My name’s Angie Russo, and I’m a cat person.
Lately, that is the most important thing about me.
Not that I’m a part-time paralegal and also a part-time private investigator. Not that I live in a giant East Coast manor house or that my quirky nan is one of my best friends. Not even the fact that I’ve managed to rack up seven associate degrees due to my academic indecisiveness.
Nope.
The most important thing about me is definitely the fact that I have a cat.
But he’s not just any ordinary feline, mind you.
He talks. A lot. As in hardly ever shuts up.
And if you think your cat is demanding, just imagine what my life looks like.
I have to feed him a particular brand of food in a particular flavor in a particular Lenox dish and at very particular times of the day. He also only drinks Evian. I’ve tried to trick him in the past to save on this ridiculous expense, but—I kid you not—he knew the difference. And, boy, did I pay for that one.
In all honesty, I can spare the expense, though. You see, my cat also has a trust fund—a big one. His previous owner was murdered, and it was by pure dumb luck that he and I ended up together. That is, if you can call almost dying at the hands of a faulty coffee maker “luck.”
I mean, I do.
I love my life and would change very little about it. I do plan to quit my paralegal gig soon to pursue detective work full-time. Naturally, my cat would be my partner in that operation. He watches so much Law & Order that he practically has an honorary degree in criminal justice, and he’s got claws that he isn’t afraid to use when we find ourselves in a tricky scrape.
Other than his sometimes gratuitous violence and over-the-top television addiction, he has plenty of other unique skills that make him an indispensable partner, too. First, there’s the fact we can communicate. Obviously, no one ever suspects that the curious-looking feline across the way is actually listening in on their conversations.
When you add Nan to the mix with her background in Broadway and knack for creating colorful characters and then flawlessly bringing them to life, we have quite the little operation.
So, go ahead and eat your heart out, Scooby Doo.
If you’re wondering about me and who I am outside of being a cat owner, I’ll make this real simple for you: I’m the Velma of the group. I love researching, learning, wrapping my mind around any and every puzzle that comes our way.
I have a near-photographic memory and a knack for mnemonic devices, but lately my brain has been a tad less reliable than I’d like.
Usually, I remember everything without fail. Ever since this new guy Peter Peters started working at the law office, though, things have definitely gotten a bit fuzzy. I hated that guy almost instantly, and I’m pretty sure he has something to do with the fog that’s taken up residence in my head… But I just can’t remember why.
Lucky for me, he’ll be leaving the state very soon. Unluckily, he’s taking his cousin Bethany, a former partner at the same firm, with him. She was a good friend, and I’ll definitely miss having her around. Still, I get the fact that she needs to be there for her family—even if this particular member of her family is the creepiest guy I have ever met.
Honestly, it’s probably time for me to quit, anyway. Well, just as soon as I work up the nerve to let down my secret crush by handing in my two weeks’ notice. I’ve had the hots for our senior partner, Charles Longfellow, III, ever since he moved here from California and began working his way up the ranks at our firm. He’s only a few years older than me, a legal prodigy and also someone who’s had a few lucky strokes like I have—so no judgment, please.
I’d probably have bitten the bullet and asked him out already, but he has a girlfriend now. By the way, I hate her, and not just because she’s standing in the way of what I’m convinced could actually be true love, but because she’s mean and bitter and has never shown me an ounce of kindness in our entire acquaintanceship.
At least she’s not a murderer, although I did suspect her of a double homicide a few months back. We solved that one, though, and got both her and her brother off the hook. We also solved the murder of a prominent senator who used to live right next door.
And as ready as I am to hang up my sign as a full time P.I., I’d much rather be chasing white-collar criminals around town than the homicidal maniacs I’ve been dealing with as of late. Because that’s the thing about murderers: they’re dangerous with a capital D. It stands to reason that eventually one of them is going to want revenge on the crazy girl and her cat that got them arrested in the first place.
I just hope I’m ready when karma comes calling…
I almost ran straight into Nan when I returned home from work that sunny afternoon.
“Look what I made for you today in my community art class!” she cried, completely unbothered by the fact I’d almost knocked her into the antique stained-glass windows that flanked either side of our front door.
I took one giant step back and studied the sizable metal sign she held between her aged hands.
“Pet Whisperer, P.I.,” I read aloud, then grabbed the thing to take a closer look—and almost dropped it as soon as the heft transferred to my hands. “Oof, this is really heavy!”
Nan shook her head and tutted at me. “Well, it’s not made of paper, dear.”
“What kind of art class are you taking, anyway?” I said as I appreciated how the various scrap metals had come together to create something new and beautiful.
“It’s a little bit of everything—sculpture, welding, landscapes, still-lifes, nudes.” She winked at that last one, and I had no doubt that this meant the nudes were her entire reason for signing up in the first place.
“Sounds like a good time,” I said with a laugh. My nan was always finding something new and exciting to occupy her time. Apparently, this included advertising my closely kept secret to all of Blueberry Bay.
Nan caught me studying the sign with a nervous expression and explained, “It’s for your business, dear. Seeing as I’m your assistant, I figured I’d make myself useful.”
“But we haven’t even officially opened yet,” I argued. I loved Nan and was excited she wanted to help, but the added pressure didn’t make this big career transition any easier on me.
“Yes, you really do need to get on with it already,” my grandmother told me as she furrowed her brow in my direction.
I groaned even though she was one-hundred percent right about this. “Okay, but I don’t want people to know I talk to animals, remember?” That was the other weird thing about the last couple weeks.
My memory was a bit fuzzy, but also my mind seemed to be more open. I still didn’t know how I could talk to Octo-Cat, but lately I’d been able to hear other animals besides him, too.
First there were the birds on the rooftop, then a curious squirrel in my garden. I’d even managed to listen in on a great big buck I’d startled in the woods outside our manor house. My ability to understand other animals was touch and go, and also a brand new complication in my already crazy life.
It had always been Octo-Cat and only Octo-Cat, and I really didn’t know how I felt about becoming a full-on Dr. Dolittle these days. If word spread among the animal kingdom that I could understand their needs, would they all start swarming me with their legal problems?
I was way out of my depth here, considering I was just a paralegal and had no great passion for the law—other than choosing to uphold it most of the time in my day-to-day life.
“Where’s Octo-Cat?” I asked, craning my neck to glance up the grand staircase but not finding him at the top. Normally, he liked hanging out up there this time of day because it was when the skylights dumped lots of warm sunlight in that exact spot.
“He’s around here somewhere, I’m sure,” Nan answered dismissively as she took the sign back from me and studied it with a huge, self-satisfied grin on her face.
“When did you last see him?” I asked, checking his other favorite nap spots. Maybe the sun wasn’t following its normal, predictable pattern today. Perhaps cloud cover had interfered. I knew my cat well enough to know he hadn’t voluntarily changed his routine.
Something was off, and the sooner I figured out what that was, the better I’d feel going into the rest of the day.
Nan came over and gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “I watched an episode of Criminal Intent with him during my mid-morning tea. That was only a little more than two hours ago. I’m sure he’s fine, dear.”
But I wasn’t. Not at all.
I’d already lost him briefly a couple weeks ago, when he’d ended up on Caraway Island as if by magic. I still had no idea how he’d gotten out there or why I couldn’t remember going with Nan to pick him up. All I knew is I needed to find my cat, and I needed to find him now.
“Help me look for him. Would you?” I asked Nan.
She nodded and tucked the metal sign away in the closet, then together we conducted a thorough search of both the house and the yard.
“Well, that’s strange,” Nan said, scratching her forehead. “Maybe he’s just out for a walk and lost track of time.”
Again, this was not how my cat operated. If I so much as tried to sleep in an extra minute, I’d get an earful about how disappointed he was in me. He did use his cat door as Nan suggested, but he never strayed far.
At least not until today.
A swatch of white appeared at the bottom of the driveway, and I watched as the mail truck drew closer and closer.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” the mail lady, Julie, trilled as she rummaged through her sack. “A light load today,” she said next as she handed me a stack of mail that had been folded together using a thin rubber band.
“Thank you, Julie!” I called after her, biting my lip as I quickly flipped through the junk mail, bills, and solicitations.
But then I found an unfamiliar envelope, one that had no return address and was addressed simply to “Octavius” Fulton.
Yes, to my cat.
I swallowed hard and tore it open without even the slightest moment’s hesitation…