Chapter six: Information and a Loss

Later that morning, I went to have a talk with Tugger. We ended up talking in the broken kitchen sink; eating the leftover salmon Gustav had eaten for dinner. I dug my claws into the fish tail, blood dribbling down my chin as I chewed.

"You were really excited to get me involved in those murders Tugger," I growled, licking my lips, "and then you go and withhold really important information!"

Tugger grunted, "The sec'th don' men' mush. Lod ah Mumbo jumbo," through a mouthful of fish.

"Beg pardon?" I asked politely.

Tugger managed to swallow and grumbled, "The sect's nothing. A cheap thrill or two to see who's chicken and who's not. It's all bullshit anyway."

"That's not what I'd call it," I growled again.

Tugger gave me an odd look.

"The sect's been going on for quite a while," he told me, "Old Deuteronomy teaches the gospel of Jellicle, the Everlasting Cat as its high priest and over the years its grown in numbers. That's all."

"Old Deuteronomy?" I frowned. "I take it Old Deuteronomy is that master of ceremonies with all the charm of a viper?"

"Yeah, that's him," Tugger nodded, "But Mistofelees, I promise you, the whole things harmless. No ones even sure who Jellicle was or if he even existed. Now can we eat?"

"Yes, of course," I shrugged, as Tugger skewered another piece of fish with his claws. "And maybe later you can introduce me to this genius you were telling me about?"

Tugger didn't answer me. He just gushed, "For a can opener, this guy's a damn good cook."

* * *

"Is food all you think about?" I asked Tugger as we walked along the wall towards a beautiful house.

"I think," Tugger snapped, offended. "I read a book once."

"Oh did you?" I smirked, "A cook book?"

"Watch it pretty boy," he growled.

We came up the steps of the house. I was surprised the door was open. Walking in, the first thing I noticed were the two enormous portraits of two ancient Mayans, partially nude and going at it like rabbits. Besides that monstrosity, the room was quite nice with varnished wood floors and leather-backed chair.

"Nice place," I commented, inhaling the clean smell of the place, "Are we in the home of an art collector or a pimp?"

"I don't know," Tugger shrugged. "I think this guy's can opener is some kind of doctor or scientist. Biologist, parapsychology, . . ." He teetered off. "Come on, let's go find him."

We headed up a winding marble staircase. At the top, we were met with another portrait. This one was of a middle-aged man with white hair, dressed in black and thin glasses perched on his nose. His eyes held a certain curiosity about them, yet there was also something unnatural in them. Something that terrified me. The name underneath the portrait read Gregor Johann Mendel. Tugger arrived next to me and saw me staring at the portrait. However, he didn't say anything.

"Welcome."

We turned our heads. A gangly orange tabby was perched on a desk, tapping something into the keyboard of a computer. He hopped down, wincing slightly, and walked slowly towards us.

"I take it you enjoyed the tour of the place," he smiled.

"Old timer," Tugger jested, good-naturedly, "this brainiac is Mistofelees. And this even bigger brainiac is Skimbleshanks."

"Mistofelees," Skimbleshanks smiled, "Mistofelees. Yes, I think you and I are going to get along just fine. May I offer you two something to eat?"

"No thank you," I smiled back, "we've already eaten."

"Actually," Tugger piped up, giving me the evil eye, "I could go for something right about now."

"Ah, there is some fresh liver in my bowl," Skimbleshanks told him. Tugger trotted off back down the stairs.

Skimbleshanks hopped stiffly back up to the computer.

"I must say Skimbleshanks," I said, hopping up onto next to him, "I never thought I would see a cat typing on the computer."

"It has taken years of practice," Skimbleshanks smiled, "If you like I could teach you sometime."

"I would like that," I smiled, "but right now, what do you know about the murders."

Skimbleshanks nodded and started tapping out a word on the computer.

"Mistofelees," he turned to me, "Do you know the meaning of this word?"

I read the word he had written. Felidae.

"Could it be the biological name in which our family is classified?" I asked. "Cats as they are usually called?"

"Felidae," Skimbleshanks nodded. "Evolution has created an astounding number of creatures. Not one, however, deserves the respect and appreciation as the family Felidae."

With another click, a long list of names appeared on the screen.

"Whoa, what's all this?" I gasped.

"It is a detailed list of every inhabitant of the district," Skimbleshanks smiled proudly, "Name, age, race, sex, markings, lineage, personality traits, distinguishing features, state of health, etc. It started out as a simple fun project, but then I realized that it could be used to help solve the murders." With another click, five names were highlighted red.

"Do you know that all the victims-" I began.

"Were all randy males?" Skimbleshanks finished. "Yes and apart from that, there is no connection between them."

"I have an idea," I pondered, "Tell the computer to give us the breeds of our victims."

"Not a bad idea." Skimbleshanks taped the keys. After a whir of noise, the five names were up on the screen, organized like this:

Name and Breed

Admetus: European Shorthair

Growltiger: European Shorthair

Bill Bailey: European Shorthair

Munkustrap: European Shorthair

Alonzo: European Shorthair

"Well, there's an interesting fact," I said, smiling at my own brilliance. "Besides being male and horny, all our victims are European Shorthairs."

"No, not all," Skimbleshanks sighed, "I have yet to enter the sixth victim to our list."

"Sixth victim?" I gasped.

Skimbleshanks began typing. V-I-C-T-

"Victoria!" I cried out.

Skimbleshanks bowed his head solemnly.

"Yes," he whispered. "Victoria."

"But- but- that's impossible!" I realized I was screaming. "I was just talking to her a few hours ago!"

"Grizabella had just given me the news before you arrived," Skimbleshanks informed me, "She's a reliable source".

I wasn't listening. I took off, racing down the stairs and out the front door. I raced through the streets, praying some mistake had been made. I ran until I reached Victoria's house. I climbed up on the roof, looked through the skylight and nearly threw up.

Victoria was stretched out on the elegant rug, her head nearly completely severed from her body. Trails of flesh still strung the two pieces together. Her lovely white fur was completely scarlet. I was hyperventilating, tears threatening to flow, as I stared into Victoria's face, her poor eyes dark and lifeless.

* * *

"Her eyes were the worst," I told Tugger later, as we rested in a neighboring backyard. "Wide and staring, as thought the last thing she wished for, even at the moment of her death, was to see."

"It's sad Mistofelees," Tugger said, scratching his ear, "But life goes on."

I glared at him. "Did you find that cliché in the one and only book you've boasted about reading?" I snarled.

Tugger looked taken aback. "I was just trying to help," he apologized.

I dug my claws into the grass. "I swear, that the lowlife that killed Victoria is going to pay. You hear me you bastard!" I shouted, "You're going to pay!"

"Yeah, we'll get you shit head," Tugger growled.

I got to my feet and Tugger followed me.

"Forget what Skimbleshanks said," I sighed, "Victoria was killed because she knew too much."

"Was it because she talked to me?" I thought. "If so, it meant the murder was watching my every move. This wasn't just a psychopath. It was a calculating, cold-blooded killer!"