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A world of bleeding ears, I thought as I listened to this nonsense. Look, I’m not saying cats can’t sing, but the cats of Hampton Cove certainly can’t. The only reason we spend time in cat choir is to have an excuse to shoot the breeze and spend some time together. Still, if Harriet thought this was a good idea, who was I to rain on her parade? After all, usually these concerts are accompanied by a small orchestra consisting of one or two violinists, a pianist if Father Reilly can wrangle one up, bass player, flutist, guitarist… It drowns out the terrible noise from the choir, you see, and makes people forget that fifty pensioners who just happen to think they can sing, aren’t necessarily right.

“This is a bad idea, Francis,” said Wilbur. “Take it from me.”

“No, but it is very original, isn’t it?” said Father Reilly, growing more excited by the second. “Imagine a chorus of darling little angels, led by my precious Shanille.”

“With a nice solo performance from me,” Harriet added.

“Will Kingman be included?” asked Wilbur, touching the hirsute appendage that set his face on fire. It looked itchy, though that could simply be the chili pepper association.

“Oh, sure. Kingman will be in the first row,” said Gran, really selling Harriet’s idea for all she was worth. “And since this has never been done before, tickets will fly out the door like hotcakes.”

“Tickets? What tickets?” asked Father Reilly, confused.

“You’re not going to put on a show like this without asking people to pay for the privilege, are you, Francis?”

“But we never ask for money,” said the priest. “We just invite people to give whatever they can afford or think is fair.”

“I think a hundred bucks is fair.”

The howls of indignation rising up from both men told us they didn’t agree.

“Okay, so how about eighty, and we split the profit right down the middle—same way we divide Hampton Cove?” Gran suggested. “It’s only fair since this is my idea.”

I glanced at Harriet, and I could tell she wanted to say something, but kept her tongue. After all, it didn’t matter whose idea it was, as long as the plan was brought to fruition, right?

“Eighty bucks a pop… how many seats in the house, Francis? Two hundred? Split four ways, that makes… well, plenty of dough anyway.”

“Vesta, really,” said Father Reilly, shaking his head in dismay. “We can’t use the house of the Lord to make a profit.”

“Oh, like hell we can’t. You need gas in that tank of yours, don’t you?” she said, poking a finger in Wilbur’s chest. “And so do I. We spend all night keeping this town safe. Well, I say Hampton Cove owes us, and this is where they pay us some protection money.”

“Protection money! What is this, the Mafia!” said Wilbur, though his eyes were gleaming. Your small-town business owner knows the value of money, and can spot a good deal when he sees it. He now turned to his friend. “Francis, as much as it pains me to admit this, I think Vesta has a point.”

“So how about two shows?” said Vesta, well pleased that she had found an ally. “Or three or four? Heck, if this thing pans out we can take this show on the road! And then if Hollywood comes knocking, turn it into a movie!”

“Oh, dear,” I said as I turned away from these negotiations. Somehow I had the feeling that this new endeavor Gran had discovered wasn’t going to end well. But then what else was new.

Harriet, for her part, looked on with shiny eyes.“We’re going to be the new Hamilton, wookie,” she said to Brutus, who was slightly more reticent. “Broadway, Hollywood, here we come!”

17

That night cat choir was an exhilarated affair. Harriet had told the others about our upcoming appointment with greatness, and excited murmurings had quickly spread throughout Hampton Cove’s cat population, most of whom are members of cat choir.

“Did you hear that, Shanille?” asked Kingman. “We’re going to be singing at an actual concert—an actual live concert in front of an audience that doesn’t consist of a bunch of shoe-throwing rubes!”

“I heard,” said Shanille. She looked a little discombobulated, which was only to be expected, of course, since she now was going to be faced with the enormous responsibility of having to prepare the first-ever cat concert in the world! “Oh, my,” she said, as her chest rapidly rose and fell.“oh, my, my.”

“This is great news. We’re going to be famous, Shanille. If this goes well and this show goes on the road we’re talking Broadway, international tours, and then… Hollywood!”

“Oh, my,” Shanille repeated, and I could tell from her glittering eyes that she was picturing it all: the applause, the rave reviews, the accolades, maybe even an Emmy, a Grammy, an Oscar, a Tony! And I could see her mentally rehearse an acceptance speech, teary-eyed and in a quaking voice thanking her collaborators, her agent, her manager and of course her human for the tons of kibble over the years.