Two - Like It Or Lump It
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The older woman stopped at the counter, banging on it loudly. "You there! Girl!" she called imperiously.
The desk sergeant looked up from her cluttered hands, assessing the woman in a heartbeat. "Oh Mrs Featherstone, what is it today?" she asked, hoping her voice had come across more polite than it had sounded to her own ears.
"It's that neighbour!" she cried. "How many times to I have to complain about her before you'll arrest her!"
"Mrs Featherstone, you know we can't arrest people for shouting 'Get that shirt off, Eomer!' at ten thirty at night," she said apologetically.
"Well you could at least caution her!" Mrs Featherstone protested. "She was at it again last night - this time it was someone called 'Spock'. Honestly - she really should get out more. And you know she's always been fond of terrorising my cat? Well she's gone one step beyond this time!"
"'Terrorising' is a strong word," she sighed. "In what way has she terror-"
"She melted Mr Tinkles!" she said, rapping at the counter top again. "I want some of your men to come and see what she's done to him. And I want them to come and see what she's done to him now."
"Melted?" the sergeant asked. "Did you say melted?"
"Yes! He's just lying there, poor thing, looking like brown sugar and glue all mixed up - save his one tufty ear! And I want her to be arrested for murder!"
"Mrs Featherstone, please calm down," she said quickly.
"Get the chief!" she called to the lobby at large. "I want the chief! You young things wouldn't understand! It takes someone of wisdom, someone of experience, someone of-"
"What's been 'melted'?" came a voice, and she swung around to see a tallish man of the dark blond persuasion, watching her with intent.
"-someone of freckles," she blurted.
"Excuse me?" he asked.
"Oh, Agent… uhm…" the desk sergeant began.
"Pegg," he replied, nodding to her.
The older woman grasped the lapel of his suit, pulling on it slightly. "Oh Officer Pegg, you have to help me! He was my only friend, my only companion, my only comfort. Me, a poor old woman with nothing but the little furry friend in all the world," she moaned, staring up into his aggrieved green eyes.
He put a hand up slowly, loosening hers from his suit. "That's too bad, Mrs…?"
"Featherstone," she said quickly. "But you can call me Elsie."
"Elsie," he said with some unease. "You said something about 'melted'?"
"Yes - my cat, Mr Tinkles. He was just fine when I let him out last night, but he didn't come back. I heard that woman downstairs and her DVD player, and then this morning I went out to find him and there he was - all gloopy and - well-"
"Melted?" he hazarded.
"Melted!" she confirmed.
"Right. Well I'll call my partner to meet us at your place, Mrs Featherstone. We'll also need to talk to this neighbour of yours," he said, already feeling in his pocket for his phone.
"Oh thank you!" she breathed, clasping her hands together in delight. "Thank you, Officer Pegg!"
"It's 'Agent' Pegg," he corrected as he flipped the phone open and thumbed a few buttons. "FBI."
"FBI! Wonderful!" she grinned.
Agent Pegg was already listening to something down the phoneline. "Yeah, Sam? Nah, think I just missed you - I just got to the station. You got what?" He paused, eyeing Mrs Featherstone. "Well ain't that right up our alley? Speaking of alleys, get back over here. We got another one. No, not a person - a cat." He paused to listen, checking his watch. "Get coffee on the way over. Hang on," he added, and then looked down at the woman. "What's your address, ma'am?"
"939 Acacia," she said neatly. "It's right at the end of the road. The oldest house there is," she added proudly.
Agent Pegg nodded, then lifted the phone again. "You got that? Great. Don't forget the coffee. And if the girl on the counter is Alice, I want the free doughnut she owes me." He snapped the phone shut and slipped it back in his pocket. "Well then, Mrs Featherstone - why don't I give you a lift back to your place so I can get a close look at Mr - what was his name again?"
"Mr Tinkles," she said, already folding her hand round his upper arm. "Come on then."
He looked up at the desk sergeant, but she could only shrug helplessly. "Could you fill the chief in on this?" he called as he was guided backwards to the front doors of the police station.
"Sure thing, Agent Pegg," she nodded. She watched as he was wheeled around and hauled out of the doors.
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Dean stopped under the metal fire escape, hands in his trouser pockets, looking up.
"He's not up there, Agent Pegg - he's down here," Mrs Featherstone urged.
Dean turned from his study of the escape route, looking down at the elderly lady. "Just wondering how someone could get down here and - and do whatever they did, without someone seeing them."
"It was her upstairs - you go talk to her, you'll see what I mean," she snapped. She looked down at the browny-yellow puddle of something that looked like it had used to be molasses. A small furry triangle of something vaguely ear-related was slap-bang in the middle, making it look rather like a piece of modern art. "Oh Mr Tinkles - don't you worry, Agent Pegg here will see to the nasty lady."
Dean took a few steps over, crouching and inspecting the goop. "Just like yesterday's," he muttered to himself. He heard the familiar sound of giant feet trying to be quiet as they crunched the gravel and looked up. "Agent Doohan. Come and look at this."
Sam nodded to Mrs Featherstone, a slightly nervous look to his features, before sliding round her and looking down. "Another one?"
"Another one. Happened last night." Dean got up slowly. "So what have you got?"
"That rubbery stuff I found in the office? I had the chief analyse it for me," he said, producing the small lump from his pocket. It was lovingly wrapped in a Ziplock bag, a huge sticker on the side quoting all kinds of codes and order numbers. "There is no way in Hell you're going to guess what it is."
"So why don't you just tell me?"
Sam smiled, somewhat apologetically, and raised the bag higher. "It's a mixture of candle wax, pig fat, and… semen."
"Come again?" Dean asked, his disgusted eyes flicking up at his younger brother.
"Someone did. And then they mixed it up and… I don't know, made something out of it."
Dean's affronted gaze this time landed on the bag. "That's just gross. So whodunnit? Witches? They're always skeevin' things up with fluids and internal organs and whatevers."
"Could be," Sam shrugged.
"Excuse me, Agent Doohickey," Mrs Featherstone interrupted.
"Doohan," Sam corrected, turning to her and switching on a twenty megawatt smile, complete with sunny eyebrows of polite subservience.
"Yes, well, whatever," she managed, unable to keep up the bluster under the inescapable power of his attention. "I want to know when you're going to arrest that girl upstairs. She did this, you know."
"Not unless she's a man at weekends," Dean muttered under his breath.
"We'll go talk to her right now," Sam said soothingly. "I think it'd be best if you went inside, Mrs Featherstone. We'll take it from here," he said, patting her shoulder.
"Right. Yes. You see that you do," she said briskly, before nudging him to one side and carrying on to the back door of her apartment. She produced her keys and let herself in while the two agents looked at each other.
Sam's hands went into his pockets. "Shall we?"
"If the girl upstairs is a witch, we find her demon power supply and toast the two of them," Dean nodded.
He turned for the path round the side of the block, going left and following it round to the front entrance. Sam came to a stop beside him, pressing his finger into the small black button for the first floor. There was a long silence. Dean checked his watch quickly.
"It's noon on a Saturday. What's she doing, recovering from a Friday night black mass?" he asked.
Sam pressed the bell again and finally the speakerbox spluttered into life. "Yeah?" came a weary voice.
"Sleeping off a normal Friday night out with friends, maybe?" Sam said.
"Or getting some shut-eye after melting down the town cats," Dean put in.
Sam turned to the speaker and pushed the 'talk' button. "Hi. We're with the FBI, ma'am, just to ask you a few questions about Mrs Featherstone?"
"What's the matter, has the nosy old bat died at last?" was the caustic response.
Dean opted to rub at his nose quickly, but Sam just knew he was hiding a smile.
Sam looked back at the box. "We just have a few questions, ma'am. Then we'll be gone."
"Fine. Come on up," the voice replied.
There was a click and the door next to them buzzed. Sam grasped the handle and pulled it open, silencing the buzz, and Dean went past him to the staircase. The walk up the two half-flights of stairs behind them, they came through the door at the side of the landing to find a very nice carpeted hallway. The only door on the level beckoned just a few feet away, and Dean was already at the entrance, lifting his hand to the doorbell, before Sam stopped behind him.
"Dean," he said quickly.
"What?"
"If she's a witch…"
"We'll look for the signs, ok?" Dean said. "Jeez. What am I, fourteen?" He pressed the doorbell.
The wooden entrance was whisked open to reveal a roughly five-foot-five young lady of dangerously attractive bedhair the colour of fresh, wicked hot chocolate. Her sleepy eyes took in the two men with surprise, her hands going to the securely wrapped, thick cotton bathrobe to make sure it was as bonded to her as it could be.
"Uh - hi," she blurted, stepping back. "Please come in."
"Thanks," Dean nodded, his face melting into the world's most appreciative smile as he took a step toward her.
A little colour flushed her cheeks as she slammed her gaze to the carpet, holding the door open further for the two men to enter. She walked the door shut, Dean's head tilting to follow the bathrobe down to its inevitable conclusion, his eyes sliding down the backs of her legs as if there would be a test on them later. Sam cleared his throat. Dean looked at him, a dopey, open-mouthed expression on his face. Sam's eyebrows gathered together and exerted the mighty power of disapproval. Dean's features simply morphed into amusement.
"So, agents," she said quickly, turning around but staying by the door. "How can I help you?"
Dean looked at her with a wicked smile, opening his mouth. But it was Sam who answered her, drawing her nervous gaze from the shorter man to himself. "First of all, what's your name, and how long have you lived here?" he asked, pulling a notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket.
"Claire Benton," she said slowly, her face now passing for normal, save the slight confusion. "I've rented this place for the past three years."
"Any problems with your neighbours?" Sam asked, making notes.
"Only Mrs Featherstone. She complains about my TV," she sighed.
"Too loud? Or is she just too old?" Dean asked knowingly.
Claire looked at him and in a flash the red colour to her cheeks was back. "Uh - uhm… Too old, I think," she havered. "Look, what's this about?"
"We're just looking into the disappearance of your downstairs neighbour's cat," Sam said loudly. "Would you know anything about that?"
"The cat? Mr Tinkles?" she asked him. "He's a pest. He climbs up to my side window and miaows to be let in."
"And do you ever let him in?" Dean asked.
Her eyes shifted to him and she put a hand up quickly, curling unruly hair round her ear. "No. I hate cats," she said defensively, looking at Dean's shoes. "What did you say your names were again?" she asked lightly.
"I'm Agent Doohan," Sam said, then pointed to Dean with the end of his pen. "This is Agent Pegg."
She looked up quickly, her eyes going from one to the other in clear surprise. "Doohan? And Pegg? This is a joke, right?"
"No," Sam said slowly, confused.
"Oh, man!" she heaved in relief, throwing her hands up in the air. "I get it! Thanks, guys, really!"
"Woah woah woah," Dean said, one hand up in protest. "What do you get?"
"Michael - Michael at work. He said one day he'd prank me in return for that DVD gag I did on him. Well thanks, honest, you two were great. You even looked the part and everything," she grinned. She shook her head, pointing at Dean. "I should have known. You are way too hot to be an FBI man. What do you two do now, strip, or something?"
Dean's expression of confusion deepened, his eyebrows quirking up in little triangular mountains of bewilderment, his mouth a tiny 'o' shape.
"Ma'am, we're not here to prank you," Sam said clearly.
"Oh yeah? Then what's with the 'Doohan' and 'Pegg' routine?" she chuckled. "You're even wearing red ties!"
"Oh," Dean said in a small voice - and now, as Sam looked at him, he began to appear a little uncomfortable. "Well-"
"Come on, admit it," she said. "Either you two pranksters are the biggest Star Trek fans since Michael at work, or I'm just a witch reading your thoughts."
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