7. RACCOON RACKETEER
Chapter One
Hey, my name’s Angie Russo, and I own one-half of a private investigation firm here in beautiful Blueberry Bay, Maine.
The other half belongs to my cat, Octavius—or Octo-Cat for short. It may not seem like his nickname keeps things short, but trust me on that one. Every time he tells anyone his full name, he always adds at least one new title to the end. The most recent version is Octavius Maxwell Ricardo Edmund Frederick Fulton Russo, Esq. P.I.
Like I said, it’s a mouthful.
And he’s kind of a handful, too.
While my spoiled tabby is undoubtedly my best friend, he does have a way of making my life harder. For instance, he’s been catnapped, ordered to court for arbitration, and even repeatedly threatened to kill our new dog.
Did I mention that all happened in the span of just one month?
But that’s Octo-Cat for you.
Love him or hate him, there’s no denying he’s a true individual.
And even though he’s just about as stubborn as they come, he does occasionally change his mind about things.
That new dog we adopted? She’s a sweet rescue Chihuahua named Paisley. She liked him from the start, but it took Octo-Cat much longer to warm up to her. Now I am proud to report that the two have become close friends. In fact, one of my cat’s favorite hobbies has become stalking and pouncing on his dog and then wrestling her to the ground.
Yes, his dog. That’s how much the tables have turned these past few weeks.
Together, the three of us live with my grandmother, Nan. Although she’s the main one who raised me, she lives in my house.
And I live in my cat’s house.
Yup, Octo-Cat is a trust fund kitty, and his stipend is more than generous enough to pay the mortgage on our exquisite New England manor house.
It’s a bit ridiculous, I’ll be the first to admit that. But, hey, when life gives you lemonade, it’s best if you drink up and enjoy!
Speaking of, I’ve been dating my dream guy for about seven weeks now. His name is Charles Longfellow, III, and he’s my dream guy for good reason. Not only is he the sole partner at the law firm where I used to work, but he’s also incredibly smart, kind, attentive, handsome—and, okay, I may as well just admit it—sexy.
Not that we’ve…
Anyway!
I can talk to my cat. I probably should have mentioned that earlier, seeing as it’s the most unusual thing about me.
I can talk to my dog, too, and most animals now.
Long story short, I got electrocuted at a will reading, and when I regained consciousness, I heard Octo-Cat making fun of me. Once he realized I could understand him, he recruited me to solve his late owner’s murder, and the rest is history.
From there, we realized two things. One, we make a really good crime-solving team, and two, we were stuck with each other for better or worse. Usually, things are better, but he still has his hissy fits on occasion—and so do I, for that matter.
And I guess that brings me to today.
Today marks the two-month mark since we first opened our P.I. outfit for business, and in that time, we’ve had exactly zero clients. Even my normally optimistic nan can’t spin this one in a positive light.
No one wants to hire us, and I’m not sure why.
I’m well-liked in town, and it’s not like people know I can actually talk to animals. They think including my cat as a partner is just a gimmick, and I prefer it that way, honestly.
But I’m starting to worry that we’ll never bring any business in.
At what point do we give up on our entrepreneurial enterprise?
Octo-Cat is pretty happy sleeping in the sun most of the day, but I prefer to have more in my life. I even quit my former job as a paralegal to make sure I had enough time for all the investigative work I felt certain would fall into my lap the moment we opened for business.
Yeah, I was more than a little wrong about that one.
I need to figure out something, and fast, if I want to keep my operation afloat, but how can I trust my instincts when they were so wrong before?
Here’s hoping Octo-Cat has a bright idea he’d be willing to share…
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It was Wednesday morning, and I’d spent the better part of the last two days handing out flyers to any person, business, or animal who would take one. Out of desperation, I’d even visited parking lots and shoved the brightly colored papers touting my credentials under the windshield wipers of each car in the lot.
Still, not one person had called to share a case with me.
Not one.
Nan had left the house early to serve a volunteer shift picking up litter around town. We’d both agreed the animal shelter, while in need, wasn’t the best place for her to share her generous heart—because we both knew she’d end up adopting almost every dog and cat in that place.
Our house was already full enough, thank you very much.
I sat in the front room of the house, sipping a can of Diet Coke. The coffee maker still scared me silly, given that the last time I’d used one I’d been electrocuted, and tea just wasn’t the same without Nan to keep me company.
