Chapter 4. Much Ado About Cats.
Some two weeks had transpired since hearing the terrible news about Captain Cuddles-Wuddles' sudden and inexplicable disappearance. Summoning every ounce of artistic ability laying dormant within, and armed with a 64 count box of crayons, I created what was, in my humble opinion, the most captivating flier to ever be conceived by any human being recorded in the annals of history. It was nothing short of a masterpiece. 100 copies were promptly distributed around town, in all the hot spots - Ralph's Five-and-Dime, the Rocky Top Café, Ronny's Feed-and-Seed, Connie's Cut & Curl, Jimmy's Discount Spatula Warehouse, the town dump, etc, etc, etc.
Taking it a step further, I won the hearts of local dairy farmers, who allowed me to post this, in my humble opinion, breathtaking portrait on the business side of every milk carton in the local area:
Pretty soon, the whole town was abuzz with the news. Local newspapers featured the story on the front pages. Special radio announcements were made, interrupting even the latest hits from local folk band "Uncle Ray and the Whiskey Drinkers". Candlelight vigils were held daily downtown. Republicans and Democrats alike joined forces, putting aside partisan politics, to raise awareness throughout the great Volunteer State. But, sadly enough, all to no avail. With every passing day, the outlook was beginning to look more and more bleak.
Chapter 5. Conjecture in the Café.
The first rule in any criminal detective work, as any good sleuth should be familiar, is to identify the motive behind the crime. What would be gained? Who is the beneficiary? Equally important is the question of assumptions, or more precisely, what underlying assumptions about the case have been neglected, not being given proper consideration?
It was these questions, and more, that I intended to ponder when I arrived home on the eve of January 20th, 2011. Befuddled and confounded by the lack of response to my fliers and milk cartons ads, and exhausted from another long weary week at school, I tossed my backpack in a dark corner where it would remain untouched for the entirety of the weekend, removed my deerskin moccasins and coonskin cap, poured myself a tall glass of sweet iced tea, sank deeply into the crevices of my rocking chair, propped my feet upon an old empty wooden barrel, and proceeded to ponder. And ponder. And.. ponder...
When I awoke nearly two and a half hours later in the same position, only slightly more molded to the contour of the rocking chair, it dawned upon me that my feeble brain was no match for such an incomprehensible case to crack. I needed help. I needed to harness the most brilliant, the most penetrating, and the most facile minds Knox County had to offer. I also needed a sandwich. So, dawning my moccasins and coonskin cap once again, I headed down to the proverbial wellspring of all human wisdom - the Rocky Top Café.
Just as I had hoped, the folks down at the Rocky Top Café were heatedly debating the whereabouts of Captain Cuddle-Wuddles. I ordered a smoked ham sandwich on pumpernickel rye. No tomatoes. Extra spicy brown mustard and a dill pickle. Large Marge, the 340 lb voluptuous cashier, took my order and Charlene masterfully assembled the respective components, creating a delectable work of art unrivaled by any other deli in the local area, a delectable work of art that was sure to knock my socks off and tantalize my taste buds.
As I waited, I made my rounds in the café, chatting with all the regulars and drawing upon the great well of wisdom. The general consensus was that The Captain had probably fallen in love and ran away on a tryst, as young naive cats are prone to do. Some surmised that he had become philosophical, contemplating the profound mysteries of earth and heaven - the absolute sovereignty of God, total depravity of man, and the immutability of his nature, and how all this relates to cats. Others, like old man Herschel, speculated that the Captain was restless, and unsure if he was ready to settle down and take up the fatherly responsibility of raising a litter of kittens. Others were of the opinion that he yearned for the profligate life of a stray once again. Still others suspected that he yearned for fame and success, like recent internet sensations Rocky the Standing Cat, or Joey the News-cats-ter, or that one cat who won first prize at the Westminster Dog Show? All plausible ideas.
Walter made the most convincing case, however. Citing an article he had recently read written by a prominent cat psychologist in San Francisco, he explained how "large households of cats, especially those with 10 or more, can often become a breeding ground of envy that can develop into contempt if not handled properly". Walter then cited another article from the same author explaining how "adolescent male cats (those aged 15 - 20 in cat years) often go through a period of rebellion where they are prone to drastic mood swings and temper tantrums, are susceptible to the temptations of the flesh, and even refuse to wear adorably cute outfits".
Fascinating. I suddenly recalled how Myrtle described the subtle changes in his behavior during the 4-week period leading up to his disappearance. He seemed somewhat aloof and withdrawn, no longer willing to lap up milk from Myrtle's cupped hand. He seemed somewhat irritable and emotionally unstable, crashing from ebullient highs to gloomy contemplative lows, and back up again. He shunned all beckonings and even refused to wear his custom knit socks. He was pugnacious, as evident by the increased scuffles with the other cats, especially Mr. Whiskers and Sir Snuffle Muffins. And, if my calculations are correct, did he not just celebrate his 17th birthday in cat years? Which would put him squarely in the middle of the troublesome age range that the cat psychologist described? The clues were suddenly falling into place, one by one.
"Smoked ham on pumpernickel rye!" announced Large Marge.
I thanked her, slipped her a five, and winked at Charlene.
"Keep the change, Margie." I said, with as much urbane suavity I was capable of.
I took my sandwich and when I glanced down at the counter, I noticed something that hadn't been there before. At least, not that I had seen. It was a business card, mysterious and incredibly low-budget:
As imperceptibly as possible, I slipped one of the cards into my pocket. Satisfied with the results of my intelligence collection efforts, and soon to be satisfied with a delicious sandwich, I bid farewell to the fine folks at the Rocky Top Café, and sauntered out the door armed to the teeth with valuable clues and conjecture, as well as this mysterious business card. My next step? Do what any sensible man would do - consult a private eye.
Chapter 5. Iris Peppercorn, Private Eye.
It took me a few days, but after scouring nearly every street in town, I finally stumbled upon the offices of Gary Litton, Private Eye. It was inconspicuously tucked away in an old dilapidated office building that sold used spy equipment, just as one would expect.
I knocked on the front door. Once, twice, thrice. On the third time, it suddenly opened, seemingly on its own accord.
I entered a dimly lit, empty room.
"Hello?" I could hear my own voice echo off the bare brick-and-mortar walls. Nobody answered.
The door latched shut behind me, which made the room even darker.
"Hello??" I yelled again, a bit louder. I peered down an adjoining hallway, and noticed a light glowing from under one of the many closed doors. I ambled slowly towards the door, and before I could even knock, I heard a voice from within. A lovely voice with a distinct northeastern accent.
"Come in, kid."
The door squeaked loudly as it opened. I stepped into a windowless room, with a low hanging ceiling lamp that swayed from side to side like a pendulum. It looked like some kind of interrogation room, the kind you would grill someone in for hours. The sole decoration on the wall was a topographical map of Tennessee with various cities highlighted in yellow. A few darts had been thrown into the map, some of which still dangled loosely and some which had already fallen below. The desk was covered in stacks of papers, file folders, a smoking ashtray, and a red notebook. Behind the desk sat a young lady, whose face was partially obscured by the low hanging lamp. From what I could tell, she was probably some secretary or assistant to Mr. Gary Litton.
"Mr. Johnson, I presume?" she said, in her melodious voice.
"Yes.. how.. did you know my name?" I asked, a bit startled.
"That's my job, Mr. Johnson. To know things. And, if I don't know the answer, to find out." she said, standing from her chair to file away some documents in the adjacent filing cabinet.
I could tell she was a classy lady. And, when she stood up from her chair, my suspicions were confirmed. She was tall, and appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore sensibly low heels along with a mesmerizing black velvet dress that fit the contours of her hourglass figure in a way that seemed to take a man's mind off Captain Whats-his-name, at least momentarily. Her eyes were hazel brown and like that of a sphinx - mysterious and magnetizing. Her golden locks of hair were well groomed and fell freely over shoulders and neck, partially covering her pearl earrings, like a grapevine might cascade down over its delectable green clusters in the summer.
"Look, Miss...." I stammered, mesmerized by her beauty.
"Peppercorn. Iris Peppercorn", said she, finishing my sentence. It was a name you would expect someone to have in the early 20th century, when names of flowers were wildly popular - Iris, Daisy, Daffodil, or Daffy, Petunia, Rosemary, Lilly, Jasmine, Myrtle, Violet, Ginger, etc. Although, I suppose not all flower names were big winners - Hibiscus, Hydrangea, Geranium, Snapdragon, Rhododendron, Chrysanthemum.
"Ah, yes. Ms. Iris Peppercorn.. I was expecting to meet a Mr. Gary Litton, the private eye. I found his card at the Rocky Top Café."
"Gary's out of town, busy busting up a molasses ring over in Johnson City."
"Well, Ms. Peppercorn, perhaps you could be of some assistance. I'm looking for a cat. A cat named Capt..."
"Captain Cuddle-Wuddles?"
"Precisely. You've heard of him?"
"I've seen the fliers around town, kid." She rummaged through her trash bin, and pulled out a crumpled flier - my flier. "I found this one in the parking lot at Ernie's Sewage Pump & Dump down the road. In my entire life, I've never seen such a pathetic attempt at a cat portrait. Hideous." As she said this, I could feel my sense of self-esteem shrivel away inside, as a spider web shrivels at the touch. How many hours had I spent on what I considered to be a masterpiece, the pinnacle, the zenith of human artistic ability?
"That's him, Miss Peppercorn. That's Captain Cuddle-Wuddles. I need to find him, and soon." I replied, with as much nonchalance I could muster.
She opened the red notebook on her desk, scribbled something in it, and said, "Listen up good, kid. I need four weeks to work the case. Meet me under the Henley Street bridge on February 20th. 7:00 am sharp." She closed the red notebook, lit up a cigarette, exhaled a ring of smoke, and said in a cautionary tone, "Be a minute late and people will be posting fliers of YOU around town. Kapeesh?" She crumpled up the flier and tossed it into the trash bin.
She was a mysterious figure indeed. I nodded my head in tacit agreement, backed out of the room and into the dark cavernous hallway. The front door opened once again, seemingly on its own accord, and out I went, reciting to myself the date and time of our planned rendezvous, committing it to memory.
"February 20th, 7:00 am. February 20th, 7:00 am. February 20th..."
(to be continued...)
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