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In a lightning-fast move, Brutus had unsheathed the razor-sharp claws of his right front paw and had raked them across the scruffy cat’s visage. The transformation from benign wannabe cat sleuth to savage vigilante had been swift and frankly damn impressive.

“Don’t you dare talk to my girlfriend like that,” Brutus snarled.

His tail was distended, his back arched, and there was a cold, menacing look in his eyes that told anyone who watched that here was a cat who was not gonna be messed with.

“All right, all right!” cried the scrawny cat, licking a drop of blood from his face. “No need to go all Hannibal Lecter on me, big fella!” He started to walk away but stopped when Brutus produced a growling sound at the back of his throat. The small cat gulped.

“Tell me what you saw,” Brutus growled.

“I saw nothing, all right!” cried the cat, recoiling.

“You said you saw something.”

“I was just messing with you! I know nuthin!”

And with these words, the cat tucked his tail between his legs and scooted off.

“Dang it,” Brutus rasped in a guttural voice that was as impressive as his physique.

“Dang it is right,” Harriet purred as she traipsed up. “Why, Brutus, that was amazing.”

Brutus was still staring after the cat, a dark gleam in his eye.“I should go after him.”

“Oh, don’t bother. You heard what he said. He didn’t see a thing.” She gave Brutus a loving nudge. “The way you defended me, Brutus. Oh, my. I have goosebumps all over.”

Brutus gave her a sad look.“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”

This surprised Harriet.“I never said that. I merely tried to point out that—”

“Let’s go home,” said Brutus. He suddenly looked deflated. And as he stalked off, Harriet couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong with her mate.

“Brutus!” she yelled as she tripped after him. “We could ask some more cats if you want—maybe even dogs and vermin. Seeing as we came all the way out here and all.”

But Brutus seemed to have lost his taste for sleuthing.“I just wanna go home,” he muttered, and then he sauntered off, his head low, all the fight having left him.

Chapter 10

It had finally happened. For perhaps the first time in our lives our very own humans had escorted us from a building. Odelia, Marge and Grandma, in a concerted effort, had picked us up and kicked us out of the library.

“I can’t believe they would do such a thing!” I cried.

“They were very nice about it,” Dooley commented.

He didn’t seem to mind one bit. But I did.

“Nice or not, I hate it when they treat us like animals.”

“We are animals,” Dooley reminded me.

“Yes, but they treated us like pets!”

“We are pets.”

“Yes, I give you that, but to kick us out like that!”

“They did it in the nicest possible way, though.”

He was right. They had. Odelia had whispered into my ear that she was very sorry but that this Abe Cornwall guy was a very important person at the county coroner’s office and if she allowed us to stick around he might kick up a fuss which would land Uncle Alec in hot water with the powers that be. What those powers were, she didn’t say. Powers that be? Be what? Marge had added her two cents by pecking kisses on my head and Dooley’s and even Gran had been very sweet and given us tickles and cuddles before chucking us out.

“I don’t like this, Max,” said Dooley suddenly. “I don’t like this one bit.”

“I’m glad you finally agree.” But then I saw he was darting anxious glances at the sky again. “Oh, not again with the apocalypse, Dooley. I’m telling you, the world isn’t ending.”

“Yes, it is. All scientists agree. And scientists know their stuff. That’s why they’re scientists.”

It was one of those spurious arguments that are hard to contradict so I decided not to bother. At some point Dooley would realize that the world wasn’t ending and forget all about it. At least I hoped that he would. I really didn’t need this apocalypse nonsense.

We were pacing up and down the street that backed the library. Before she’d poured me from her arms, Odelia had said, “The killer most likely came in through the service entrance, so if you could find a witness, it could help me crack this case.”

Cracking cases is what I did for a living, so we’d been hanging around that back entrance hoping to catch sight of one of those illustrious witnesses ever since.

“What’s a witness, Max?” Dooley finally asked. “And how do we find one?”

“A witness is someone who’s seen something that’s important,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Like the killer going in through that back entrance, murder weapon in hand. A good witness is someone who remembers what the killer looked like, what he was wearing, what color his hair was and all that good stuff. The stuff a detective can use to identify a culprit.”

“How do you know so much about this, Max?” said Dooley, and I won’t conceal his words were the ego-boost I needed after being removed from the scene of the crime.

“I’ll tell you exactly how I know so much about it, Dooley. It’s because I—”

“What are you two morons doing here?” suddenly a voice rudely interrupted me.