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Shanille looked as if she was on the verge of tears.“She’s called all of them, frantic with worry, as you can imagine, and none of them have any idea where Angel might be. They left her in downtown Hampton Cove around three o’clock last night, and she said she was going to walk home, since she doesn’t live far away, but this morning Marigoldfound her bed unslept in, and when she tried calling, her calls went straight to voicemail. Oh, Max, you have to do something—she’s such a sweet kid. The best there is. And her mom is the best human a cat can ever hope to find—well, except Odelia maybe,” she allowed.

“Has Marigold contacted the police?”

“No, she hasn’t.” She heaved a sigh. “Marigold doesn’t believe in the police.”

“Doesn’t believe in the police? What are you talking about?”

“She and Uncle Alec have long been locked in a feud, and Marigold has sworn an oath never to ask for his help.”

“So her daughter is missing, and she won’t go to the police?”

Shanille nodded.“So you see, Max? I really need your help. We have to find Angel.”

Dooley suddenly looked up in alarm.“Oh, no, Shanille!”

“What is it?” asked Shanille, blinking rapidly.

“I think we found Angel—we found her this morning!”

“What!”

“Yes, in the field behind the house.”

“Dooley,” I said warningly.

“Well, actually Fifi found her. She thought it was just another pile of bones, you see, and wanted to bury them, the way she always does with bones. You know what dogs are like. When they see a bone, they—”

“Dooley, what are you talking about?!”

“Well, the bones—it must be Angel.”

Shanille’s face crumpled like a used tissue. “God, no!”

“It can’t be Angel,” I said, finally getting a word in edgewise.

“But it has to be, Max,” said Dooley. “It’s too much of a coincidence: first this girl goes missing and this morning we find that skeleton.”

“Skeleton!” Shanille cried.

“It’s not her, I’m telling you!” I said. “It takes years for a human body to turn into a skeleton, and if Angel was alive last night, it stands to reason it can’t possibly be her.” When Dooley looked skeptical, I prompted, “Remember the documentary you saw?”

“Oh, right,” said my friend finally. He then turned to Shanille. “Max is right. It can’t be your Angel. Unless of course her killer managed to turn her into a skeleton overnight.”

“Oh, Dooley,” I said with a sigh.

5

And so off we went, in search of Shanille’s human’s daughter. Now the problem with cats functioning as private detectives is that we can’t make ourselves understood by humans. So if for instance we want to ask a potential witness what they saw, they’re simply going to smile and give us a pat on the head if they’re cat people, orgive us a kick in the rear if they’re not. Neither response is helpful, or brings us closer to resolving the mystery we’re trying to tackle.

So you’re asking me why I didn’t ask Odelia to take the matter in hand? Because she was busy with the skeleton, that’s why, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but humans are very much single-taskers. Oh, I know there’s this notion that women are multi-taskers and men are single-taskers, but that’s just a myth. As a rule all humans can only do one thing well at a time, before moving onto something else. If they try to tackle several things at once, that’s when things get messy. They go a little screwy in the head, you see. So I decided not to bother Odelia, and to see if we couldn’t figure this one out ourselves.

And as luck would have it, we almost bumped into Harriet and Brutus as we emerged from the pet flap.

“Where are you off to?” asked Brutus suspiciously. Lately someone’s been sneaking kibble from his bowl, and I know he suspects either me or Dooley. I know this because he told me yesterday: “You’ve been sneaking food from me, Max—or was it you, Dooley?”

I assured him that it wasn’t us, but I don’t think he believed me. I can tell you in confidence now that it was actually Rufus, Ted Trapper’s sheepdog. He likes to sample some of our superior cat kibble from time to time. Add some variety to his diet.

“We’re trying to find Shanille’s human’s daughter,” I told him now. “Wanna come?”

Brutus’s face immediately cleared. “Oh, sure,” he said. He may get grumpy sometimes, especially when someone steals his food, but that black cat is always up for a challenge.

“I didn’t know Father Reilly had a daughter?” said Harriet as she fell into step beside us.

“It’s not Father Reilly’s daughter,” said Shanille. “It’s Marigold’s.”

“Marigold?”

“Marigold is Father Reilly’s housekeeper, and practically a member of the family. She makes sure the rectory is spic and span, that Father Reilly eats his three square meals a day, and generally runs the place.”

“So is she Father Reilly’s wife?” asked Dooley.

“No, Dooley,” said Shanille. “Father Reilly is a priest, and priests aren’t allowed to get married.”

“Oh,” said Dooley, chewing on this for a moment.

“So where was Angel last seen?” I asked.