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“Someone is trying to kill Charlie Dieber and we need to find out who.”

“Who’s Charlie Dieber?”

“He’s that singer Odelia likes so much.”

Dooley thought for a moment, then his face lit up.“Oh, the one who sounds like a cricket with the flu.”

“That’s the one.”

While Chase and Odelia had walked up to the front of the house, the three of us had veered off course and were now making our way along a paved path to the back. When we arrived there, we found ourselves in a pool area, not unlike some of the other houses we’d visited in the course of our investigations. It reminded me of the house of John Paul George, the famous British pop star, and of the Kenspeckle place, the well-known reality show family. Just like at the Kenspeckles, a party was in full swing when we arrived at the back.

“Wow,” said Dooley, and I think he spoke for all of us.

Music pounded from the speakers as a few dozen people were lounging around the pool, several semi-naked young women playing some kind of ball game in the water and having a blast. People were drinking, laughing, dancing and generally whooping it up. And in the center of it all, I saw a heavily tattooed Charlie Dieber sucking from a very large bong.

“What’s that smell?” asked Dooley, sniffing the air. “Is that… barbecue?”

“Weed,” said Brutus. “Charlie doesn’t seem impressed with the attempt made on his life.”

“Or maybe this is his way of trying to deal with the shock,” I suggested.

Just then, Charlie shouted,“I’m coming, bitches!” and bombed into the pool, much to the amusement of the nubile girls, who quickly surrounded him like a personal harem.

“Yeah, he’s clearly having a hard time coping,” Brutus said. “We better spread out, you guys. Try to talk to some cats—and maybe even dogs.” A look of distaste came over him as he uttered these words. Dooley and I shared the look. No cat enjoys the prospect of having to deal with the canine species. Then again, if we were to help Odelia we needed to overcome our prejudices, cat up and ferret out information where it could be found. Even if it meant having to talk to Dieber’s pack of Chihuahuas or whatever foul species he favored.

So while Brutus headed towards the house, Dooley and I decided to check out the rest of the garden. And we hadn’t moved ten feet when suddenly we saw a familiar face.

“Isn’t that…” Dooley began.

“Clarice!” I yelled. “Yoo-hoo! Clarice!”

The feral cat was lounging on a lounge, casually licking her paws, and surveying the world with those dark eyes of hers.

“Clarice!” Dooley cried when we’d reached her. “You’re alive!”

She gave him a disdainful look, her upper lip curling into a snarl.“Of course I’m alive. Why wouldn’t I be alive?”

“Diego told us you were dead. He said that he ‘took care of you.’”

Her snarl tightened.“That nasty piece of work tell you that? And you believed him?”

“Well—I didn’t,” I told her. “I didn’t believe a word he said.”

Dooley stared at me.“You didn’t believe him?”

“Are you kidding me? I knew he was yanking our chain. Who can take out Clarice? No one! And definitely not some hustler like Diego.”

“I believed him,” said Dooley. “I thought he’d killed you, Clarice. I’m glad he didn’t.”

“I’m very hard to kill,” said Clarice, and I actually believed her.

I was so glad to see her I wanted to hug her, but of course I didn’t. Hugging Clarice is one of those things you do at your own peril.

Dooley obviously liked to live dangerously, for he actually moved in for a hug. When she held up a vicious claw and produced a loud hissing sound, he quickly backed off, but didn’t lose the wide grin that had appeared on his mug the moment we caught sight of her.

“You look good,” I told the formerly feral cat. And she did. Usually Clarice looks like she’s just been in a fight, with pieces of her mottled red fur missing and scratches across her scrawny face. One ear was still lopsided, and it was obvious someone had taken a bite out of the other one atsome point. But she looked well-fed and well-tempered, her fur shiny and healthy, her cheeks full and her whiskers polished to a shine.

“Yeah, I’m one of the Dieber Babes now,” she said casually, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

We both goggled at her.“Dieber Babes?” I repeated finally.

“What’s a Dieber Babe?” asked Dooley.

“Fancats,” she said. “Dieber likes cats—in fact he adores them. Collects them en masse. Calls them his Dieber Babes.”

“But how—when—why?” I asked, not quite coherently. I simply couldn’t imagine Clarice allowing herself to be domesticated. In fact it upset my worldview so thoroughly I suddenly felt as if I’d landed in an alternate reality. Like Neo discovering the Matrix.