The Whiskered Spy (5 page)

I
was still sitting
on the same tree branch with Dana and Stevie, slowly coming to grips with this new reality facing me, when a thought struck me.

“Won’t the whole town of Brookridge now think that the actress playing Zoe Huckleberry was murdered by the actor with the pimple?”

“The whole town of Brookridge?” said Dana. “Of course not. The only ones who know about this are you and Brutus. And I made sure that the memory implant I installed in Brutus only lasted long enough to convince you about Zoe floating in the pond. By now he’s forgotten all about the affair.”

“But Brutus said he’d heard it from—”

Dana waved an impatient paw. “All part of the implant. He didn’t hear it from anyone but invisible old me.”

I frowned thoughtfully. “But what about Zack and Terrell? Won’t they go blabbing the story around town?”

Dana eyed me strangely. “Zack and Terrell? They don’t know about this.”

“Sure they do. Zack was telling the story to Terrell. He said he heard it from Milton who heard it from Barbara Vale who heard it from Fisk Grackle who heard it from Bart Ganglion himself. And I’m sure the story must have spread all over Brookridge by now. Your Barbara doesn’t stint on gossip, you know that.”

As I’ve mentioned before, Barbara Vale is Dana’s human. She works as a secretary at City Hall and is a very, um, sociable woman.

“But that’s impossible,” said Dana, now looking thoroughly perturbed.

“Why impossible? Barbara works faster than the Internet, Zack always says.”

Dana looked up, and there was a worried expression in her big, brown eyes. “It’s impossible because I never implanted the story in any of those people.”

“Then how…” I began, but all of a sudden I was interrupted by a ghoulish voice sounding from somewhere in the vicinity of the second branch from the top of my tree.

“You should have saved me, little one,” groaned the voice.

Dana and I started violently. Stevie merely winced. Throughout our conversation he’d been clinging to the tree branch, and this voice clearly didn’t mean as much to him as it did to us.

“You should have saved me when you had the chance,” said the voice.

“Who are you?” said Dana, a slight trill in her voice. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Hey, that was my line,” I protested.

“Who is that?” said Stevie, joining in.

“Probably Brutus,” I said, taking a wild guess. But from the look on Dana’s face I had the distinct impression something else was going on.

“I am Lucy Knicx,” said the voice, drifting in and out of earshot, like the wailing of the wind. It was all quite spooky, I can tell you. “And I was murdered tonight… I was rehearsing a scene for Murder in the Park, the play… performing with the Brookridge Theatrical Society.”

“Zoe Huckleberry,” I said.

“That’s right,” moaned Lucy. “That was my part… I was playing with… when suddenly he stuck a knife… next moment… floating in the pond… no way to treat a girl.”

“So it did happen,” I said.

Dana nodded distractedly. The sudden appearance of Lucy’s ghost seemed to have rattled her even more than it had me. Of course, when the highest purpose of your organization is the saving of human lives and you organize a test for new recruits, it’s rather disconcerting when in the course of this test a human life is lost.

“Who was playing the part of Jack Mackintosh?” said Dana.

“Rick Mascarpone was supposed to… last minute replaced by an understudy… never met him before… quite good performance, except for the finale.”

“What was his name?” said Dana.

“His name was… quite good-looking and charming… until he stuck a knife in my back… bluebell…”

“His name,” repeated Dana.

“… have to go now… Saint-Peter calling… hope he has plenty of rice pudding… starving,” said Lucy. Then there was some sort of a popping sound, and silence returned.

“
D
arn it
,” said Dana, stomping the tree branch. It slightly swayed under the impact.

“Hey,” cried Stevie, digging his claws deeper into the cork. “Don’t do that.”

“Stevie,” I said.

“Steve,” he corrected.

“Steve,” I amended, “don’t you think it’s kind of odd for a secret agent to be afraid of heights?”

“I’m not afraid of heights,” he said. “I just don’t like to climb trees.”

“Will you two be quiet,” said Dana, who was gazing in the direction Lucy’s voice had sounded from. We were quiet for a spell, but nothing stirred. Dana sighed. “This is bad,” she said. “Very, very bad.”

“What’s so bad about it?” I said. “We knew Zoe Huckleberry was killed.”

She rolled her eyes. “That was a fake,” she said. “Merely a ruse we applied as a test.”

“Oh, that’s right,” I said. I’d forgotten about that again. “Well, you can’t blame me for losing track,” I said. “First she was murdered, then she wasn’t, and now she was.” I eyed her suspiciously. “Don’t tell me this is another one of your tests.”

“No, it’s not,” she said sharply. “What we saw was real after all. If I had only known…” She hung her head.

“Had known what?” said Stevie, having come to the conclusion he wasn’t going to plummet to an untimely death after all.

I explained to him the state of affairs, and to his credit he grasped it instantly.

“Great!” he exclaimed. “That means we’ve got our first case, Agent Tom.”

“I don’t think so, Agent Stevie, um, Steve. We’re trainees. Trainees don’t take cases.”

“Why not?” he said. “On the job training.”

I had to admit it wasn’t such a bad idea. “He’s right,” I said. “We could crack this case and learn a ton.”

“No way,” said Dana. “This is for professionals only. You two would only get in the way of the real spies.”

“But we’re here. We’re eyewitnesses to what happened. I’m sure that if we put our heads together—”

“Yeah,” chimed in Stevie. “Tommy and I will simply put our heads together. Like this.” And he proceeded to demonstrate his point by giving me a head-butt. And in spite of all of the fluff it hurt.

“Ouch!” I said, rubbing the spot. “What did you do that for?”

“Just to demonstrate my point,” said Stevie apologetically. “So we’re on for the case?”

“No way,” said Dana with some vehemence. “And that’s my last word. In fact, I think it’s best if you two head on home now. The moment the training starts, I will let you know.”

“You’re calling in the cavalry?” I said, and I couldn’t hide my disappointment.

“I am. Now scoot.”

“I’m not moving,” said Stevie, to whom the prospect of leaving this tree under his own steam was tantamount to suicide. “I… like it here.”

Without much further ado, Dana gave the unfortunate Ragamuffin a forceful shove and sent him plummeting down. As his big, hairy body hurtled through the air, Stevie gave a piercing scream, but finally managed to land on all fours on the mulch below.

“That’s no way to treat a fellow agent,” the fluffy cat muttered under his breath, as he started checking himself for injuries.

“Go home,” called Dana after him. “This is a crime scene now.”

“Oh, all right,” mumbled Stevie, and stalked off.

“You too, Tom,” said Dana. “There’s nothing further you can do here.”

“Oh, but I can,” I said, in a last-ditch effort to change her mind. “With Stevie gone, you can speak freely now. I’m sure I can be of assistance. After all, I was here when it all happened. I saw the whole thing.”

“Get lost, Tom,” she said. “I’ve got this.”

I wanted to say that so did I, but there was something in her voice that told me I better made for the exit, so I toddled off, my tail held high, and left the scene.

And as I was threading my way back home, cursing under my breath about high-minded spymasters taking over my tree, I noticed a strange procession approaching. Three Peterbald cats came trotting my way. You know the breed: Russian in origin, very skinny, no fur, and big ears. The moment I saw them I knew they were FSA, and I greeted them like long-lost brothers.

“Hi, you guys,” I said warmly.

The three cats stared at me with ill-concealed hostility.

“Mind your own business,” hissed the first one.

“Get lost,” growled the second one.

“Beat it,” grunted the third.

I had the impression they didn’t like me very much. Of course I could be wrong. Perhaps I simply hadn’t given them the secret handshake yet. Whatever that was.

“The crime scene is right over there,” I said, helpful as ever, and I pointed a dainty claw in the direction of my elm tree.

“Scram, squirt,” snarled the biggest one of the trio, and made a menacing move in my direction. He had a scar the shape of a sledgehammer above his right eye. It wasn’t that he was big, exactly. Just extremely sinewy. And I was thinking I wouldn’t like to meet this guy alone in the dark, when I realized I
was
meeting him alone in the dark. Him and two of his equally freakishly sinewy buddies. I shivered slightly.

“Right ho,” I said. “I’ll be pushing along then, shall I?”

This time they didn’t speak, but merely threw menacing glances in my direction. If looks could kill… And since they didn’t seem all that eager for the pleasure of my company, I gave them a merry ‘cheerio’ and pottered off. Not that I wasn’t anxious to do so. They were definitely not the most cheery brothers. Were all FSA agents like this, I wondered? And for a moment there I even wavered in my allegiance to the cause. But then I thought of Dana, and I was strong again. At least one cat in the FSA employ was all right. Though she did steal my tree.

“
S
he kick
you out as well?” The sad voice came from a bench nearby. I glanced over and saw that Stevie had sought the heights again, though this time not as high as before. I ambled over and hopped onto the bench next to him. He might be daft, but he was my partner now.

“Yeah, I guess when things get serious, the FSA has no need for rookies,” I said.

“I still think we could have helped,” he said.

“Well, we still can,” I said, for a thought had just occurred to me.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re agents in the employ of the FSA now. And our mission is to help humans, right?”

“Right.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So we don’t need Dana’s permission to fulfill our mission, do we?”

His jaw drooped as he mulled this over. “Um, I guess not?” he ventured.

“Of course we don’t. Let’s you and I solve this crime and present Dana with the solution, and our place in the FSA hallmark of fame will be guaranteed.”

“Does the FSA have a hallmark of fame?” he said, a little dubiously.

“Sure it has, and we’ll be in it.”

“Oh.” The prospect seemed to please him, for he hitched up his jaw and managed a smile. “That’s fine, then.”

“Better than fine. It’s great.”

“Great,” he echoed.

“So, let’s have your ideas on the matter. What do you think happened? We need to establish a timeline.”

“Um,” he said, closing his eyes. “What happened?” he said slowly.

“Let’s start with what we know.”

“Yes,” he said. “What we know.” He opened his eyes. “What do we know?”

“Well, we know that Lucy Knicx—”

“Funny name, that,” he remarked, and snickered.

“Well, be that as it may, Lucy Knicx was rehearsing a scene for the upcoming play—”

“Did you know Sam is going to be in the play?” He nodded emphatically. “He’s playing the butler. Imagine that. A priest playing a butler. Funny, that. And he’s been asked to direct the thing as well.”

“Funny,” I said, though I failed to see the humor in the situation. “We know she was playing the role of Zoe Huckleberry, and was supposed to rehearse with Rick Mascarpone—”

Stevie seemed to find this name particularly funny as well, for he chuckled freely at its mention. “Mascarpone!” he said. “Say cheese!”

“Hilarious. Now we know that Rick Mascarpone was unavailable for some reason.”

“Ate too much tiramisu,” suggested Stevie with a twinkle in his eye.

“So now all we need to find out is who his understudy was and we’re home free,” I concluded.

“I can tell you that,” said Stevie. “Sam told me the other night.”

“What? Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“I thought you knew. It’s Zack.”

“Zack? What Zack?”

“Your Zack. He’s the understudy for the part of Jack Mackintosh.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, he was at our place the other day. He wanted to know if Sam had any tips for him. He’d never acted in a play before and Sam has, so naturally he came by to pick up some pointers.”

“But it wasn’t Zack. It couldn’t have been.”

“Yes, it was. I heard it with my own two ears.” And as if to prove his point he scratched one furry appendage with his hind paw.

“He hasn’t got a pimple on his nose.”

“You can’t hold that against him. Many people don’t have pimples on their nose,” explained Stevie kindly.

“The murderer!”

“What about him?”

“He’s got a pimple on his nose. I saw it.”

“Ah,” said Stevie. “And are you sure about that, Agent Tom?”

“Of course I’m sure. A big fat pimple, right on the tip of his nose.”

Stevie pawed his chin thoughtfully. These were deep waters. “Now let me get this straight. The murderer has a pimple on his nose.”

“Right.”

“And Zack hasn’t.”

“Exactly.”

His face cleared. “Then it can’t be Zack who viciously slew young Lucy Knicx. You must see that.”

I groaned. If this was to be my life from now on, I hoped it would be over soon.

Stevie continued. He was getting into the thing now. “What this means is that there must be a third man.”

“Right. A second understudy.”

“Now we’re finally getting somewhere, my dear Watson.”

“Hey, you don’t get to call me Watson.
You’re
Watson in this little outfit of ours. And I’m Sherlock.”

“Too bad. I’ve got dibs on Sherlock. You be Watson.”

“No way. I’m the brains behind this operation. You’re merely the ‘hey you’.”

“I beg to differ, my dear Watson.”

“You’re doing it again!”

“Elementary, my dear—”

“Stop that.”

“Now, now, my dear— Ouch!”

This last remark was in reference to the head-butt I’d given him.

“You had that coming,” I said.

“Oh, all right. You can be Sherlock.”

“Look, this is all wrong,” I said.

“I’ll say,” he said, rubbing the spot where my head had collided with his.

“I don’t mean that. I mean, we’re not detectives. We’re spies. We shouldn’t model ourselves after Sherlock Holmes. We should look to James Bond as a role model.”

“Right,” he said, bobbing his head in agreement. “But what’s the difference? I mean, we’re solving a murder case, aren’t we? So we’re detectives, aren’t we?”

“No, we’re not,” I said emphatically. “We’re spies who just happen to solve murder cases from time to time.”

“Okay,” he said dubiously.

“This Lucy Knicx was probably a secret agent, murdered before she could spill the beans,” I said, thinking aloud now. “I bet you a pound of chicken liver that whoever the murderer is, he’s probably an enemy spy. And we,” I concluded, tapping Stevie’s chest, “are going to find out who’s behind this.”

“Oh, all right, if we must,” said Stevie. He’d jumped down from the bench and was starting to wend his way towards the park exit.

“Where are you off to, then?” I said, surprised at this lack of enthusiasm for the mission.

“I’m going home,” he said. “All this talk of chicken liver has made me hungry.”

He had a point there. All this talk about chicken liver had made
me
hungry as well. “Mind if I join you?” I said, for I knew Father Sam didn’t stint on the cat food.

“Sure,” he said. “Tag along.”

And tag along I did. Essential though our first spy mission was, one shouldn’t lose track of the really important things in life.