Fat Cat Takes The Cake

Quincy had been wearing the harness a little each day, to get him used to it, and he didn’t seem to mind it. However, he’d been reluctant to walk out the door with it on. Chase had run upstairs to get some Go Go Balls and rolled some in front of him to get him going.

By the time they reached the corner of the park, Quincy was moving along nicely. He loved the Go Go Balls that Inger had invented for him. They were full of tuna and catnip. A few piles of fallen leaves nestled at the curbs for the next street cleaner. The world, in Minneapolis, anyway, was getting ready for winter.

Chase could hear the squeals of children on the playground, climbing and sliding and swinging. Quincy flattened his ears at the sound.

The striped cat struggled with the harness. He was able to detect that one of the clips wasn’t properly seated. He was also terrified of the screaming children. There were bushes straight ahead. He should be able to slip out of the horrible contraption and hide in the bushes. He had to get away from those noises. He contorted his body and the thing snapped open.

“Oh no, there he goes,” Chase cried. She shook the harness that she was left holding. “Maybe I can entice him to come out.”

The bushes he had fled into were dense. There could be all kinds of bugs in there, she knew. She wasn’t about to crawl into the undergrowth. It would be better if he would come out by himself.

She opened the baggie of Go Go Balls and tossed one into the growth.

“Quincy?” she called. “Quincy Wincy?”

“I’ll try,” Mike said, getting onto his hands and knees. “He probably won’t want to stay there. There’s nothing to eat.”

That was true, thought Chase. Only one little Go Go Ball. She pulled some more of them from the baggie and scattered them on the pavement.

Mike pushed the branches aside and crawled a few steps, then quickly backed out. “Call the police.” His face was grim.

Chase bent down to peer into the undergrowth. Mike put his hand on her arm. “No, you don’t want to look at that.”

Her eyes widened. “What is it? A dead animal?”

“No, it’s a dead human.”

“Are you sure the person is dead?” She dove into the bushes in case they could revive whoever it was.

It was dark and dank inside the bushes. But she could see clearly. Quincy squatted on the other side of the body. It was Ron North, and he was definitely dead. It looked like he had been strangled with Julie’s scarf. Quincy had raked some peanuts from Ron’s pocket and was crunching them.

Chase crawled out as quickly as she could and threw up in a nearby bush while Mike dialed 911.

Ron North.

Dead.

Julie’s scarf.

Oh no.

FIVE

Hours later, after Chase had let Anna know she wouldn’t be at the shop anytime soon, after the crime scene technicians had left, and after she and Mike had answered countless questions over and over, Chase sat on the curb next to Mike. The yellow tape fluttered a dozen feet away. Traffic was still being routed down another street, so the rumble of cars was distant. The children were no longer on the playground. Worried parents had grabbed them all and taken them home as soon as the first police car showed up.

Detective Niles Olson hadn’t come to the scene, but Chase had no doubt the homicide detective would get involved. When Quincy and Chase found dead bodies in the past—only two, though—the good-looking policeman with those impossibly dark blue eyes always turned up on the case.

“I don’t have the energy to walk home,” Chase said.

“You want me to get my car? My condo isn’t far from here.”

Chase shook her head. “No, I’m exaggerating. I’ll make it. That was grueling, though.” She giggled, inappropriately. “Grueling grilling, right? At least neither of us is a suspect.” Her thoughts returned to Julie’s scarf and what its presence at the crime scene implied.

Mike slipped an arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “Bad luck follows that cat, doesn’t it? He’s not even black.”

Chase leaned into him, grateful he was here, next to her, at this awful time. Quincy sat next to Chase, his harness securely fastened this time. He wrapped his tail around his front feet to keep them warm.

“He’s been extremely patient, hasn’t he?” she said.

“Considering that, on a normal day, he probably sleeps fifteen to twenty hours, this isn’t that much of a disruption.”

“Except there’s been a lot of commotion.” She stroked his soft back. He arched it to meet her hand and purred his appreciation. “Poor little Quince. I’d better get you home.”

“You should get to work, shouldn’t you?”