The Great Cat Nap Read online

  The Great Cat Nap

  A.M. Bostwick

  THE GREAT CAT NAP.

  First published by Cornerstone Press, Stevens Point, WI in December 2013.

  This edition published by A.M. Bostwick in October 2014.

  Copyright © 2013 Abigail Bostwick.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  Written by A.M. Bostwick.

  Cover Art © 2014 Tadgh Bentley

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013954887

  ISBN: 978-0-9906857-0-8

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  About the Author

  To my friends and family,

  including the ones with four legs

  PROLOGUE

  THREE MONTHS AGO, JULY

  Her striking beauty stared up at me from the front page of the Monday edition of The Daily Reporter. Even from the black-and-white mug shot published on recycled newsprint, it was evident pain-soaked tears were streaming from her bloodshot, baby blue eyes.

  Yeah, being accused of first-degree, cold-blooded murder could do that to a pretty girl’s face.

  Name’s Ace, and I’m a reporter.

  I’m also a cat.

  I didn’t have time to think about the newspaper hitting stands and driveways tomorrow morning shattering the community’s view of lovely socialite Miss Claire Emerson. Nor did I have time to crash for a Sunday evening nap after a hectic deadline; someone was tapping on the front door.

  Padding a few steps, I peered through the extra large mail slot, bringing in a waft of steaming July humidity. I did a double-take. A stunning white Persian wearing nothing but an anxious expression was trying to get my attention.

  She got it.

  Straightening my whiskers, I held open the door to let her in. She gracefully leapt through and landed at my side in a huff. We were the only ones in the dark office.

  “Is this how you welcome guests? Like newspapers being tossed onto dirty driveways?” she demanded. Her big, round eyes were blue, just like Claire Emerson’s. I could smell the hot summer on her fur.

  “Only if they’re interrupting my nap. Name’s Ace. What can I help you with?”

  “I know who you are, Ace,” she said haughtily. Her flawless profile stood out starkly against the outdated, paneled, ugly walls of the newspaper office. “Why do you think I came all the way downtown in this filth? This traffic? This heat?” She paused to shake her paws free of imaginary grime. The Persian eyed me up and down. “I need you to take a case.”

  “Detective work?” I questioned, half laughing.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ma’am, I’m a reporter. I don’t handle detective cases,” I said, yawning. While I was intrigued by the stunning feline, it was obvious this was going the same place as when dogs chase their tails. Nowhere.

  “But you must help me in my plight!” she demanded, pursing her mouth and scrunching her all too-pink nose.

  I didn’t flinch a whisker. “I can’t get my paws dirty becoming a slanted reporter on the biggest story of the year. I’d be a cat marked for trouble.”

  “You must!” she squealed. I suddenly wished I had gone home with Max that night, my human companion and the newspaper’s city editor. “Pleeeease!”

  I sighed. Of all the rundown newspapers in all the cities, she had to walk into mine. “I won’t do it,” I replied.

  The Persian opened her mouth to protest, but didn’t utter a word. Her dainty, furry face was suddenly overcome by soft horror. She stared at the front page of tomorrow’s paper. The headline blared “EMERSON ARRESTED, CHARGED WITH MURDER.”

  “Oh, you can’t. You just can’t!” she cried. “Are you actually going to print this rubbish?”

  I stood on the stack of Monday editions, examining her. She looked ready to crumple into kitty litter dust. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

  “My name is Angel,” she said slowly, still staring at the article. “Claire is my human companion. We live together at The Heights. And you have to help me.”

  I took a step back. Or rather, four steps. Whoa, this was a high-class cat. One who was in a lot of trouble, if you asked me.

  It’d be a great story.

  But she wasn’t here for an interview.

  Angel looked into my eyes. “Oh, Ace, you just have to help us.”

  Holy cats. With a pile of evidence ripe to convict and nothing to go on to prove Claire’s innocence, I wasn’t able to promise anything. I exhaled; I’d always been a sucker for a pretty face.

  “You can pay in tuna fish?”

  “That’s kind of steep,” she hedged, sniffling.

  “Well, a cat’s gotta eat. And I’m on a reporter’s salary.” I flicked my tail toward a bag of dry cat food by the entryway. Kuddly Kitty Krunchies. Awful stuff.

  “Okay, we have an agreement,” Angel said, extending a paw.

  I took it.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Outside the double pane window, leaves grew crispy and dry in the cold autumn wind. Their pigment was fading, transforming to crimson, copper, and gold. The wind shook the leaves loose and they fell below the barren branches. It was a beautiful way to die. In tune, a mourning dove cooed a sad song.

  I stared absent-mindedly through the window at the county administrative office on a gray October morning. I was trying to stay awake during the Most Boring Public Property Committee Meeting of the Year. Possibly ever.

  “I think we should rename the county fairgrounds Fair Fairgrounds,” noted a male committee member wearing a flannel shirt and low-heeled boots which looked suspiciously feminine.

  “Too hard to say,” the committee chair, clad in a banana yellow polo shirt and ill-fitting brown polyester jacket, countered. “It should simply be Lakeville Fairgrounds.”

  “Oh, sure. Easy for you to say,” chimed in the lone female committee member, her face glowing red. “Being from Lakeville and all. What about my constituents from Branford? This county has two cities, you know!”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you or your constituents, Wilma,” Mr. Ill-Fitting Jacket began to huff, turning a shade of cherry himself.

  “How about Happy Fairgrounds?” interrupted another, running a hand through his thatch of balding hair. With that, they all burst into a single, droning conversation, each struggling to be heard over the other.

  Right.

  From my station under a plastic chair, I utilized my sharp teeth to untie Max’s shoelaces. Max stirred and batted my paw away, mumbling at me to leave him alone, then looked around groggily, rubbed his blue eyes and mouthed a thank you for waking him.

  Max was a good guy. He took me in as a kitten from the shelter during a cold, Wisconsin winter here in Lakeville. He was simply trying to write a story that day about funding shortages for homeless animals, but I gave him the big doe eyes. Max called me his “ac
e,” or Assistant City Editor. The time spent at The Daily Reporter fostered my passion for journalism, and five years later I’m a short-haired, pure-bred reporter. I have green eyes, sleek black fur, and a black nose to match, but I’m too modest to tell you I’m a handsome fellow; when I bother to groom, that is.

  The newspaper businesses could be fast-paced, ruthless, and never-ending.

  Just not so much today.

  Compiling information from hours-long county board gatherings such as these could be excruciating. Spinning a lackluster agenda item into a gripping article was most certainly not the exciting part of this job.

  My mind back-tracked to this past July when my journalistic abilities had been put to the ultimate test. I’ve never been sweet-talked into using my reporter skills to play detective before she walked into my life.

  Angel.

  Despite the Persian’s steadfast belief in Claire’s innocence, I wasn’t so sure. A few days into my investigation with the help of my best friend Sloan, however, gave me reason to believe in her. Much like writing an article for the newspaper, I gathered the facts, interviewed the players, and eventually put together the real story. Culminating on one dark and stormy night—just like the mystery novels say—the entire story broke when my good friends and I managed to nab the real killer. We even managed to alert police, bringing the killer to justice. Claire and Angel were happily reunited, and I ate tuna for a month.

  Now, that was thrilling.

  It was also dangerous. Reckless. I didn’t like to think about that part so much. I hadn’t planned to continue my detective moonlighting. I was, after all, just a reporter. The events of the summer both enthralled and frightened me. There were close calls and brushes with near-death, experiences most small-time reporters don’t run into. It wasn’t just my hide I was worried about; it was my friends. Risking our nine lives isn’t something I should dip any whiskers into again.

  “Is Fun, Food, and Farm Animals Fairgrounds still an option?” a committee member mumbled. “We have to cover this agenda item before we can move onto the next: enforcement of the speed bump in Parking Lot A.”

  I sighed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Max and I entered the newspaper office later in the afternoon, escaping the biting wind as the door slammed behind us. Tied to the door were long forgotten Christmas bells, shaking in greeting. They were almost in season again.

  “Well, Ace, I need some serious caffeine after that meeting,” Max said to me as he headed towards the break room, running a hand through his tousled blonde hair.

  Max lived at The Daily Reporter; well, practically lived there. When he wasn’t here, he was at his little duplex a few blocks down. Like Max, I spent most of my time here at the paper. I only go home on occasion, but always stop by on holidays; better food. For the most part though, I prefer my solitude in the stacks of newspapers.

  I entered Max’s office, jumped on the desk and, with a flick of my paw, turned on the lamp. His office looked like every other harried newspaper editor’s office: stacks of dusty papers, an array of awards hanging crooked on the wall, and a dead plant forgotten in the corner. I settled by the warm computer screen and listened to the wind howl outside.

  The Daily Reporter, much like many other small, locally-owned newspapers across the nation, hammered out a daily read for a decent sized circulation of subscribers and newsstands. Seven days a week, staff put together the paper on a five-hour deadline to press. It was a stressful race against the clock day-in-and-day-out, but I liked the business. Newspapers are a dying breed, but without these watchdogs—and watchcats—of journalism, who would keep after the government? Report the bad news as well as the good? We did a fine job. The Branford Examiner was the only other newspaper publication in our county, honestly more of a disreputable tabloid. They boasted political headlines such as “GEORGE WASHINGTON REINCARNATED AS EGYPTIAN CAMEL,” and breaking health news like “EATING DONUT HOLES LINKED TO RECURRING TOENAIL FUNGUS.” I found their outlandish reporting style downright offensive to journalism as a whole.

  Moving my tail off his keyboard, Max settled in at his desk, set down his steaming cup of coffee, and began to check email. I stood up, stretched, and thought about taking a snooze in my bed atop the filing cabinet as he deleted a host of junk mail, advertising ninja knives and miracle weight loss products. Just then, an incoming message marked “urgent” caught my attention. A poster flashed on his screen. An eye-catching, gray-blue cat stared back, limbs posed daintily as though promoting a top-notch cat food. Above her, red letters screamed “MISSING: PRIZE WINNING CAT.”

  “This is interesting,” Max muttered, scrolling down the poster to read more. “Ruby the Russian, a Russian Blue five-time national cat show winner, has gone missing today, October 8. Reward offered for her safe return.” A number followed, the area code indicating a Lakeville family.

  I sat up and looked into the deep green, gold-flecked eyes of the missing cat, a thin, pink collar with a silver tag around her neck. It was probably real silver. She was a famous type of cat breed often seen in cat shows; as a mixed Siamese myself, I rarely paid attention to those cat magazine tabloids that exploited rich and famous felines. There was something behind Ruby the Russian’s eyes though, something haunting I couldn’t quite put my paw upon.

  Max hit “print” on the poster, sending it to the communal office printer. I ran to grab it, snagging it with my incisors and bringing it back to Max.

  “Thanks pal. I’ll give a call on this tomorrow,” he said, setting it in his overflowing inbox. He’d probably need a search party to find it later.

  I tried to settle into my bed for a cat nap, but I couldn’t lose myself to dreams. Cat nap. Cat-napping? The blue-gray cat with evocative green eyes kept popping into my line of vision, demanding my attention. What if Ruby hadn’t simply gone missing? What if she’d been taken against her will? What if she was in danger? What if she’d been cat-napped?

  As the day came to a close, Max scooted out of his squeaky office chair and picked up a bag of Kuddly Kitty Krunchies.

  “New and improved flavor, Ace,” Max tried to entice me to my food dish. “Now with salmon-flavored x-bites.”

  I’d tried the x-bites. They tasted like artificial, salmon-flavored, compacted bites of dust.

  I rummaged in the bowl after Max and the remaining staff drifted out of the office for the night, carefully avoiding the x shapes. When all went quiet, and I’d had my fill, I switched the desk lamp back on. I turned to the telephone, pushed the speakerphone button and dialed my best friend, Sloan. I hoped his human companion, Mary, wasn’t there to intercept the call. Sloan picked up on the first ring.

  “Helllloooo?” he purred. Mary must be out. Sloan was a glossy Ragdoll mix with almond-shaped, gray eyes. Known for his cool attitude and tomcat lifestyle, Sloan was my longtime buddy.

  “Sloan. Ace.”

  “Hey! Guess what? I’ve got a date with Misty tonight, the black and white longhair from 6B,” Sloan said. Sloan lived in a downtown apartment building with Mary, kitty-corner from the newspaper office.

  “That’s grand,” I replied absent-mindedly. “I’m wondering what you might know about a gray-blue Russian, though.”

  “Russian? I have a personal rule against dating Russians. Too demanding.”

  “Have you heard anything about a Ruby the Russian gone missing?” I asked.

  “Huh,” he pondered for a beat. “No, I haven’t. But then again, I didn’t see Lily today.”

  Lily was our chatty calico friend who lived at Anne’s Coffee Cup, located downtown.

  “I’m on the story,” I relayed. “I have to wonder, has the show cat been cat-napped?”

  My friend paused. “Are you investigating for an article or solving a mystery?”

  My stomach clenched with apprehension. Sloan had been an integral part of my summer detective excursion. Since then, he’d been chomping at the bit for another crime to solve. But I wasn’t ready. “Just the story, Sloan.”


  “Because you seem like you’re investigating....”

  “Reporting does call for a certain amount of investigating,” I insisted, unwavering. Sloan sighed.

  “Well, Lily’s upstairs getting ready for bed at this hour. You know how early the coffee shop opens up. I suggest you go find some dogs living in the residential area,” he offered. “You know what gossips dogs are.”

  “That I do,” I replied.

  ***

  After hanging up with Sloan, I decided to take his advice. I was too agitated to go back to sleep, and the Kuddly Kitty Krunchies gave me a bit of an upset tummy. Exiting the extra large mail slot on the newspaper office front door, I inhaled deeply. The night was clear and cold, bright stars piercing the sky like diamonds scattered on black velvet. I exhaled, seeing my breath precipitate in front of me as I walked downtown, fur ruffled against the cool gusting air. Night came early this time of year and lingered until dawn.

  Besides a few people dashing from cars to the front door of the downtown supper club, the sidewalk was mine. The community was still getting used to the change of the weather, blood not yet cooled to acclimate for the harsh winter Wisconsin unfailingly dished out every year. On both sides of me, quaint stone buildings rose, glass storefronts displaying their goods. Old-fashioned lamp posts dotted the sidewalk, casting soft, warm glows. People seemed to forget how historic, nostalgic, and unique these destinations could be. Unfortunately, once they started building and developing in East Lakeville, pulling in some big box stores and industries, downtown sort of died. Mom-and-pop businesses struggled to keep their doors open and the streets clean. The string of burglaries this past summer certainly hadn’t helped.

  Walking past the darkened windows of Anne’s Coffee Cup two blocks down, I came to a halt. The same poster from the email was hanging on the door. Ruby the Russian at her prize-winning best, missing and asking to be found. Keeping my steady pace towards the historical housing district, I saw many other posters stuck on the doors of businesses. The Russian’s owners must have been out in full force today, handing out these posters and asking the public for help in finding their missing pet.