As a childless catless lady (who doesn’t understand cats at all ) I decided to publish New Cambridge Observer’s first fictional piece “The Case of the Missing Cat.” It’s by my former Cambridge neighbor, Gordon Lewin, who now resides in California. Like much political communication these days, nothing in it is true—but unlike like much of what we see, it is fun! [I found the cat photos on creative commons.]
–Anita M Harris
by Gordon Lewin
The sun had been down for an hour and I was still at my desk on the third floor above the boarded-up five and dime.
Being a private eye means long hours. I opened the desk drawer to my left: the bottle was empty. The donut looked half-eaten by our resident mice; I tossed it in the garbage. I wish the landlord would get a cat, but I hear they are in short supply.
I figured it was time to head to Charlie’s for a beer and burger when there was a knock on the door. “Come in. Door’s open,” I grumbled.
In walks a dame. I look her over. Tall, dark and handsome. That’s how I describe a dame whose got looks, but not the looks of a beauty queen. Somewhere, I had seen that face.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“We were in AA together.” “Stop right there.” I held up my hand like I was on traffic detail at a road construction site. “You just tell that preacher lady I’m not coming back. Being sober is too boring for me.
“That’s not why I am here,” she protested.
I took a deep breath. “Then, why don’t you take a seat.” I motioned to the old wood chair across from my desk.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“I need help finding my cat.”
“Lady, why don’t you try the pound?”
“My cat is not lost. A man broke into my house and took Smoochie.”
“How do you know it was a man?”
“I saw him. I had just walked in the front door. There he was– grabbing Smoochie from the fireplace mantle and stuffing her into a white laundry bag. I screamed and he ran out the back door.
My memory clicked into action, overriding my last drink. There was a two grand reward out there for a burglar who has been breaking into homes to steal cats. The victims are all single women. I wondered if the dame was single.
The shrink across the hall had told me the perp probably had anger issues about cat-owning unmarried women who refused to have children out of wedlock. I thought this serial cat burglar must be just a pervert. Maybe we were both right.
“Do you live alone?” I asked her.“Yes. Smoochie is all I have. My parents died in a car accident with my sister. My husband left me and I don’t have any children.”
The dame was pulling on my heartstrings. “Could you I.D. this guy if you saw him?”
“Sure, I could.”
“Okay, here’s the deal. One hundred up front, but if we find Smoochie, I’ll give back your money.
“That is so kind of you,’ she said as she opened her purse
“So, what are you doing this evening?” I asked her.
“Sorry, mister, I am in no mood for dating.“
“That’s not the question. I have someone I’d like you to take a look at. Maybe we could get your Smoochie back tonight.
“I’m all in,” the dame said as she slammed a “C” note on my desk.
We went down to my car and drove to a neighborhood where people like me don’t live. Tree-lined streets. Large yards with statuary. Homes big enough to house a cloister of nuns. You get the picture.
We pulled up a long circular driveway to one of those mansions with Roman columns in front. We walked to the front door and I rang the doorbell. After a long wait, an older gentleman in a tux opened the door. “How can I help you, sir,” the gent asked with an impeccable British accent. “I have a childless cat lady here who wants to have a word with J.D.” “I am so sorry, sir,” the elderly Brit enunciated slowly, “but Senator Vance is presently occupied.”
“Well, get him anyways.”
“I can’t, sir. Strict orders. It is the Senator’s private time in the kitchen.”
“In the kitchen? At this hour? Do you expect me to buy that?” I pulled out my detective badge which I kept after being fired for being drunk on the job.
The old man opened up. “The Senator’s wife is a vegetarian. This is the only time he is able to prepare his favorite stew. I understand he has a secret ingredient.”
At that exact moment, the secret ingredient darted out between the old man’s legs and leapt into the dame’s arms.
“Smoochie!” she cried out!
Case closed.
Residing in the San Francisco Bay Area, Gordon Lewin served on the Board of Contributors of the Palo Alto Weekly and has written for other local publications. He confesses to being allergic to cats.
New Cambridge Observer is a publication of the Harris Communications Group, based in Cambridge, MA.
