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“Rarely? You mean never,” said Harriet. “It’s not fair but there you are. We never get to testify in court, and we never get to go to court against anyone, either.”

“Who would you like to take to court, Harriet?” asked Kingman, an amused expression on his face.

“Where do I start? I wouldn’t mind taking Shanille to court, for instance. She told me last week that I can’t sing solos anymore. Which I thought was extremely unfair.”

“Why can’t you sing solos anymore?” asked Dooley, interested in Harriet’s latest drama.

“She feels that the whole idea of singing solos is anti-democratic. It breeds jealousy and discord in cat choir and she can’t have that. So from now on no more solos.”

Which was probably the reason Harriet was so keen on starting her career as a singer on stage. To get back at Shanille. Show her once and for all what a terrific soloist she really was.

“I doubt whether a jury would convict Shanille for that,” said Kingman. “Denying a choir singer their solo is not a punishable offense, as far as I know.”

“Well, it should be,” Harriet insisted. “It’s caused me great emotional distress and I’m entitled compensation. Not to mention she’s reduced my earning capacity. A talent scout who just happened to be watching our rehearsals would have signed me up in a heartbeat. But if no one is allowed to sing a solo, no scouts will come to our rehearsals.”

“Do you really think talent scouts come to our rehearsals?” I asked.

“Of course! How else are they going to scout fresh new talent like me?”

Kingman, who’d been smiling at this quaint conceit, wiped the smile from his face when he caught Harriet’s icy glare. It never ends well when you laugh at something she says. Harriet hates to be made a fool of, a chink in her armor we’re all well aware of.

“So are you going to do any more performing?” asked Kingman now.

“I doubt it,” said Harriet sadly. “Laron fired Gran, and I guess that means the end of my career, too.”

“Too bad,” muttered Brutus, though he looked like the cat that got the cream.

“Maybe I’ll have a word with Shanille,” said Kingman. “Ask her to reconsider this whole solo policy. I’ll tell her that every great choir embraces the solo as part of its repertoire, and if she simply promises every member of cat choir that they are entitled to perform their own solo at some point, it shouldn’t breed any jealousy or envy.”

“That’s a great idea, Kingman,” I said. “If everyone is a soloist, there’s no need for jealousy.”

Harriet didn’t look convinced. “It will devalue the solo, though,” she said. “If everyone is a soloist, what’s the point? Besides, cat choir has dozens of members. If they all get to do a solo, it will take months before it’s my turn. I think this is a lousy idea, Kingman.”

And on this note of constructive criticism, she stalked off, then turned.“Let’s go, Brutus.” And Brutus, after waggling his eyebrows at us, quickly traipsed off after her.

“Tough baby,” said Kingman.

“Harriet wants to shine,” I explained. “And it’s hard to shine when everyone shines.”

“I would like to do a solo once,” said Dooley.

Kingman and I both smiled. Now that Dooley had tasted stardom, he wanted more.

“I’ll talk to Shanille,” said Kingman. “Tonight you’ll get your solo, Dooley.”

And Dooley shone, which warmed my heart. The thing is, some cats are pleased when other cats shine. Dooley being a star made me feel happy for him, not jealous. Then again, Dooley was my friend, of course. I doubted whether I’d feel happy if, for instance, Milo ended up being the star of the piece, as I don’t like Milo all that much.

“So are you guys going to the wake?” asked Kingman.

We both stared at him.“Wake? What wake?” I asked.

“Chickie Hay’s wake, of course. Who else? Wilbur is going, and so is half the town. Wilbur said it’ll be the social event of the season.”

Wilbur Vickery, Kingman’s human, is as much a gossip as his four-legged sidekick.

“What’s a wake, Max?” asked Dooley.

“It’s when people get to greet the body of a dearly departed,” I said. “They can sit with the body and remember their loved one, or even share stories about the deceased.”

“Why is it called a wake, though?”

“Because you have to stay awake throughout the thing,” said Kingman. “If you fall asleep it’s a sign of disrespect.”

I doubted whether this was the case, but Dooley seemed satisfied.“I hope I can stay awake,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to be disrespectful to Miss Hay.”

“I’m sure we’re not invited,” I said, “so that won’t be an issue.”

“And I’m sure we’re all invited,” said Kingman. “Chickie loved pets. She would have wanted us to be there.”

“Are you going?” Dooley asked Kingman.

“You bet. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He abruptly turned away. Two exceedingly attractive felines had entered the store, and Kingman wouldn’t be Kingman if he wasn’t keen on welcoming them personally, wishing them a wonderful shopping experience.

And as Dooley and I walked out of the store, I said,“Maybe we should go to the wake. Pay our respects.”