They’d reached another clearing—the hundred-and-sixtieth already—and once again there was no sign of any shack, derelict or otherwise. They’d come across two shacks already. One was the famous one owned by Hetta Fried, where celebrity authors came to pen their latest bestsellers in absolute peace and quiet. The other was a less luxurious dwelling, where only a few months ago a couple had been found who had also gone missing.
But unfortunately neither of these had produced a priest and his cat. The first had been occupied by John Grisham, who hadn’t looked too well pleased when two cats came trudging up and destroyed his concentration. And the second was now home to a couple of boars, who shared not even a fleeting resemblance to Father Reilly and Shanille, unfortunately.
“We should have asked Clarice to show us the way,” Brutus grumbled.
“Did she look like she would have said yes? You know what she’s like. Clarice does what Clarice wants—nothing more, nothing less. And clearly she was not in the mood to play tour guide for a pair of clueless cats.”
“We are clueless, aren’t we, snookums?” said Brutus.
“Pretty clueless, yes,” Harriet admitted with a smile. “But what we lack in skill we make up for in determination and perseverance, don’t we, sparky star?”
He didn’t know about that. He was feeling pretty low on perseverance right now. And he was just about to suggest they abandon their mission and leave it to the professionals—the police, in other words, or Odelia and Chase—when another clearing loomed in the distance, beyond a cluster of bramble bushes. And in the middle of the clearing, a shack. And on top of that shack, a chimney. And from that chimney smoke was crinkling skyward!
“Stud muffin!” said Harriet. “I think this is it!”
“I think you just might be right, sugar lips!”
They hurried in the direction of the clearing, and the moment they clapped eyes on that shack, Brutus knew they’d hit the jackpot—finally! For there, sitting on the windowsill, cool as dammit, was Shanille!
“Shanille!” Harriet cried. “Shanille, it’s us!”
“It’s us, Shanille!” Brutus echoed.
Shanille looked up, and a tired smile spread across her features.“Oh, hey, you guys. What brings you out here?”
“We’ve been looking for you everywhere!” said Harriet. “How are you?”
“As well as can be expected,” said Shanille, which didn’t sound very fine.
“What are you doing here?” asked Brutus. “And why did you leave without telling anyone?”
“Cat choir hasn’t been the same without you,” said Harriet. “I’ve tried to take over, but it hasn’t been easy.” She wisely neglected to recount the shoe incident.
“It’s Father Reilly,” said Shanille. “He hasn’t been feeling well.”
“Cancer, is it?” asked Brutus. “Hasn’t got much longer to live?”
“No, not cancer. Though at this rate I don’t think he’ll survive.”
This caused Harriet and Brutus to exchange a worried glance.
“Just take a look in there,” said Shanille, when pressed.
And so they both joined the slim gray cat on the windowsill and glanced into the shack. The sight that met their eyes was shocking, to say the least: there he lay on a cot, an empty bottle in his hand, and several more bottles on the floor next to him, passed out and looking like death warmed over. His hair was matted to his skull, his skin was mottled, and he was in his underwear, a dirty undershirt and even dirtier underpants that had once been white but were now gray and soiled.
“What happened to him!” Harriet cried.
“Marigold left, and took their daughter,” said Shanille. “So he packed a suitcase, took the car, and drove us out here, where he’s been steadily drinking ever since.”
“Some people say that alcohol is food,” said Brutus carefully.
“Only drunks say that,” Shanille scoffed. “No, I’m afraid he’ll be a goner soon. If he keeps drinking like this he won’t last another month.”
Brutus’s eyes traveled across the plank floor to several cardboard boxes in the corner of the small space. “Is that…”
“Wine, yes,” Shanille confirmed, who’d followed Brutus’s gaze. “He packed up all the sacramental wine he could find and said he’s going to drink it all.”
“We saw Gran steal two bottles from the church,” said Harriet.
“Must have been a couple of bottles Francis forgot to pack,” said Shanille.
“But Shanille, we can’t let this happen!” said Harriet. “We can’t just sit back and let the man drink himself to death! It’s too terrible to contemplate!”
“What can we do? Ever since Marigold left he hasn’t been himself.”
“Why did she leave?” asked Brutus.
“Because she was tired of waiting for Francis to leave the priesthood and make an honest woman out of her, of course. He promised her he was going to marry her months and months ago, but he kept postponing. Said he felt bad about abandoning his parishioners. About leaving the church. The man has never been anything but a priest, and frankly I think he was afraid of falling into a dark hole when he left his post. So he kept dithering and finally Marigold had enough and took off.”
“Where is she now?”