The Curious Cat Spy Club Page 5

  “Fish problem?” I say.

  “You know.” Becca gives me a look. “How Wild Oaks has an alligator pond but no pond for the koi fish we rescue. Show him the receipt.”

  Since when do fish need rescuing? I wonder, feeling like I’m reading a mystery that’s missing a chapter. Still, I hand over the receipt.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t working when this sale was made.” Pete shakes his hair that’s so shaggy he reminds me of a sheep dog. “And I can’t keep track of all the customers who buy fish food.”

  I sigh. My clue is leading nowhere fast.

  “But I do know something that could help.” Pete moves down the aisle of fish food to tap a bag with colorful pictures of spotted fish. “We stock this brand of koi fish food at the request of a few customers.”

  “Can you give us names?” Becca asks eagerly.

  “Never been good with names. Besides, my boss wouldn’t like me talking about our customers. Still, that doesn’t mean we can’t discuss geography.” He leans closer to us and whispers, “There’s this street where all the fancy-schmancy custom-built homes came with fish ponds. The koi owners I know live there.”

  “Where?” Leo, Becca, and I ask in unison.

  “Willow Rose Lane.”

  We thank Pete and hurry out the store. When we reach the bike rack Becca explains, “While I was waiting for you, I saw Pete stocking fish food and remembered koi fish food was on the receipt. Lots of people have cats and dogs, but not many keep both cats and koi.”

  “Good thinking,” I say. A breeze whips up, tangling my hair as I bend down to unlock my bike chain. Pushing back my hair, I ask, “How expensive are koi?”

  “Butterfly koi can cost over a thousand dollars.” Becca grabs the handlebars of her bike and kicks up the stand. “Since I couldn’t tell Pete about our kittens, I said I hoped to find a foster home for abandoned koi fish.”

  Leo tilts his head curiously. “Who abandons koi fish?”

  “No one—but Pete doesn’t know that.” Becca grins. “And he gave us a good lead on where to look for the cat dumper.”

  “Willow Rose Lane,” I say with growing excitement because I know what this means.

  I’m going on a stakeout.

  - Chapter 9 -

  Mis-Stake-Out

  There are eighteen houses on Willow Rose Lane, and they all look alike. Spanish adobe style with stone paths winding up to double front doors, perfectly mowed lawns, three-car garages, stained-glass windows, and wrought-iron gates guarding backyards.

  Becca and I bike around the block with Leo skate-boarding beside us like we’re just out for a ride. We meet on the sidewalk on the corner beneath a shady willow tree to strategize.

  The sun is sinking behind treetops and a breeze shivers through branches creating shadows on the road that seem alive. Hidden from view in the shadows, I feel like a for-real spy instead of an ordinary school girl. I imagine I’m James Bond’s daughter, Jamie, or maybe something more exotic like Jasmine. Yeah, I like that—Jazzy Bond, girl sleuth.

  Leo glides up on his gyro-board with the balance of a gymnast as he checks his cell phone. “I’m scrolling through this cool real estate app for information on this street.” In his button-down shirt, black slacks, and polished loafers he looks more like a businessman than a kid. “We need to determine which homes have koi fish.”

  “Or look for a sad mother cat without kittens,” Becca says.

  “And anyone acting suspicious,” I add.

  Leo glances at his phone and he nods. “I’ve circled this block fourteen times but the fences around the backyards are too high to tell which houses have fish ponds. Riding around in circles gets us nowhere. We need a strategy.”

  “We could go door-to-door selling something like when I sold Girl Scout cookies,” Becca suggests.

  Leo scowls. “Do I look like a Girl Scout?”

  “You can wear a wig,” I tease.

  “I’ll loan you my old Girl Scout outfit,” Becca adds.

  “Not funny.” Leo glares at us when we burst out laughing.

  We stop laughing abruptly when there’s shouting from a yard two houses down. A thirtyish woman wearing a purple robe and fuzzy slippers waves a net in the air, stringy brown hair whipping around her face like an evil witch in a fairy tale.

  “Get out of here!” the woman yells.

  Is she yelling at us? I grab my handlebars, ready to hop on my bike and zoom out of here fast. But she isn’t looking our way. She’s waving the fishing net at something behind a crimson bush.

  “I warned you to stay away or I’d kill you!” She lifts the net high like she’s wielding a deadly ax.

  I’ve never heard of death by net. And since when does a killer wear fuzzy slippers? Still, you can’t tell what people are capable of by looking at them.

  I hear a hiss as Witchy Woman lunges with her net and a smoke-gray cat leaps to the top of a nearby fence. I glimpse a shiny pink collar around the cat’s neck before it scampers down the fence.

  The woman may be wearing fuzzy slippers but she moves fast as she chases after the cat, waving the net.

  “Get back here!” she shouts, running around the bushes.

  The fence stops where it meets the house, and the cat can’t go any farther. The cat looks around as if searching for an escape route. Before it can spring to safety, the woman lunges with the net and scoops up the cat.

  “Got you!” she shouts in triumph. With a laugh, she carries the net with the cat struggling and screeching in terror toward the front door.

  “I have to help that cat!” Becca starts to run toward the house.

  “Wait!” I grab the corner of her zebra-striped scarf and yank her back. “You can’t just go rushing into a stranger’s yard.”

  Leo nods. “What if the cat belongs to her? We can’t stop her from bringing her own cat inside the house.”

  “No one threatens to kill her own cat,” Becca argues. “Listen to it cry—the poor thing is terrified.”

  “It’s not her cat,” I say, adding up the clues. “She yelled at it to get out of her yard. But when it didn’t, she tried to catch it. And it’s not a stray because it’s wearing a collar. So I suspect it’s a neighbor’s cat.”

  “Cats love to explore,” Becca says, nodding. “Unfortunately the cat picked the house of a cat-hater.”

  “You don’t think she’ll really kill it?” Leo asks, running his fingers nervously through his blond hair.

  “I’ve heard of people doing worse,” Becca adds with a shudder.

  We huddle together, watching as the woman reaches her porch. She smiles while the cat thrashes, its claws tangled in netting, snagged like a fly in a spider web.

  “Maybe we can’t stop her, but I know someone who can.” Becca whips out her phone. “I’ll call Officer Skeet—he’ll know what to do.”

  “Good idea. Hurry!” I urge.

  Leo frowns, probably because the animal control officer is also the uncle of his enemy. But I only care about saving the cat.

  I clench my hands and hold my breath as the witchy woman walks up her porch steps. She can’t open the door while holding the net, so she shifts the net to one hand and balances it on a brick planter. As she grasps the doorknob, the cat untangles its feet and springs out. It sails over the porch and lands gracefully on the lawn.

  “Run, kitty!” Becca whispers, putting down her phone.

  “Get back here!” the woman shouts, her net dropping to the steps with a clatter. “You can’t get away from me!”

  But the cat is already across her yard. It leaps over a hedge and races down the sidewalk faster than a zorse.

  I want to applaud but we are undercover so I keep my voice low. “Score one for the cat.”

  “If he’s smart, he’ll never come back,” Becca says.

  “The woman’s hostility towar
d the cat is suspicious,” Leo adds.

  “Highly suspicious,” I agree. “And she has a fishing net that she might use for koi fish.”

  “She’s too mean to have pets.” Becca tightens her hands into fists like Warrior Becca, Defender of Helpless Creatures. “I can’t stand people who abuse animals.”

  “Me either,” I agree. “Anyone that cruel to a cat probably hates kittens too. She’s my top suspect for cat-dumper.”

  “We’ll need proof,” Leo says.

  “I made a cap-cam,” I offer. “You can wear like a hat that records everything you see. But that would mean actually going into the yard.”

  “Too risky,” Leo says. “I’ll set up a remote surveillance cam.”

  “You have one?” I ask, surprised. I’ve seen high-tech cams in my spy catalogs and they’re crazy expensive.

  “I will by tomorrow with aerial capabilities.” Leo pulls out his tablet from his back pocket.

  “Huh?” Becca scrunches her forehead. “You mean a flying camera?”

  “Much better,” he says with a mysterious smile.

  “It sounds great … whatever it is.” Becca gives Leo a thumps up. “And I’ll check my social contacts to see if any of my friends live around her or know someone who does.”

  They turn to me, waiting to hear what skills I have to offer. I can lip-read, know surveillance tactics, and have a spy pack. But I hesitate, gnawing on my lower lip. I’ve never shared these secrets with anyone. Just say it, I urge myself. But the words are trapped in my throat. I’m used to watching and listening. I’m not so good at talking about myself.

  My club mates look at me, waiting.

  “Um … I know a little about …” I move deeper into the shade on the sidewalk. “I mean … well, actually, a lot about spying.” I take a huge breath then slowly let it out and tell them everything, starting with Harriet the Spy.

  “Wow!” Becca says. “Lip-reading is coolness.”

  “What’s in your spy pack?” Leo asks.

  “The cap-cam I already told you about, and a flashlight, a laser pen, a magnifying glass, graphite powder, wire, a recording pen, and a lot more.”

  Becca shifts her bicycle so she’s facing me and mouths, “Where did you find the spy stuff?”

  “Internet and thrift stores,” I answer out loud.

  “What?” Leo asks, looking puzzled.

  “You really can lip-read?” Becca mouths.

  “Yes,” I say proudly.

  “Whatever you’re doing, stop it,” Leo orders, hands on his hips, looking suspiciously between us.

  “Just girl talk.” Becca giggles. “Kelsey is just made of coolness.”

  I smile like a compliment from Becca isn’t a big deal but inside I’m flipping cartwheels. Becca, the nicest and most interesting girl ever, thinks I’m coolness.

  “You’re both acting weird,” Leo complains, hopping onto his gyro-board. “There’s nothing I can accomplish today, so I’m leaving.”

  “Are we meeting at the Skunk Shack tomorrow?” I move my bike from the shadows, lacy willow leaves rustling overhead.

  “My fencing class is from three to four.” Leo powers up the robotized board with a click of his remote. “I can’t help with the kittens but I can meet you after my lesson.””

  “Kelsey and I can take care of the kittens then we meet you here,” Becca suggests, hopping on her bike. “What time can you make it, Leo?”

  “At 4:34,” Leo says with a nod.

  “Works for me.” I try not to giggle but it’s funny how precise Leo is.

  “See you then!” Becca pushes off with her foot. She waves as she pedals in the direction of downtown Sun Flower.

  Leo and I wheel off toward the suburbs. We only live a few blocks apart. I know which house is his because I pass it on my way to school. His two-story house is milky white. Even the front yard is white—carnation flowers in a pale stone planter and tiny white rocks instead of a green lawn. It makes me think of winter and Christmas snow all year long.

  So Leo and I are riding together, sort of. It’s awkward because we just happen to be going the same direction, and without Becca, there isn’t any conversation. We’re in the same club so we’re friends … right? I like him when he’s not talking down to me like he knows everything. I know a lot too—especially when it comes to secrets.

  My bike wheels and Leo’s souped-up skate wheels whirl side-by-side for a block until Leo zooms ahead of me on his gyro-board. Feeling competitive, I pedal faster, so now I’m the one in the lead. He speeds up, taking the lead again.

  We go back and forth like this—me in the lead then him. It’s not like we’re in a race. We’re both just too stubborn to slow down. My legs pump so hard I can hardly breathe.

  We don’t slow down—until we see the dog.

  - Chapter 10 -

  Dog Gone

  A medium-sized brown dog with curly fur scampers down the sidewalk. He looks familiar so I coast over for a closer look. He has a collar but no leash or owner running after him. When I get near, he wags his tail so I know he’s friendly. He must live around here, I decide. So I ride past him—until a startling thought strikes me.

  I slam on my brakes.

  Brown dog. Blue collar.

  The missing dog from the flyer!

  I spin a wheelie and think back to the flyer Becca showed us. I can’t remember all the details, only that the missing dog is a labradoodle with a blue collar and his name begins with J.

  I nudge down my bike’s kickstand and offer my hand to the dog with my palm up so I can pass the sniff test. He wags his tail. I talk to him, trying out the name Jasper, and he wags some more.

  “What are you doing?” Leo asks, rolling to a stop beside me.

  “Shssh! Keep your voice low or you might scare him. I’m checking out his collar.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, Sherlock? He looks like a labradoodle, he’s alone, brown, and wearing a blue collar.”

  “Oh!” Leo clicks off his gyro-board. “The missing dog from Becca’s flyer. Do you think it’s the same dog?”

  “He fits the description and he’s wandering by himself.” I lean closer to check the collar. “A license and rabies tag—but no phone number.”

  “I’ll call the number from the lost flyer,” Leo offers.

  “You remember it?” I ask in amazement.

  “No. But it’ll be online.” Leo whips out his cell phone. “Jasper plus missing dog plus phone number … found it!”

  As he calls the number, I hope, hope, hope we can reach Jasper’s owner. Losing a pet is the worst feeling ever. It still hurts to remember when I had to leave my dog with Gran Nola. Handsome loves Gran’s big yard and special homemade doggie treats, but I know he misses me too.

  “Three rings so far,” Leo reports. “Four and … Good afternoon, I’m calling about your missing dog. My friend and I found … What? Are you sure?” There’s a long silence as Leo listens. I try to figure out what’s being said on the other line, but Leo isn’t giving any clues.

  Finally Leo says, “Thanks,” then shuts off his phone.

  “Well, what?” I keep petting the dog so he doesn’t run off. “Is he or is he not Jasper?”

  “Not.” Leo sighs and slips the phone into his pocket. “Jasper was returned by an old lady who found him hiding in her garage. She uses a cane and wasn’t strong enough to carry him, but when she opened her car door, he jumped inside. She called the number on the flyer and brought Jasper home.”

  “I’m so glad Jasper’s safe,” I say, imagining a reunion with tail wags and hugs.

  “The old woman didn’t even want the reward,” Leo adds, “but Jasper’s owner insisted.”

  “She deserved it.” I look down at the friendly brown dog licking my hand. “But if that dog was returned—who does th
is dog belong to?”

  “Me.” A girlish voice says from behind us. “I’m Emma.”

  Turning, I see a pretty olive-skinned girl holding a red leash that dangles to her purple-laced sneakers. She looks about ten but is at least three inches taller than me. Immediately the dog bounds over and jumps on her.

  “Down, Roscoe! You are so bad,” the girl says as she clips the leash onto Roscoe’s collar. Her black ponytails bounce with her as she turns back to us. “He broke free from his leash and I’ve been chasing him for blocks. I was worried he’d get lost like my friend Haley’s dog did.”

  “He’s really friendly,” I say. “What breed is he?”

  Emma pauses to catch her breath before answering. “Purebred mutt.”

  Leo shakes his head. “A purebred can’t also be a mutt. That’s an oxymoron.”

  “Watch what you call my dog,” she snaps. “He’s really smart.”

  “But he can’t be a purebred,” Leo argues.

  “He’s a one-of-a-kind pure Roscoe,” Emma insists with a snap of her fingers. “Pure shepherd, lab, husky, and poodle mix.”

  “She told you,” I tease Leo.

  But Leo has his “thinking” look. He tilts his head at Emma. “Did you say your neighbor’s dog was lost?”

  “Not anymore.” Emma’s ponytails flop as she shakes her head. “Toby was gone for two days until a tattooed guy recognized him from one of the reward flyers. Other pets have gone missing too. I’m so glad Roscoe wasn’t lost overnight—that would have been so scary. Thanks for catching him.”

  “Glad to help.” I pat Roscoe’s head. “He’s a sweetheart.”

  “Sweet, but hard to slow down when I walk him. Come on, Roscoe,” Emma says in a firm voice. “We’re going home.”

  I’m smiling as I watch them walk away. I glance over at Leo, expecting him to look happy too, but he’s staring at a crack in the pavement. “What’s with the weird expression?” I ask.

  “I’m thinking about Toby and Jasper.”