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“You know this isn’t your neighborhood, right?” said Gran. “This is our neighborhood, and you have no business here.”

“According to this map this is our neighborhood,” said Wilbur, as he stabbed a stubby finger at an old map, which he’d placed on the hood of his car.

“What is that, Max?” asked Dooley.

“That is a map, Dooley,” I said.

“A map? But it’s made of paper.”

“Maps used to be made of paper,” I told him, “before Google took over, and GPS.”

“Don’t you remember those movies where X marks the spot, Dooley?” asked Harriet. “Treasure maps and that kind of thing?”

“Oh, sure,” he said, then his eyes went wide with excitement. “Is that a treasure map Wilbur is holding? Are we going to hunt for treasure?”

“No, Dooley, it’s just a map of Hampton Cove,” I said.

“And it wouldn’t surprise me if that wasn’t the map that was drawn up when the two neighborhood watches signed their famous peace treaty,” Brutus grunted.

“Look, this is the line we agreed upon,” said Wilbur. Four members of two different neighborhood watches were now bent over the map, intently studying it. “And here is the house of Neda Hoeppner, see?”’

“Oh, I see, all right,” said Gran. “I can see that Neda’s house is in our part of town.”

“It’s on the demarcation line, actually,” said Father Reilly. “Right on the line, in fact.”

“So what does that mean?” asked Scarlett.

“That means that we apply the principle we agreed to,” said Gran. “The South side of the street is yours, the North side is ours. And as you can clearly see, Neda’s house is on the North side, which means this is our turf, Vickery. So you better scram.”

“I thought they’d agreed to divvy up the night, not the town?” said Brutus.

“They signed an amendment to the original treaty last week,” I explained.

“I don’t see it that way,” Wilbur protested. “The line is clearly drawn on top of Neda’s house.”

“That’s because you can’t draw,” Gran said unhappily. “Obviously the line was supposed to go right down the middle of the street, with one side of the street ours, the other side yours. Only you messed up again, Vickery.”

“No, I think this was done intentionally,” said Father Reilly. “We divvied up the streets and houses in the fairest way possible, remember? We even asked Charlene Butterwick to give us access to the most recent census, to make sure we have an equal number of citizens under our jurisdiction.”

“See?” said Wilbur triumphantly. “Neda’s house is mine!”

“Ours,” Father Reilly corrected him mildly.

“Oh, nonsense,” said Gran, but even she had to admit that the aged priest just might have a point.

“Gran!” Harriet hissed. “Ask him about the choir!”

“Okay, so I’m going to let this one slide for now,” said Gran, “but on one condition.”

Wilbur gave her a look of suspicion. Long association with Vesta Muffin had made him aware of the fact that she took no prisoners, and she gave no presents.“What?”

“You have a concert coming up, Francis.”

“That’s right,” said Father Reilly. “At least if it will still happen. Now that we’ve lost Neda, we might have to postpone.”

“Don’t postpone. Simply tell people you’re dedicating the concert in Neda’s honor.”

“Oh, that’s not such a bad idea,” said the priest, nodding thoughtfully.

“It’s a brilliant idea. And what’s even more brilliant is what I’m going to tell you next. You know about cat choir, right?”

“Of course. My Shanille is part of that group of cats.”

“Not just a part—Shanille runs cat choir.”

“She does? My, my. She does take after her owner, doesn’t she?”

“What’s all this nonsense, Vesta?” asked Wilbur. “I thought we were discussing watch business and here you are yapping about your cats.”

“Your cat is also part of cat choir, Wilbur. In fact Kingman plays an important part.”

“He does, does he?” said Wilbur, slightly mollified. “Well, he is a proud and talented cat, of course. He gets that from me.”

“So how about we join both choirs, St. Theresa Choir and cat choir, for one unique concert? A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see two great professional choirs at work?”

Both men stared at her as if she’d finally lost her mind.

“Don’t just stand there looking like a couple of idiots—say something!”

“Well…” said Father Reilly, rubbing his chin.

“You’re nuts, Vesta,” said Wilbur, who wasn’t one for beating about the bush. “Cats? Singing in a choir? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!”

“They do sing, you know,” said Scarlett, piping up. “And they sing very nice, too.”

Both men turned to her, a little goggle-eyed.“You’ve heard them sing?” asked Wilbur.

“Oh, sure,” Scarlett lied. “And they can sing beautifully. Like little angels.”

“Little angels?” asked Father Reilly, as if suddenly seeing the light.

“Absolutely. When you hear these cats sing it’s almost as if you’re transported to a different place—a different world.”