The Kitten Files, Season One Read online

  The Kitten Files

  Season One: Cases 1-4

  Perry Elisabeth Kirkpatrick

  Kitten Files Short Stories:

  The Great Lab Escape (The Kitten Files Prequel)

  The 12 Cats of Christmas (short story)

  The Case of the Tabloid Tattler (The Kitten Files #1)

  Copyright ©2014 by Perry Elisabeth Kirkpatrick

  The Case of the Missing Hero (The Kitten Files #2)

  Copyright ©2014 by Perry Elisabeth Kirkpatrick

  The Case of the Cereal Robber (The Kitten Files #3)

  Copyright ©2018 by Perry Elisabeth Kirkpatrick

  The Case of the Very Bad Cat (The Kitten Files #4)

  Copyright ©2018 by Perry Elisabeth Kirkpatrick

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—except for brief quotations for the purpose of review or comment, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by PerryElisabethDesign.com

  Images via depositphotos.com

  Website: perrykirkpatrick.com

  Table of Contents

  The Case of the Tabloid Tattler

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  The Case of the Missing Hero

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  The Case of the Cereal Robber

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  The Case of the Very Bad Cat

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

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  The Kitten Files #1

  The Case of the Tabloid Tattler

  Perry Elisabeth Kirkpatrick

  One

  Keith was rambling again. And his theory was so boring a mere yawn couldn’t express my feelings well enough. I was getting up to go hide under the bed when he said, "I just don't know, Kitten. What do you think, huh?"

  It was that silly way he'd been talking to me ever since I'd shown up on his doorstep three weeks ago. He’d been telling me every detail of every case, every hunch he had, not actually expecting me to reply. “He's lucky I'm not a spy,” I told myself, “or from the press!”

  Spy. Now there was a good idea.

  I eyed the detective with my unblinking green eyes for a moment. Even though I wasn’t very impressed by some of his theories and rhetorical questions, I did like this guy and more importantly, I knew I could trust him. Still, it couldn't hurt to remind him about keeping secrets before I did what I was about to do.

  With my paw, I snagged a nearby paper titled "Confidentiality Practices" and deposited it on top of his legal pad. He always gave this paper to his clients to reassure them he wouldn't go blabbing their story to anyone. He brushed the page aside, saying, "Ah, Kitten, you're such a cat." That was a fairly obvious statement, if you asked me. Of course I was a cat. I repositioned the paper next to the legal pad and then sat on it.

  Next, using both front paws and my mouth, I reached to take the pen he held loosely between his fingers. "You are being quite the little nuisance all of a sudden, aren't you, Kitten." At first he slipped the pen out of my grasp, but I knew he would eventually let me take it simply because he wasn't using it. Despite all his pen-tapping and rambling, the legal pad was still blank. Apparently even he didn’t think his latest ideas were good enough to write down. Sure enough, he finally let me take the pen, looking puzzled and a little amused by my sudden fascination with writing utensils.

  I bent down and put the tip of the pen to the legal pad. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him jump. "Well, well, well! Smart Kitten!" he said, obviously impressed. It was about to get a whole lot more impressive. What to say first?

  I decided to start with something that had been annoying me for the last three weeks. I began scratching the pen across the pad, quickly scrawling the words:

  "I'm actually not a kitten, you know. I'm full-grown. And a real name would be nice."

  I was expecting a reaction from Keith, but I still jumped skittishly to the side when he sprang to his feet, knocking over his desk chair. He leaned over the desk with his mouth hanging open, rubbed his eyes, and shook his head. He must have thought he was asleep and dreaming. Then he pinched his own arm. Ouch. Not sure what that was supposed to mean.

  "Did—did you really just write that?"

  I could tell this was the first time he'd ever asked me a question and even remotely expected getting an answer. So this was how a conversation felt! I liked it.

  "Pretty sure I did," I wrote.

  He put his hand to his head and slowly walked a couple circles around the cramped office muttering, "Kitten can write. Kitten is a cat who can write.” He gulped. “Okay, I can deal with this."

  "Yes, I can write. But I'm beginning to wonder if you can read. Can we drop the 'Kitten' thing and get me a real name, please?"

  He hurried over to look at the latest miracle that had appeared on his legal pad. "Oh, sorry," he said, looking flustered. "You want me to come up with something?"

  What was it people did when they wanted to say 'yes' without verbally saying 'yes'? I nodded my head. This caused him to blink most comically, but he kept his wits and stayed on topic.

  "Umm... let’s see, there’s Tabby, Tiger, Mittens, Patches—"

  I gave a small hiss of dislike.

  "Well, then do you have any ideas?" he asked.

  I picked up the pen.

  "Nothing specific. I'm not fond of anything that's stereotypical. I am interested in something more feminine and special-sounding. People names are fine."

  He spent a few minutes looking me over. I had just groomed my long, tabby fur, so I hoped I looked my best. He seemed to be running through a few ideas in his mind. Finally, he said, "Mia."

  And that was that.

  Two

  After I had a name, I gave Keith time to settle down, which he did literally by returning to his chair. He ran his hand through his hair until it stood on end. I guess people have to do it manually; I was used to it happening automatically (especially where my tail was concerned) whenever I had a surprise.

  I put pen to paper again.

  "So now you know my secret, and I'd appreciate it if this stayed just between the two of us. Confidentiality, and all that. I really don't want to become the next YouTube sensation or find myself on the news. Deal?"

  Keith read what I'd written and nodded his head agreeably, if not distractedly. "Sure, yeah, that's fine. But how on earth did you learn to write?"

  I settled myself more comfortably and began my story.

  "Before you found me on your doorstep, I came from a laboratory
where some scientists were researching ways of making animals smarter. The place where I lived was like a small zoo. There were rows and rows of cages and pens. They were studying everything from rats to cows.

  Well, something they did to me must have worked because I found written words starting to make sense if I paid close attention. Once I realized I could read, it made sense to me to figure out the writing part of it. I memorized the shape of each letter, but there was no way I was going to let the scientist know what I'd learned. I'd seen how crazy the lives of the white mice became when they impressed the scientists with their maze-running abilities.

  I had overheard two scientists saying that the first phase of their research was almost complete, and they would soon be finished with any animals who hadn't shown progress. It sounded like those who were progressing would stay longer in the lab, and that's definitely not what I wanted. So I kept my knowledge to myself and waited.

  At first I thought we would just be given new homes when the researchers were done with us, but then I started getting suspicious that when we were finished here, we were finished for good. That would never do. I could read and—once I could actually get my paws on a pen or pencil—write, for goodness sake! I had such a life to go live!"

  At this point in my story, Keith interjected, "And sitting here listening to me think through cases out loud is an interesting life?"

  "Well... not particularly. But now you know my secret, so we can actually have conversations. I think it's going to get a lot more interesting."

  "You can say that again."

  "I’d rather not. I’ll get writer’s cramp if I repeat myself too much. Back to my story: I decided that the very next time they took me out of my cage, I would escape. I didn’t get my chance until ‘moving day’—the day they were sending us off wherever they were sending us. They took me out and were just about to put me into a cardboard carrying box when I gave a sudden twist and flipped right out of the poor assistant’s hands. I hit the ground running. From then on it was a rather exhilarating game of keep away and chase. I kept away from them, they chased me, and I gradually worked my way out of the building. Once I was outside, the game was up for them. But for me it was just beginning. I spent the next several days travelling as far from the lab as possible. I found it hard to travel quickly at first because there was so much to read. I was terribly distracted. But then I saw my picture on a reward poster, and that lit a fire under my backside. Reading material or no, I knew I had to clear out of that city. It was a long way from there to your doorstep, but you probably already guessed that since I looked less than perfect when we first met.”

  Keith shook his head silently for a moment, no doubt still trying to come to grips with the fact that his cat was writing out her story. Then his mouth dropped open. “You wrote the note! The one ‘giving’ you away to me because I’d give you a good home. How did you know I’d give you a good home?”

  “I watched you. I saw that you didn’t have a dog, you mostly kept to yourself, and you were nice to Mrs. What’s-her-name next door. You’ve actually been on probation this whole time. I would have moved on and found a new home if we hadn’t worked well together.”

  What I left unsaid was that there were times when he’d been so boring I almost had moved on. Now that I knew I could trust him with my secret, though, I had a feeling everything would be a little more interesting for me—well, for both of us. Who wouldn’t be interested in their writing cat? He certainly looked like he was!

  Keith chuckled. “Probation, huh? It sounds like you’re the one who should be on probation. Am I harboring a fugitive?”

  I shot him a look.

  “That’s your ‘Don’t-Be-Ridiculous’ look, isn’t it.” He groaned. “I don’t want to think about how many times I’ve seen you do that in the past several weeks.”

  “Which brings me to my next point,” I wrote. “You need a spy.”

  Three

  “I need a spy? What on earth are you talking about, Mia?”

  “Let me get my facts straight,” I wrote, and then glared at Keith when he snorted at my use of the phrase. Hey—if a cat has the ability for language, she’s allowed to use detective phrases, I say. “Super-wealthy heiress, Ms. Thornblood, has hired you to figure out how personal information and astonishingly accurate details about her day are getting into gossipy newspapers and magazines. Tabloids, I think you call them? You’ve narrowed it down to the idea that it has to be one of her household staff. An excellent guess if you ask me.”

  Keith inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  “But you went about investigating it all wrong.”

  He frowned. “Okay...”

  “I know at first glance it made sense to go interview them all. But if one of the staff is passing on information about Ms. Thornblood, they’re definitely getting paid for it, no doubt about that. With money at stake, did you think they would just come out and tell you, ‘Oh, by the way, I did it. Sorry about that’?”

  Keith opened his mouth to protest, but I wasn’t finished.

  “And far from helping the case, you’ve likely made it more difficult by making the culprit even sneakier in his or her methods.”

  I set the pen down and flexed my paws. Keith sighed. “You do have a point there. But what else was I supposed to do? Get myself ‘hired on’ so I could keep an eye on them all? Is that what you mean by needing a spy? I don’t think that would have gotten me anywhere.”

  “I agree. But I still think you need a spy, especially now, and you need one who can go deeply undercover.”

  I looked up from the page, slowly blinked at him, and wrote:

  “Me.”

  “You?”

  “Yes. I am a cat; I’m good at sneaking and skulking and hiding under furniture. I’m also good at draping myself luxuriously over the backs of couches and pretending to be asleep. Nobody pays attention to a napping cat. Unless she happens to be in their favorite chair, that is.”

  Realization dawned in Keith’s eyes. “That’s perfect!”

  “Just one little detail for you to figure out: when you’re convincing Ms. Thornblood of this plan, you’ll have to think of some way to explain-without-explaining how your cat-spy will be able to get the information to you.”

  “Oh, yeah. Hmm...” Keith looked puzzled for a moment. “I can’t lie, and I can’t give away your secret. Though if anyone understands keeping something from the public, she does. Maybe if I say something like: ‘Here’s the cat. Always keep this collar on her, and make sure she has free reign of the whole place. The information I get from her at the end of the week should help me pinpoint the culprit.’ And we’ll have some techno-looking collar on you. She’ll probably assume the collar is some sort of recording device—the perfect cover story for you.”

  “Sounds good. Just make sure the collar is stylish too. Yes, I’m picky, and yes, I think it will be less noticeable if it doesn’t look like a computer processor hanging around my neck.”

  Four

  After lunch I lazed around on the back of Keith’s recliner and listened to him on the phone with Ms. Thornblood. He explained our idea just the way he’d planned, and she readily accepted it.

  “This breach of privacy is really bothering her,” Keith told me when he’d hung up the phone. “She said she’s willing to do just about anything at this point. She’s never had a cat before, but she promises to take good care of you. You’ll definitely be living in style for the next week.”

  Keith went out and a short time later returned with silver spray paint and a red cat collar sporting a silver jingle bell. He hunted around in a kitchen junk drawer until he found a small, curved circle of white plastic with a loop attached to it. “This is the seal that comes in the pour spout of a new carton of milk or orange juice,” he explained.

  Good thing he told me; I wouldn’t have known since I wasn’t in the habit of drinking orange juice. Milk did sound pretty good now that he mentioned it, but I made myself focus on the task at ha
nd; milk could wait. Keith went out the sliding glass door to his small, square balcony. I followed and watched as he cut off the loop and tossed it aside. He then laid the plastic circle on some sheets of newspaper and spray-painted it a shiny silver to match the jingle bell.

  I took myself back inside rather quickly when the spray-painting started. For one thing, I’ve never liked hissing sounds—in a cat’s world that means someone’s upset with you and you’re about to get beat up—and for another, the paint smelled awful. I think Keith was even holding his breath, and he doesn’t smell nearly as good as I do.

  Wait, that sounds wrong. Never mind.

  When the paint was dry, Keith brought the shiny circle inside and glued it to the back of the collar’s jingle bell. It looked a little like a spaceship. He surveyed his work and congratulated himself. “Nice!”

  I had a small memo pad and pen nearby.

  “I have to say, that looks pretty good. It definitely looks like it could be a listening device trying to look like a jingle bell. The only way you could improve it would be to remove the jingle from the bell. Otherwise your supposed ‘listening device’ would only be hearing jingling.”

  “Good point,” he said. When the jingle was removed, he buckled the collar around my neck. “Well, then, I think we’re ready.”

  “Yes, I think so. Except I need an undercover alias.”’’

  “Another name? I just named you Mia!”

  “But you’ll need to tell her what to call me. It should be an alias. I’m going there as a spy, after all.”

  Keith shrugged. “Okay, I’ll think of something.”

  A short time later, we had arranged to meet Ms. Thornblood in the parking lot of her favorite Italian restaurant. Keith set me in a cardboard box and put it in the back seat of his car. I’d never been in a car before, but I knew cats were supposed to hate riding in them.