The Case of the Missing Cat (4 page)

Chapter Six: The Case of the Disheartened Chicken

I
dragged myself up to the machine shed. Drover was there, sleeping on the cement pad in front of the big double doors.

I needed a friend to talk to, fellers, I mean I was at the bottom of my luck. On another occasion, I might have chosen a friend with more wealth, influence, and brains than Mister Stub-Tail, but this wasn't another occasion.

Yes, Drover had his flaws and his short-comings, but after working beside the little mutt for years, I knew in my heart that if he were the only dog available, I would choose him to be my best friend.

This was his lucky day.

“Drover, I don't want to alarm you, but the very worst thing that could possibly happen has just happened.”

“Skonk snort zzzzzzzzzzzzz.”

“Please don't panic. Screaming and running in circles won't help the situation.”

“Snork glorg rumple ricky tattoo.”

“I've come to inform you that I have gambled away my future and ruined my life. I'll be leaving soon to spend the rest of my miserable years living in ditches and gutters. I know this must come as a terrible shock.”

“Skaw shurtling snort zzzzzzz.”

“All I ask is that . . . wake up, you idiot! Can't you see that I'm pouring out my heart to you?”

He raised up and stared at me. His eyes were crossed, his ears were on crooked, and his tongue was hanging out the left side of his mouth.

“Oh my gosh, who's going to clean up all the blood?”

“Blood? What blood?”

He staggered to his feet. “I can't stand the sight of blood, where am I?” His eyes began to focus. “Oh, hi Hank, I must have dozed off. Did you hear about the murder?”

“Murder? No, what happened?”

“Gosh, I'm not sure, I just heard about it, but somebody got murdered, maybe it was a chicken, and they busted into the chicken house and cut her heart out and chopped it up into little pieces!”

“Chopped up her heart!”

“Yeah, it was awful. And then they poured out the pieces of heart all over the ground! And then they chopped up her lizzard and giver and . . .”

“Hold it. Do you mean gizzard and liver?”

“Yeah, did you hear about it too? Oh my gosh, I guess it's true, Hank, and there was blood everywhere, I saw it with my own eyes!”

“You witnessed this unspeakable murder with your own eyes?”

“I think they were mine. Yeah, they must have been.”

“Holy smokes, Drover, why wasn't I informed?”

“Well, I never would have thought you'd be interested.”

I glared at him. “You didn't think I'd be interested in a ghastly murder?”

“No, I meant my eyes.”

“I don't care about your eyes!”

“That's why I didn't tell you.”

“I'm talking about the . . .” Then I remembered. “But never mind all that, Drover. I've just lost my post, so it doesn't matter anyway.”

“Well, there's a whole bunch of them over in the post pile, and I think there's a rabbit over there too.”

“Don't mention that word in my presence, Drover.”

“You mean post?”

“No, I mean rabbit. A rabbit has just ruined my life.”

“I'll be derned.”

“Because of that lying, cheating rabbit, I have lost my post.”

“Ate the whole thing, huh?”

“Exactly, and I'd appreciate it if you'd never speak of rabbits again.”

“I guess they'll eat anything.”

“It just breaks my heart to think about this terrible loss.”

“Oh, you can always find another post. Digging the hole's the big problem.”

“Yes, it's an enormous hole, Drover, and I'm wondering if I'll ever be able to fill it.”

“Well, you might try dirt. That works sometimes.”

“A whole lifetime down the drain, Drover, and I have no one to blame but myself.”

“I'd blame the cowboys.”

“No, it was my fault. All the cowboys did was laugh at my stupidity.”

“Yeah, but if they'd feed these rabbits once in a while, maybe they wouldn't have to eat fence posts.”

My eyes swung around and focused on him. “WHAT?”

“I said . . . well, let's see, what did I say? I think I've already forgot.”

“Out with it! Something about fence posts.”

“Oh yeah. I said, if they'd feed these fence posts once in a while, they wouldn't have to eat so many rabbits.”

“The cowboys are eating rabbits?”

“No, the fence posts.”

“The cowboys are eating fence posts?”

“No, the fence posts are eating . . . you said the rabbits were eating . . . fence posts?”

I looked into the huge emptiness of his eyes. “Drover, has it ever occurred to you that you might be going insane?”

“I've wondered about that.”

“It has already happened. The post to which I was referring was not a fence post, but rather my post as Head of Ranch Security.”

“I'll be derned.”

“I lost it in a bet with the cat. I bet Pete that I could catch the Lumber-Pile Bunny and I failed. Which means that Pete is now Head of Ranch Security and I am Head of the Broken Heart Society.”

“Yeah, but the chicken doesn't have a heart at all.”

“It was a rabbit, and yes, he was utterly heartless.”

“No, I mean the chicken that was murdered and disheartened.”

“Oh yes, I'd almost forgotten that. You witnessed the crime yourself?”

“I think it was me.”

I looked up at the sky and heaved a sigh. “Drover, there was a time, not so very long ago, when the mention of such a crime would have gotten my full attention. I would have jumped right into the middle of the case and begun a thorough investigation.

“But now, because of my own foolish mistakes, I've lost my job and therefore my authority to press an investigation. I suggest you take your repeat to Port . . . your report to Pete, that is, and let him handle it. He's in charge now.”

“Oh my gosh!”

“Well said, Drover. I think we both know what'll come of this.”

“Yeah, the chicken'll never get her heart back and the ranch'll go to pot.”

“Exactly. But it can't be helped, Drover. I'm afraid that I'm leaving this old ranch in quite a mess.”

“Leaving!”

“Yes, Drover, I'm leaving. There's nothing left for me here except the sad memory of how things used to be, and that is nothing but a sad memory. I have failed my ranch, my hundreds of friends, my profession, myself. I'll spend the rest of my days wandering Life's ditches and gutters—a dog without a home.”

“Boy, that's tough,” he said, as he gnawed at a flea on his left flank. “If you put your job up in that bet, what did Pete put up against it?”

“I . . . that's a foolish question, Drover. Obvi­ously, since I risked something dear and precious to me, the cat put up something of equal worth.”

“Yeah, but he doesn't have anything of equal worth.”

“Of course he does.”

“Such as?”

“Such as . . . well, he . . . that is . . . what are you driving at, Drover? Are you suggesting that I might have been suckered into a stupid bet?”

“I wondered.”

“Because if that's what you're suggesting, let me intrude into your little world of fantasy and point out . . .” I began pacing, as I often do to stimulate my thought processes. “Your whole house is an argument of cards, Drover, and all I have to do to send it tumbling down is to remove one single card.”

“Yeah, and I've got a feeling that it's a joker.”

Suddenly I stopped pacing and whirled around. “Because, Drover, there was a joker in the deck.”

“I knew it.”

“Don't you see what's happened here? It was a rigged game, Drover, a phony bet, a put-up deal. You thought Pete had won it fair and square, but what you overlooked was the obvious fact that HE CHEATED!”

“I think that's what I was driving at.”

“Maybe you were droving, Driver, but you ran out of gas before you solved the mystery.”

“My name's Drover.”

“Exactly. You were close, Drover, and I know perfectly well what your name is and don't interrupt my presentation again, but not close enough. For you see, Pete risked nothing in our wager and therefore the entire bet is cancelled. And as of this moment, I am reclaiming my title as Head of Ranch Security.”

“Boy, that's a relief.”

“Exactly. And my first action will be to throw all units into the investigation of this gruesome murder you witnessed with your own eyes.”

“Either that or I dreamed it.”

“And my second action will be to settle all accounts with Pete the Barncat, who has become a minutes to society. Come on, Drover, to the chicken house!”

And with that, we went streaking to the chicken house to investigate one of the most chilling crimes I had encountered in my whole career.

Chapter Seven: Bloody Writing on the Wall

W
e reached the chicken house only seconds after I had sounded the alarm.

The first thing we did upon reaching the scene of the crime was to plow into the middle of seven hens who were loitering outside. They were pecking around in the dirt and clucking to each other and performing the usual absurd rituals you expect to find among chickens, who are stupid beyond belief.

Since they were blocking our path, we seized the opportunity to mix pleasure with business. We just by George bulldozed 'em and sent 'em squawking in all directions.

I love doing that.

We sent them pecking . . . eh, packing, that is, and once again I experienced that feeling of exhilaration and well-being and mental health and so forth. That done, we plunged into the murder house and went to work.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloomy light, I did a visual sweep of the walls and ceiling, using my photogenic memory to record even the smallest details.

“Well, Drover, do you notice anything unusual?”

“Yeah, it stinks in here.”

“Exactly. And does that tell you anything?”

“I'm glad we're not chickens.”

I gave him a stern glare. “Let's not dwell upon the obvious. We're looking for clues, the tiny details that form the signature of the criminal.”

“Well, let's see. Wait, hold it! What's that over there?”

I rushed “over there,” following the angle of Drover's nose. It led me to the west wall, in the very gloomiest corner of the room. There, my eyes fell upon some mysterious form of writing.

“This is some mysterious form of writing, Drover.”

“Yeah, and it's written in red! Could it be . . .”

“I'll take it from here Drover. Red writing. Does that ring any bells with you?”

He lifted one ear. “Not really.”

“Here's a hint: Grandma's house.”

“Uh . . . dinner bell?”

“Forget the bells, Drover, and concentrate on the hints. Here's another one: wolf.”

“Arf?”

“No.”

“Bow wow?”

“Wolf, the animal, a ferocious beast waiting to eat someone.”

“Oh. Well, let's see here. What was the first thing you said?”

“Red writing.”

The huge blank of his face suddenly filled with signs of recognition. “I've got it, I've got it! Little Red . . . oh my gosh, you don't think the killer was Little Red Writing Hood, do you?”

“Yes, Drover, either Little Write Redding Hood or someone in her disguise. She left a clue behind, as they always do, never dreaming that we would put ‘red' and ‘writing' together and come up with her true identity.”

“What made her do such an awful thing?”

“We don't have the answer to that one yet, but I have an idea that it's just a matter of time until we come up with a motive.”

“It makes me sad.”

“Snap out of it, Drover, because there's still more to come. The mysterious message was written in red, correct?”

“Yeah, I already said that.”

“But I said it first.”

“But I saw it first.”

“But I entered the chicken house first.”

“But I was the first one up this morning.”

“Yes, Drover, but I never went to bed, so your claim to being the first one up just doesn't hold water.”

Suddenly, his eyes popped open. “Oh my gosh, speaking of water, I've got to GO!”

“We're in the middle of a very important investigation.”

“Yeah, but we're fixing to be in the middle of a flood.” He was hopping up and down and biting his lip.

“Very well, Drover, you may be excused, but this will have to go into your record.”

He scrambled out the door. I waited inside, tapping my toe and counting off the seconds. I hate wasting time. He returned moments later, wearing a big smile.

“I'm ready for anything now.”

“Where were we?”

“Let's see. I was the first one up this morning.”

“No, you weren't, and why were we talking about that in the first place?”

“Well, let's see.” He thought. I waited. “I don't remember. Something about water.”

“Yes, of course. Water is very important to all life on earth. Without water, there would be no watermelons and . . . I've lost my train of thought.”

“I've always wanted to ride in a caboose.”

“Wait, I've got it. We were discussing the mysterious red writing, and I was about to point out a very important detail that escaped your attention.”

“You mean that it might have been written in blood?”

I narrowed my eyes and glared at the runt. “Who's in charge of this investigation, you or me?”

“Well, you, I guess.”

“That's correct. I am in charge of the investiga­tion, and if there are any new and startling revela­tions to be made, I will be the one to make them. Is that clear?”

“Okay, but I was the first one up this morning.”

“Fine. You were the first one up, and now you will be the first one to shut your little trap while I reveal that this mysterious message on the wall
was probably written in BLOOD.
”

“Oh my gosh!”

“Yes indeed. Now we are only one step away from wrapping this case up. The only question left unanswered is, what does the mysterious mes­sage say?

“I will now move closer to the wall and try to uncrypt and decipher the message.”

I moved closer to the wall and studied the message. It appeared to consist of a single word.

“All right, Drover, stand by. The first letter is A.”

“Oh, that's awful!”

“The second letter appears to be an L.”

“Okay, I got it, Hank. That makes A-L.”

“Exactly. The third letter is F, followed by an R.”

“A-L-F-R. That doesn't make any sense to me.”

“Patience, son. The next letter is an E. And, stand by, the final letter is a D. There we are, Drover. Now read them all back to me.”

“A-L-F-R-E-D.”

“There must be some mistake. That doesn't spell Little Red Writing Hood.”

“Maybe she couldn't spell.”

“Very possible, Drover.”

“Wait! It sounds kind of like . . . Alfred . . . doesn't it?”

“Alfred?”

“Little Alfred?”

“HUH?” I whirled around and took a closer look at the . . . “Drover, if you had studied the clues more carefully, you would have realized that this word was written in RED CRAYON, not blood.”

“Oh my gosh, it's getting worse and worse! You think Little Alfred was the killer?”

“No.”

“The chicken bled crayon instead of blood?”

“No.”

“I'm all confused.”

“Yes.” I paced back and forth in front of him. “Drover, in your report of the ghastly murder, you mentioned that the killer had cut up the chicken's heart and poured the pieces out on the ground. Do you see any signs of a chicken heart?”

“Well . . . not really.”

“Your report went on to say that ‘blood was everywhere,' to use your exact words. Do you see any signs of blood?”

“Well . . .”

“There is no blood, Drover, and there are no pieces of a chicken's heart. That means there was no murder. It means that Little Alfred wrote his name on the chicken house wall with a red crayon. It means that you have led us on a fool's errand.”

“Well, I'll be derned. I sure thought . . . you don't reckon I dreamed all that, do you?”

I stopped pacing and stabbed him with a gaze of solid steel. “I reckon you did, you dunce. I had just told you that I was pouring my heart out to you.”

“Oh, is that what it was?”

“Yes. But instead of listening to a friend in need, you concocted an outrageous story about blood and murder.”

“I knew it had something to do with hearts.”

“Drover, you have just brought the Security Division to its lowest point in history. Do you realize that if someone had been watching us for the past half hour, he might very well think that we are a couple of fools?”

“Boy, that's wrong.”

“Of course it is, but mere facts can lead to a false impression. Hence, you and I will take a vow of secrecy and swear never to reveal the deep, dark stupidity of what we've just done.”

“My lips are sealed.”

I put my paw on his shoulder. “And remember, Drover. Even though it's unpleasant to lie and cover up, we're doing this for our own good.”

“Yeah, and somebody had to do it.”

“Exactly. Now we will sneak out of here and forget this ever happened and hope that no one was watching.”

And with that, we backed out the door and erased the entire incident from the memory of the world.

(NOTE: At this point in the story, I would appreciate it if you would remove this chapter from your book, since it contains very sensitive information that could damage the future work of the Security Division. Thanks.)