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“Because this place is full of ducks,” I said, pointing to a piece of particularly smelly duck poop park cleaners had overlooked. “So one of them is bound to have seen something.”

“I don’t like ducks,” Dooley intimated.

Trouble was, ducks didn’t like us, either. So how were we going to win their trust—enough for them to give us their undivided attention—not to mention critical information?

There was only one way: we’d have to be subtle.

Good thing subtle is a cat’s middle name.

Chapter 8

Oddly enough, Brutus was still where we’d left him: seated near the thicket of beech trees that were now the silent witnesses to his crime of adultery—or, in Brutus’s reading, the crime of wanting to see if his fatal attraction still held sway. When we arrived, he looked up, a gleam of hope in his eyes. “And? What did she say?” he asked.

“That the murdered girl looks just like her, and not to tell Uncle Alec,” Dooley returned promptly, causing Brutus to shoot him a look of confusion.

“Huh?” he said.

“I think Brutus was referring to Harriet, not Odelia,” I said. And for the sake of our suffering friend, I added, “We haven’t talked to Harriet yet. There’s been a murder in the park, and Odelia wants us to find out who did it.”

“Oh,” said Brutus, deflating. It was obvious he didn’t care about murder now that his love life was in a shambles.

“We’re going to talk to the ducks,” Dooley announced. “Even though we don’t like ducks, we’re going to suck it up for Odelia’s sake. And we’re going to be subtle about it.”

“Well put,” I complimented my friend. “First we need a plan of campaign…”

“I’ll do it,” said Brutus, still sounding morose. “Ducks like me. They know I’m a kindred spirit.”

I highly doubted this, but who was I to rain on Brutus’s parade? He was down in the dumps, and this could buck him up. Besides, he was as much a feline sleuth as the rest of us.

“But only on one condition,” Brutus said, pushing himself up from the spot where he’d dropped after watching Harriet shove off in a huff.

“What’s that?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t my entire week’s supply of Cat Snax. I was willing to do a lot for my human, but I drew the line at sacrificing my favorite snack.

“You’re going to talk to Harriet the first chance you get, and you’re going to make her forgive me for my mistake.”

“I don’t know if I can guarantee the last part,” I said. “But I’m definitely going to talk to Harriet on your behalf.” Once she’d had a minute to simmer down. Or a couple of weeks.

“Deal,” said Brutus, then drew himself up to his full height and walked out of the protective cover provided by the thicket and out into the open.

I have to admit I was curious to find out what he meant by the phrase,‘Ducks know I’m a kindred spirit.’ Cats and ducks don’t have all that much in common. Apart from the fact that we are about the same size—or at least most cats. I’m a little bigger. In fact two ducks can easily fit into my frame. But that’s because I have big bones—something we’vealready discussed—and I’m okay with that. It’s a blessing and a curse, as Mr. Monk would say.

Brutus, meanwhile, was making a beeline for a group of ducks, lazing about on the edge of the pond. The ducks, now aware of the arrival of a feline, were making soft quacking sounds, then, when Brutus made no sign of changing course, they all plunged into the pond as one duck, and quickly paddled to a part where Brutus couldn’t possibly reach them.

“Ducks!” Brutus yelled from the shoreline. “I come in peace!”

But they weren’t having it. They kept darting annoyed and frankly hostile glances at the black cat, and made no attempts to enter into communication with him.

“I know some of my people have in the past behaved atrociously towards some of your people!” he bellowed. “But I’m not like that! I may look like a dangerous predator to you, but I’m also just a cat, standing in front of a duck, asking him to help him!”

Nothing doing, though. As moving as his speech was—with some parts sounding awfully familiar somehow—the ducks weren’t budging.

“Tell them about the kindred spirit thing!” I shouted.

Brutus held up his paw in response.“Ducks. I know I’m a cat, but it may surprise you to know that I’m also an honorary duck. That’s right. I can swim like a duck! Yes, I can!”

Dooley and I exchanged a puzzled glance.“What is he talking about?” I said.

“I think he’s saying he can swim like a duck.”

“That’s what it sounded like to me. Doesn’t he know that cats don’t swim?”

“Maybe nobody ever told him?”

We both looked on, the spectacle taking on the entertainment value of a major car crash. You know how it is. It’s hard to look away.

The ducks were moving about restlessly. They might not have deigned to respond to Brutus’s ramblings, but they’d certainly understood every last word of what he was saying. And the part about being able to swim was clearly causing them considerable concern.

Brutus looked over to where Dooley and I were still officiating the role of his ringside audience, and gave us another paw up. I gave him a paw up back.