19644d8eebdf42e4b611005d94748ece

“The snow has filled in most of the tire tracks, but I still see some slight grooves.” Charles stooped down and touched the ground. “Let’s follow them as far as we can and see where that gets us.”

“The kidnappers weren’t the only ones to have a car,” Octo-Cat grumbled within my arms. “We’re in the middle of downtown. Practically everyone has a car. That’s how we got here. UpChuck, too.”

“Thanks for that observation,” I told my cat, thankful for the relative privacy of the alley.

“What’s he saying?” Charles asked, both eyebrows raised.

He definitely knew that Octo-Cat talked bad about him. After all, I was the one who had revealed my cat’s nickname for the guy wasUpChuck. Still, I hated translating all the sarcastic barbs that came from my naughty kitty’s mouth.

“Uh… nothing,” I said slowly, glancing down the alley and hoping to spot something that would help change the subject—preferably something that would also help lead us to Mags.

“I can tell when he’s being mean, you know,” Charles said with a self-effacing chuckle.

“What?” I stopped to study him for any signs that he was joking at my expense, but his expression remained serious as he met my gaze.“How could you possibly know something like that?”

Charles shrugged and put an arm around my waist.

Paisley now skittered before us, leaving his arms free while Octo-Cat preferred to stay in mine and avoid the damp snow.

“I don’t know. I can just tell. Maybe it’s all the time I spend with Jacques and Jillianne, now that I’ve become a cat owner myself, or maybe I’m just getting to know him and his ways.”

“You don’t think you can…” My voice trailed off. This question was almost too crazy to ask, but if Charles really could understand Octo-Cat’s tone when he was being facetious, maybe he could…

“Do you understand him?” I asked, placing eerie emphasis on each word in that sentence.

“No,” he responded, chuckling again. “I wouldn’t want to, either. It’s one thing to know he says bad things about me and it’s quite another to hear them for myself. Especially when we’re all trying to work together to solve the case. And especially when it’s Mags.”

Charles had come to hang out with us a couple times since Mags’s arrival and the two had hit it off splendidly—the way Charles did with everyone.

Beyond that, I knew he just wanted me to be happy and to make sure nothing bad happened to the people I loved. He was a good guy, Charles Longfellow, III. He never wanted anyone to get hurt. That’s what made him such an expert lawyer. He went the extra mile for his clients every single day.

“Mommy! Mommy!” Paisley woofed, running back toward me so fast she looked like a tiny reindeer blur on the horizon.

I’d been so preoccupied with Charles’s revelation I hadn’t even realized she’d pulled ahead.

“Mommmmmmyyyyyyyyy!” she shouted again, drawing out the word for a couple extra beats. “I smell it! I smell her!”

“What do you smell, sweetie?” I asked, trying not to get my hopes up. Paisley always tried her best to help in whatever way she could, but her natural lack of suspiciousness made her a poor sleuth.

The dog had now reached us and was wagging her tail so hard I thought she might fall over. Even though I knew Nan preferred to keep her Chihuahua companion dressed while she was out on the town, I decided to free Paisley of her over-the-top costume.

She’d be much more of a help to all of us if she wasn’t in constant danger of toppling over. Just like the Grinch’s dog when he, too, had been dressed unceremoniously as a reindeer.

“Thank you, Mommy,” she said with a happy sigh, shaking out her fur in the same way she did right after a bath. Hopefully, she wouldn’t start zipping around like a maniac and rolling around in a frantic blur, which were the next two steps in her post-bath celebration.

“That feels much better,” she said, then shook again but thankfully resisted taking her happy dance any farther. “Do you want to know what I smell?”

“I can tell you what she smells,” Octo-Cat said from within my arms, a slight purr rising from his striped form. “It’s those fried potato things.”

“Hey,” the little dog whined.“I wanted to be the one to say. I wanted to help Mommy, so she would tell me I’m a good dog.”

“You are the very best dog, Paisley, and don’t worry, you can still tell me. Go ahead.”

Octo-Cat had discovered this clue and chosen to keep it to himself. As far as I was concerned, Paisley was the one who deserved all the praise here.

She rolled on the ground once and then popped back up and sang,“It’s the la-la-lokis. Or the latlatkes? I forget, but Mags ate a lot of them. She gave me a little piece, but I didn’t like it. I think I would’ve rather had a lobster roll like Octo-Cat.”

This piqued the cat’s interest. “They do make a mighty fine lobster roll at the Little Dog Diner. Mighty fine. Shall we have another before heading home?”

“Not the time,” I scolded him. “So you smell the food that Mags was eating just before she was taken?”