I’m nearly frantic. Neither Abby nor Layla have returned home and the sun is up already. Where can they be? At least the would-be burglar never returned, but still something is terribly amiss.
I have paced the house, checking every door and every window for a way out so that I might try to find them. But Abby keeps things locked and secure. I cannot escape. When that nice gentleman with the sandy hair, Victor, came to the door earlier in the evening, I did try to communicate to him the urgency of finding Abby and Layla. But the man simply doesn’t understand cat language. And people consider us “dumb animals.” Even the dullest of cats and stupidest of dogs can understand people language.
Ruminating on the shortcomings of bipeds will do no good, I tell myself, and sniff around the windows one more time. Just as I’m scratching, rather futilely I might add, on the glass pane of a back window, the front door opens. I hear voices and dash to the front, and cry out with relief. Abby is home.
And Victor is with her.
I run to them, demanding to know what is going on. Where is Layla? What is wrong? It wouldn’t take a detective to tell they are both upset. Abby looks as if she’s been crying. My head-butting her leg brings only an absent-minded pat and her assuring me she will feed me in a moment.
For once I do not want food—well, maybe some more of that poached cod at some near future date. Now, what I want is information. Turning to Victor, I ask him what is going on in my clear cat voice.
He bends down and rubs the top of my head, but doesn’t answer me. I see he hasn’t learned a thing about cat language since last night. I turn back to Abby, raising my voice to a querulous level.
“You’re not really planning on going to work?” Victor’s tone as he addresses Abby has a worried sound. Something has happened, something bad.
“I have to. I’m just going to take a quick shower, grab some coffee and a boiled egg, and go. Delphine and Phillip are expecting me.”
I meow at them again, more insistently than ever.
“Okay, I’ll feed the cat,” he says, giving me another quick pat on the head.
“Should we look through Layla’s things?” Abby edges close to Victor and I can see there’s a growing bond between them. “I mean, that horrible police detective didn’t order me not to…”
At the word police, my ears go back and my tail starts twitching. I meow ferociously and head butt Abby. She bends down and scoops me up in her arms. “You poor thing. You’re worried about Layla, aren’t you?”
“He’s just hungry,” Victor says.
But Abby understands me. I rub my face against hers and purr. Then as clear as I can in cat-language, I ask her about Layla.
“She’s been hurt. Or…maybe killed. Or kidnapped.” Abby starts to cry. I raise my paws to her cheeks, nails carefully retracted, and try to offer comfort. Yet I can’t help but think: I told you so. You and Layla were barmy to go into a basement alone at night when someone was definitely threatening Layla.
Victor moves closer and puts an arm around Abby. He wants to comfort her too. I know he’s a good chap even if he’s too dense to understand me.
A second or two into our group hug, Victor pulls away. “You shower, I’ll look through her belongings, but first, let me feed the cat and put some coffee on.” A man of action, I think, and approve.
Abby thanks him and heads to the bathroom.
I trail Victor, meowing in distinctive syllables as if he might still somehow learn to listen to me. What I want him to see is the one posh gold earring I found earlier. I can’t say why I know, but now that Layla is missing, I’m thinking this earring is somehow a clue.
Victor prowls through Layla’s carryall, taking an interest in the plastic bag of pink flash drives. I edge up between him and the luggage and meow in his face to get his attention. As he shoves the plastic bag with the flash drives into his pocket, I dig out the push-up bra with the hidden silk purse with the earring inside the padding. I pull at the padding until I free the tiny purse. With new urgency, I paw at it until the earring falls out. I tell Victor in plaintive tones that this is not Layla’s style but the care with which she has hidden it makes it important.
He turns it over in his hand and reads the inscription. “Love.” He squints and studies it closely. “Not Layla’s look. She wouldn’t be caught dead in anything with a pearl.”
Exactly, I meow back. Now he’s learning to listen to me.
Victor mutters something about asking somebody about this and slips the earring into the pocket on his plaid button-down shirt. Then he starts flipping through Layla’s books. No need to do that, I try to tell him, as the doorbell rings. I race out to the front just as Abby reaches the door.
Abby presses her eye to the peep hole. “Damn.” It’s not like her to cuss and I press up against her as she says, “Police.”
“Let me.” Victor doesn’t wait for an answer and opens the door. An older man wearing a bad suit and looking as if he’s suffering from distemper is standing there with an armed, uniformed officer.
“Ah, Detective Rizzo.” Victor doesn’t step back or invite him in.
“I have a warrant to look through Layla’s things. And to search any and all computers and laptops.” He yanks the door open wide and pushes his way in just as Abby shouts out, “Don’t let the cat out.”
Too late.
I sprint for the freedom of the great outdoors. My job in the house—leading Victor to the earring—is done and I don’t fancy being cooped up inside another day when I could be out looking for ways to help Layla.