Last night we had all gathered in the park again for cat choir, but for the second night in a row, of our noble conductor there was no trace. This time Harriet hadn’t offered to lead the choir, and since no singing had taken place, no barrage of shoes had landed on our collective heads either. The neighbors were clearly happy that Shanille had downed tools, but we most definitely were not!
“Finally!” said Harriet when Dooley and I walked in through the pet flap and into our cozy little home. “I thought you’d never get here.”
“Just a minor mission that took us all the way to New York City,” I said. “But everything has been arranged to Odelia’s client’s satisfaction, and so we’re back.”
“A fashion designer was being slandered by another fashion designer,” Dooley explained, even though Harriet hadn’t asked, “and so we paid a visit to the second fashion designer, who claimed he didn’t even know the first fashion designer, so how could he be slandering her? It made a lot ofsense to me, and now Steph—that’s the first fashion designer—is moving to Paris with her family.”
“Dooley, read my lips,” said Harriet. “I don’t care!”
Dooley, who’d been intently staring at Harriet’s lips, frowned. “I don’t understand. How can I read your lips? There’s nothing written there.”
“It’s just an expression,” I said. “I think what Harriet means to say is that we’ve got more important things to worry about than this fashion designer business.”
“Exactly!” Harriet said. “We need to find Shanille. Otherwise cat choir will go out of business and then where does that leave us? In big doo-doo!”
Dooley frowned even deeper. Between the‘read my lips’ statement and this reference to excrement it was obvious he had a hard time keeping track of the conversation.
“I thought you were going to take over from Shanille?” Brutus asked.
“I wanted to, but you saw what happened. Those annoying neighbors sabotaged my first rehearsal. I don’t know what it is about me that they don’t like, but it’s obvious that they’ve taken a vote and decided to start a boycott against my person.” She shook her head in distinct dismay. “They don’t appreciate talent, that’s what it is. Cultural barbarians, every single one of them.”
“They do wear nice shoes,” said Dooley.
At this reminder of the shoe incident, I automatically rubbed my bum. Tough to be an artist when you’re being pelted in the rear end with solid objects!
And so the meeting ended and we moved along, in search of Shanille. Harriet may initially have been pleased to know that her big competitor was out of the picture, but somehow she’d had a change of heart. And I could understand why, of course. When you’re locked into this kind of intense rivalry, and suddenly the second party abruptly calls it quits, it leaves one reeling. Out of balance, if you see what I mean. And this must be what happened to Harriet. One moment she was happily fighting tooth and claw with the feisty choir conductor, and the next her opponent was gone—and so was a pleasant and entertaining pastime. A pastime that gave meaning to her existence, and had become part of her day-to-day life.
Harriet needed to find Shanille so she could be herself again.
We moved through the pet flap in single file, and soon found ourselves amid the hustle and bustle of our small town.
“It’s a lot more peaceful here than in New York, isn’t it, Max?” said Dooley, and he emitted a little sigh of satisfaction. “And so much nicer, too.”
“It is,” I said. The big city is fine and good, but nothing beats being home.
Our first destination, as chosen by Harriet, was St. John’s Church, heart of Father Reilly’s parish, and also home to the good priest and Shanille. We arrived there in due course, and found to our surprise that the great oak doors of the church were closed, and a notice had been pinned on them.
‘Closed until further notice,’ the note read.
“Closed?” asked Harriet. “How can a church be closed? Aren’t they always supposed to be open?”
She had a point, of course. Historically churches have always been havens where people could find refuge and spiritual succor. And as far as I knew, St. John’s Church ascribed to this great tradition by never closing its doors.
Until now.
“If the church is closed, Shanille can’t be here,” said Brutus, pointing out an obvious truth. “Which means she’s probably somewhere else.”
“Father Reilly and Shanille don’t actually live in the church,” I felt compelled to point out. “A church is not a home, Brutus. At least not in the more mundane sense of the word.”
“So where do they live?” asked the big black cat.
“Next door,” I said, pointing to the rectory which was located next to the church. It was a modest house, but fulfilled Father Reilly’s needs adequately.
“Does Marigold also live there?” asked Dooley, referring to Father Reilly’s housekeeper-slash-girlfriend. “And her daughter Angel?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. At least Marigold didn’t use to live at the rectory. Maybe she had changed her mind and had moved in with her future husband.