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“I saw her before she took off,” said Max. “She said she was going for a walk. She needed to think and put some things into perspective.”

“Perspective?” said Brutus. “Is that the word she used?”

Max nodded.

“Huh.”

“Okay, you guys,” said Odelia. “Let’s go and see this Mr. Owl. It’s late and I really need to catch some Z’s.”

Chapter 27

Odelia parked her car near the entrance to the park, we all hopped out, and then were on our way to the notorious tree for our interview with an owl. I’d never talked to an owl before, and I was really looking forward to a t?te-?-t?te with one of these wise old birds.

There’s just something about owls that tickles my imagination. They’re fascinating creatures. Apart from that, they’re also birds, of course, and for some reason cats are intrigued by birds as a rule. Not to eat them, mind you—though there are those amongst my species who will do anything to gettheir claws on a feathered friend—but to watch as they flit to and fro. In fact I can watch birds twitter and frolic in a tree for hours. I guess where humans love to people-watch, cats love to bird-watch. And we don’t even need binoculars.

I’d told Odelia not to wait—that we’d find our own way home, and judging from the rattling sound her muffler made as she took off, she’d taken this advice to heart.

Parks, and perhaps other public places too, are quite different at night than during the day. Apart from the fact that lovers seem to flock to parks in the middle of the night—I’m referring to Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts inNotting Hill—there’s a preternatural quiet that descends over a park once the sun decides to call it a night. A hush that lies over the area like a blanket. In jungles, nocturnal animals crawl out of their hiding places and create a symphony of sound. In parks? Nothing. Not even the hiss of a snake or the chirp of a cricket.

It’s almost as if all of nature sleeps. Except cats, of course. We gather in the park for cat choir. And already, as we set paw for the tree where only hours before a young woman had met her tragic end, meows and screeches rent the air, and it was obvious that Shanille, cat choir’s director, had gathered her troops and they were all giving of their best.

“Too bad we’re missing cat choir because of this murder investigation,” said Dooley, voicing my own thoughts exactly.

“That can’t be a coincidence, can it?” said Brutus.

“What are you talking about, Brutus?” I asked.

“Perspective! She said she needed to get a little perspective. And all this time I’ve been telling her this whole thing is a matter of perspective. One big misunderstanding. Maybe she’s finally starting to see things my way?”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” I said dryly. “Harriet sees things strictly her own way.”

“But why would she use that particular word? Perspective?”

“Because that’s what people do when they’re faced with a personal crisis: they take a walk to get some perspective.”

“Mh,” said Brutus, not convinced.

It was obvious he’d started to hope against hope that Harriet would take him back. I could have told him this was a waste of time. Harriet was not one to be convinced by an argument. If Brutus wanted to win her back, he’d have to make a grand gesture. And since this was essentially the biggest crisis their relationship had faced since its inception, the grander the gesture the better. What gesture he should perform? I had no idea. I’m not an expert on feline love. And frankly I had other things on my mind. Like finding this owl.

We’d arrived at the old oak tree and stood gazing up at its majestic branches.

“Yoo-hoo,” I hooted. “Mr. Owl? Could we please have a word? It’s important.”

No response. Not even a hoo-hoo-hoooooooo.

“I don’t think he’s home,” said Dooley after we’d waited some more.

Cats have pretty sharp eyes, and I was inclined to agree with Dooley. I didn’t detect any owl in this particular tree. It was, in other words, an owl-less tree.

“But where can he be? Ringo said he was sitting in this tree this afternoon—that this tree was his home.”

“And how would Ringo know what tree Mr. Owl calls home?” Dooley argued. “Maybe he was just taking a little break from his usual tree and decided to try out this tree for size. And when this woman was murdered, he decided the tree was no good and he flew off again to sit in his own tree. Owls do fly, don’t they?”

“They do,” I said, still gazing up. I was getting a crick in the neck but I wasn’t giving up. “Yoo-hoo,” I tried again. “We’re friends of Ringo. The Chihuahua who was here this afternoon? He says you saw the murder that took place under your tree. He also says you probably saw the killer’s face. The thing is, we’re not just your regular garden-variety cats. We’re cat detectives. We detect. And right now we’re detecting the murder of that poor young woman. So if you could help us out here, we’d be very much obliged.”