A Twist In The Tail

‘Nah, my memory isn’t that great. But look at the dust on the edge. If that spot had been empty, there’d be dust in there too and that spot is clean as a whistle.’

Five

Nero breathed deep, savoring the delectable aroma of rotting fish. The bait wharf was one of his favorite places in Oyster Cove. It wasn’t just because the fishermen would sometimes throw them succulent scraps, either. The wharf had a certain ambiance that couldn’t be found anywhere else. From the sounds of the waves lapping on the dock, to the briny scent of sea and the warmth of the sun warming his back.

It was heaven on earth… well, except for the seagulls. They were partial to the bait dock too and, as far as Nero was concerned, created an incessant nuisance with their constant swooping and cawing. A cat had to be careful lest he get knocked into the water. No cat liked that, except for Harry, who loved the occasional saltwater bath.

A shadow darkened Nero’s path from above, and the loud gull cry made him cringe. He crouched, ready to dart under something, but the gull flew past. Looking up into the sky, Nero felt a tinge of sadness. There were fewer gulls than last week and even though he wished they would go swoop somewhere else, he still didn’t like the way their numbers were mysteriously dwindling. He didn’t want them to die off, just to tend to their business elsewhere. Still, he was glad there were no dead gulls at the wharf, last week they’d seen a gull body floating in the water and it was a most unpleasant sight.

Milling about in their usual spot, behind a stack of lobster pots, were five cats. The largest one, a solid gray cat named Poe, was sitting atop an old lobster pot, watching a fishing boat make its way out of the harbor and into the Atlantic.

On the ground next to the pot, Stubbs, an orange striped cat named such because his tail was a short stub, sniffed around the lobster pot for any old scraps of bait. The rumor about him was his tail had been chopped off with a cleaver when he’d been caught stealing an oxtail right from the butcher’s shop, but Stubbs would neither confirm nor deny this.

Boots, a black cat with white paws and somewhat of a snobby attitude sat in the sun grooming his whiskers, as he often did. His whiskers were elegantly long and thick, and they were his pride and joy. Nero had to admit they were lovely, but they were just whiskers after all. The way Boots carried on about them you’d think they were made of gold.

Harry, the large fluffy Maine Coon, was flopped down in the sun snoozing while Juliette, a fluffy gray cat with a white diamond on her forehead, groomed her tail in a quite unladylike manner.

The cats stopped their activities as Nero and Marlowe approached.

‘Heard someone got iced up at the guesthouse,’ Stubbs said. He was prone to using hard-boiled detective slang and Nero often thought that Stubbs’ owner must read too many Dashiell Hammett novels aloud. Then again, perhaps that was why the cat was such a good detective.

‘Unfortunately, it’s true.’ Marlowe trotted over to the lobster pot and peeked inside.

‘Was it murder?’ Boots gave his long whisker an extra tug to emphasize the last word.

Nero’s gut clenched. He was embarrassed that a murder had happened under his very nose. ‘Yes, it was.’

‘Did you see it happen?’ Harry stretched, humping his back up with his front legs out in front of him before trotting over to sit in the circle the cats had formed.

Nero and Marlowe exchanged a guilty glance. ‘Neither of us was present at the time.’

‘So you don’t know who the culprit is?’ Poe asked.

Nero shook his head.

‘How was it done? Poison? Gunshot? Stabbed?’ Harry asked.

‘Bludgeoned with a newel post,’ Nero answered.

‘Nasty,’ Juliette shuddered.

‘Who was the vic?’ Stubbs asked.

‘One of the guests at the inn. Charles Prescott,’ Marlowe said.

‘And you didn’t notice anyone unusual? Who’s been hanging around there?’ Poe asked.

‘Well, there is Mike, Millie’s nephew,’ Marlowe said.

‘Oh, not Mike,’ Juliette said. ‘He’s much too handsome. And besides, we all know Millie is one of the good ones and therefore Mike must be too.’

Poe frowned. ‘Yes, but what about the new one, Josie? Of course, we all love Rose and Millie, but Josie is an unknown. She’s from away.’

‘She’s not from away.’ Nero felt obligated to defend the new guesthouse keeper even if he wasn’t exactly sure that he liked her himself. ‘She was raised here and moved away to raise her own litter. Now she’s back where she belongs.’

Boots raised a brow. ‘So you two like and trust this new human?’

‘Sort of,’ Marlowe ignored the warning look from Nero. ‘She did mention she owned us… she’s not quite pet-broken yet.’

Harry laughed. ‘Owned you? She’s new to serving cats then?’

Nero nodded. ‘She sort of came with the house when Millie entrusted it to us. We still have much training to do.’

‘Have you tried the severed mouse head routine?’ Harry asked.

‘Not yet. We’re still breaking her in.’