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“But I haven’t even told him the most important part,” said Dooley, much disappointed.

“Now, Dooley,” I said, placing my paw around my friend’s shoulder, “I like your storytelling technique, I really do, but if there’s one suggestion I would make, it’s that you should probably get to the point a little quicker.”

“But I came to the point immediately,” said Dooley. He ticked the items off on his digits: “Spider, goatherd, ring. Or did I leave out something important, Max?”

“No. No, you didn’t, Dooley,” I admitted. “Spider, goatherd, ring just about sums it up.”

Kingman was still chatting with the two lady cats, and it was clear that unless Dooley and I turned into a pair of female cats ourselves, we wouldn’t stand a chance of getting him to pay attention to us until these two lovely ladies had decided to skedaddle.

I sighed and said,“Let’s move on, Dooley. And maybe next time let me tell the story, okay?”

“Okay, Max,” said Dooley. “Though I still don’t see what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, per se,” I said. “It’s just that…”

But before I could give Dooley a masterclass in storytelling, suddenly an object fell from the sky and almost dropped right on top of us. It was a whitish-greenish-grayish wad of pigeon dung, and it splattered to the pavement in front of us.

We both looked up, and saw the culprit fly off, laughing hysterically as it did.

“Missed!” the bird yelled. “Better luck next time!” And then it was gone.

“It almost hit us, Max!” said Dooley. “It almost dropped its… doo-doo on our heads!”

“Yes, Dooley. And I’m pretty sure it meant to hit us, too.” Pigeons, as a rule, don’t like cats, and I like to think that the feeling is mutual. And since they have the upper hand, in the sense that they can fly and we cannot, it’s hard not to feel a powerful sense of annoyance with the birds.

“I don’t think I like pigeons, Max,” Dooley announced, giving me an injured look. “Especially when they try to drop their doo-doo on our heads.”

“No, I’m not particularly fond of them either,” I admitted.

But we had more important things to deal with, and so we soon forgot about the pigeon incident and set paw for the barbershop, where our friend Buster awaited. Buster, a Main Coon, is usually very well-informed indeed, and I was hoping he might be susceptible to being drawn into our little investigation of this cold case.

Chapter 8

“I’ll bet there’s some kind of finder’s fee,” Vesta mused.

Scarlett, her Best Frenemy Forever for sixty years, laughed.“A finder’s fee! A person is not some trinket you get paid a finder’s fee for, Vesta.”

“I know that,” said Vesta annoyedly. She took a sip from her hot chocolate with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles on top and mused some more.

They were seated in the outside dining area of the Hampton Cove Star, the boutique hotel in the heart of town, where they had a good overview of the comers and goers and the hustle and bustle and generally could spend all morning over one hot chocolate (and a flat white for Scarlett) without being kicked out by the waiters. It also helped that Vesta’s son was chief of police, and that he just happened to be dating the mayor.

“Look,” Vesta said now, as she leaned closer to her friend. “Quintin Gardner was crazy about Vicky. He went nuts when she disappeared. So it stands to reason he’ll be thrilled to have her back, right? Or at least find out what happened to her. And his happiness will translate itself into a nice monetary reward, that’s all I’m saying. The neighborhood watch could use a nice big reward.” Not to mention she herself could do with a nice big influx of cold hard cash. Her pension only stretched so far, after all, and the receptionist work she occasionally did for her son-in-law wasn’t exactly bringing in the big bucks either.

“What does the watch need money for?” asked Scarlett, who was dressed to the nines as usual: bright red top, leather short-short skirt, fishnet stockings, and high heels. Her russet do was done to perfection, and all in all she looked like Vesta’s daughter, not her contemporary. Vesta didn’t mind. Dressed in her usual tracksuit, this one a bright fluorescent pink and blue, and her white curls tucked against her cranium, she didn’t care that she didn’t look like some overaged sex bomb. She’d long ago accepted that she might not have the looks, but she had the brains and the brawn, which made them the perfect team.

“The watch could do with a patrol car, for one thing,” she said. “Not that old Peugeot Marge lets me drive around in. I’m talking a turbo-charged pair of wheels that will make the bad guys run a mile. And of course we could use the money on surveillance equipment: night-vision goggles, listening devices…” She waved a hand. “Stuff like that.”