him,” he said. “He went completely berserk. Said that if I didn’t feed him his daily slice of Duffer, he’d ruin me, ruin my family, ruin the restaurant, and see to it that I never worked in this town again. Do you think he can do that, Miss Poole?”

  “I doubt it,” said Odelia. “You have to remember that politicians live at the mercy of the voting public. They’re only one vote away from being replaced by the next guy.”

  Wallace nodded, visibly relieved. “At the end, he got a little sad, though. He seemed to realize he’d made a big fuss over nothing. I actually felt sorry for the poor guy. He acted like an addict, you know. A Duffer addict.”

  “So maybe he should join the ADs. The Anonymous Dufferaholics?” The joke didn’t register, though, but then Odelia’s jokes rarely did. Maybe she wasn’t a born comedian.

  Next on her list was the source of all the trouble: the Duffer Store, where those precious Duffers were sold.

  When she arrived, though, a sign on the door said that the store was closed, which was odd, as it wasn’t even three o’clock yet. An old lady who’d arrived at the same time as her, shook her permed purple head. “Bad business, Miss Poole. Bad business.”

  “Oh, and why is that?”

  “I’ve been buying my Duffers here for years—my husband loves his daily slice of Duffer right before going to bed, and so do I, frankly speaking, and little Fifi, of course.”

  “Your son?”

  “Dog. Oh, does she love her Duffers. And now, for the first time in all these years, they’re out of Duffers! Can you imagine? My husband is going nuts. Fifi is going nuts. I had a small stash of Duffers that I kept in the pantry, like all Duffer lovers do, but then the night before last we ate our last slice. I know it was careless of me to leave my shopping to the last minute, and normally I never do, and then wouldn’t you know it?”

  “No more Duffers?”

  “No more Duffers! What is the world coming to, Miss Poole? This is a tragedy.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Odelia. “Sure.”

  The story was starting to get to her. It was often that way. A good story needed to cure a little. Like a Duffer. It started out small and silly, and then turned into a real whopper. “So where do they live, these Duffers? The people, I mean, not the sausages.”

  The woman stared at her, appalled. “Never,” she said, wagging a reproachful finger, “never call a Duffer a sausage. It’s a salami. A saucisse. Write that down, will you?”

  She dutifully wrote it down. “Saucisse not sausage,” she muttered.

  “They used to live over the store, but that was a long time ago. Nowadays they live in some big mansion out of town. Along what they call the Billionaire Mile. Of course back in my day it was called the Millionaire Mile, but I guess that’s inflation for ya, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  The woman was eyeing her intently. “Do you know that even the President of the United States of America loves his Duffer of a morning?”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Well, he does. So there you go.” And having delivered this bit of inside information into the world of the Duffer, she pottered off, probably to break the terrible news to her husband and Fifi that the Duffer Store had run out of Duffers.

  Odelia’s phone chimed, and she fished it out of her bag. It was Dan.

  “And? Did you talk to the Mayor?” asked the veteran newspaperman. “I would love to see his face when you confront him with his temper tantrum over a slice of sausage.”

  “Never call a Duffer a sausage, Dan,” she said sternly. “It’s a saucisse.”

  “I can tell this Duffer business is getting to you, honey. Stay objective, all right?”

  “I’m just kidding, Dan. But the Duffer clientele clearly isn’t. The mayor isn’t the only one going nuts over this sudden Duffer dearth.”

  “Duffer dearth. Nice one.”

  “Yeah. It’s a real Duffer dry spell. Get it? Because salamis are air-dried?”

  “Yah. Maybe you should stick to being a reporter.”

  She cleared her throat. “So do you have any idea where I can find these Duffers?”

  She heard the sound of keys clacking, then Dan came back with an address.

  She whistled. “Nice digs.”

  “Yeah. I should have gone into the sausage business.”

  “Saucisse, Dan. Saucisse.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  She got back into her car and was just about to drive off when her phone jangled again. When she saw it was Chase, she picked up with a cheerful, “Howdy, stranger.”

  “Howdy,” said Chase
, sounding a lot less chipper.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “The weirdest thing. First off, your uncle seems to have gone missing.”

  “That is weird.”

  “Yeah, and secondly, all of Hampton Cove’s cats have gone missing, too.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve been getting dozens of calls from worried pet owners. Only cats, though, not dogs or parakeets or whatever, which is kind of specific, don’t you think? Not to mention strange.”

  “Yeah,” she said, a worried frown creasing her brow. “Have you called Gran to ask—”

  “About your cats? I have, but she’s at the office, so she has no idea. And your mom is at the library so she doesn’t know either. She promised to call me as soon as she gets home.”

  “So… about my uncle?” she said slowly, thinking about the missing cats mystery. How strange that all the cats of Hampton Cove would suddenly go missing for some reason.

  “Unfortunately he didn’t take the car, so I have no idea where he went.”

  “He walked?”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not like my uncle to not take the car to go anywhere.”

  “He has a pedometer app on his phone, so I guess he decided to use it.”

  “Mh.”

  “So what are you up to?”

  “Doing a story on the missing Duffer.”

  “Duffer? I don’t remember seeing a report about a missing person called Duffer.”

  “You wouldn’t. The Duffer is a famous saucisse, a local delicacy.”

  “Ah, that Duffer.”

  Like practically everyone in Hampton Cove, Chase had fallen for the seductive charm and lingering aroma of the delicious salami. And as Odelia drove out to the Billionaire Mile, where all the celebs lived on a narrow stretch of exclusive beachfront property, she thought about her cats, and hoped they were fine. Then again, why wouldn’t they be? She’d taught them never to talk to strangers—human strangers, not feline ones.

  Chapter 17

  The van had been picking up more and more ‘passengers’ like a regular bus route, but at the next stop no door was being opened and no fresh prisoners were being dumped in. The van was full to overflowing, and since there was no room left, and we were all packed solid, the atmosphere was frankly becoming a little uncomfortable.

  “I have to wee, Max,” Dooley whispered into my ear.

  “Well, you’ll have to hold it up for now,” I said. “Unless you want to turn this van into a toilet, and all these other cats into very angry travelers.”

  “I know,” he said, looking as pained as only he can look. “But I really have to go, Max. I’ve been holding it in for fifteen minutes already and I’m going to burst if I don’t go.”

  “Maybe you can pee through that crack in the floor,” said Brutus, indicating a small crack where sunlight peeked in and through which we could see a small patch of asphalt.

  “Gee, thanks,” said Dooley gratefully, and aimed very precisely indeed, peeing straight through the crack.

  Moments later, a growly voice right outside announced, “Damn oil leaks,” and a loud thunk on the side of the van told us the driver had exited and was standing next to us.

  Harriet giggled, in spite of the circumstances. “He thinks Dooley’s wee is an oil leak.”

  “Yeah, very funny,” I agreed, though I wasn’t laughing.

  I now noticed for the first time that the engine had been turned off, which told me that we might have reached our destination, wherever it was. The other cats had come to the same conclusion, for they all started to chatter nervously.

  “I say we make a run for it the moment those doors are opened,” said Tom, who likes to think he’s tough but is actually a scaredy-cat.

  “And I say we don’t do a thing,” said Shanille, whose position as cat choir’s supreme leader tends to lend her a modicum of authority in our small feline community.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Tom. “If we don’t take a stand now and fight our way out, who knows where we’ll end up?”

  “We’ll all end up back home where we belong,” said Shanille snippily. “This is all some kind of mistake, obviously, and as soon as everything is cleared up we’ll be escorted home with a full apology and that will be that.”

  “An adventure to remember,” said Shadow happily, then sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

  All eyes now turned to Dooley, who apparently hadn’t aimed as well as he’d anticipated.

  “Dooley!” cried Buster. “I know it’s you. I’d recognize that scent anywhere!”

  And he would. We all would. Cats can easily recognize the scent of another cat, even if we’ve only met once. In fact it’s one of our strong suits, though it was a little annoying now, not to mention embarrassing, and Dooley made himself as small as he could, which is hard when you’re in the same cramped space as all of your accusers.

  But then suddenly the door was thrown open, and half of the cats seemed to have made up their minds to follow Tom’s advice, and stormed towards the exit. They quickly disappeared from view, and then it was just us stragglers.

  “Out!” shouted a male voice. “Out right now!” And to make his meaning perfectly clear, he thunked the side of the van with his fist, creating a loud ruckus that frankly was very disagreeable to our highly sensitive ears. So we all got out of the van, and were led down a short sort of ramp and then into what looked like a basement of some kind.

  It all smelled very foul, I don’t mind telling you. Like rot and damp and mustiness.

  “This doesn’t look like the pound, Max,” said Brutus as we looked around the place.

  “No, it doesn’t,” I agreed. “It looks more like the basement of a very old house.”

  It was cavernous, too, with an arched brick ceiling, where moss was growing, and the floor was an earthen one, also moss-covered. There was a definite nip in the air that I found particularly unenjoyable. As if someone had left the windows open for a long time.

  The cats that had led the charge out of the van, and had hoped to secure their escape, were also there, so their brave attempt had been for naught, a fact that didn’t appear to sit well with them, for they were all muttering dark oaths under their breaths.

  There only seemed to be one entrance, the one through which we’d been dumped, and as I listened intently I could hear the van now driving off again. It had simply backed up against the only window into the place, and had deposited all of us inside this cellar.

  “Looks like some underground prison,” said Brutus as we all huddled together.

  “Hey there,” suddenly spoke a cat we all knew very well.

  “Clarice!” I cried. “What are you doing here?” Only now did I notice there were a lot more cats down there than had fit inside that van.

  “Actually I came here looking for a nice rat to eat,” she said, ambling up to us. “What I found was some nasty human who grabbed me and threw me into this old dungeon.”

  “So this is what a dungeon looks like,” said Dooley, glancing around with interest.

  “But Clarice,” said Harriet. “If you’re here, that means…”

  We were all silent as the thought entered our minds that if Clarice was here, the Clarice, most vigilant, self-sufficient and toughest cat Hampton Cove had ever known, that things looked very bad indeed.

  “How come they took you?” asked Buster. “You’re not even chipped.”

  He expressed one of those old prejudices some domesticated cats have against their feral brethren and sistren. As if being domesticated and chipped makes a cat superior to the non-chipped variety.

  “Chipped or not chipped, we’re all in the same boat here,” said Clarice.

  “And what boat would that be?” asked Dooley.

  “I have no idea. But judging from that smell there’s a dog on the premises.”

  I stuck my nose in the air and sniffed. Clarice was right. I clearly smelled a dog. And then I heard it: the low,
menacing growl of a dog who smells cats. It seemed to be coming from outside, from the small window through which we’d been dumped down here. Yikes!

  “I hope this isn’t some kind of cult,” said Shanille. “I hate cults.”

  “You mean, like a cat-worshipping cult?” asked Dooley. “I saw a documentary about a cat-worshipping cult on the Discovery Channel once.”

  “Enough with the Discovery Channel already, Dooley!” cried Harriet.

  “No, let him finish,” said Clarice. “What did they say?”

  “Oh, just that there are cults that worship cats, just like the Egyptians did. The Egyptians liked cats so much that they buried them along with them, to accompany them into the hereafter.” He slung a paw in front of his face when the meaning of his words came home to him. “Oh, no. Do you think they’re going to bury us with a pharaoh?”

  “I don’t think they still have pharaohs,” said Brutus. “Not that I know of, at least.”

  “No, pharaohs don’t exist anymore,” I said. “But maybe a cat-worshipping cult does exist, and they’ve decided to collect us for some kind of ritual. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” I quickly added as murmurs of panic spread through the dank and dingy dungeon. “Maybe it’s a nice cult, and they just want us around for our positive vibes.”

  “Or maybe they’ll kill us all and bury us in some old creep’s coffin,” said Clarice.

  Chapter 18

  Odelia parked her car by the side of the road and got out, hiking her bag up her shoulder. She looked up at the towering gate that protected the property of the Duffer family and wondered how many of these mansions she would visit before her surprise at the opulence of some people’s residences would diminish. In all the years she’d been a reporter for the Hampton Cove Gazette she’d interviewed so many of the super-rich and still she was in awe each time she entered another one of their palaces. And the palace that the Duffers had built promised to be another doozy. She felt a little sorry that Chase wasn’t there to accompany her, or her cats. Even Gran would have been welcome, but she was so busy being angry with the rest of the family she’d ceased to offer her unique services. At least until Tex finally caved and decided to buy her a foldable smartphone.