FlabberGassed
Contents
Novels by Michael Craft
Introducing a new mystery series
Advance praise
P A R T O N E
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
P A R T T W O
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
P A R T T H R E E
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Acknowledgments
About the author
Novels by Michael Craft
Rehearsing
Flight Dreams
Eye Contact
Body Language
Name Games
Boy Toy
Desert Autumn
Hot Spot
Desert Winter
Desert Spring
Bitch Slap
Desert Summer
The MacGuffin
Inside Dumont
FlabberGassed
www.michaelcraft.com
Introducing a new mystery series
from Michael Craft
FlabberGassed
a Mister Puss mystery
A weight-loss miracle. A dashing gay architect. A talking cat.
What could possibly go wrong?
In the idyllic little town of Dumont, Wisconsin, wealthy widow Mary Questman adopts an exotic stray cat, Mister Puss, who begins to talk to her. At least she thinks so. Mary’s young friend, gay architect Brody Norris, soon finds another reason to worry about Mary’s judgment when she decides to help finance a bizarre weight-loss enterprise called FlabberGas, the invention of a flamboyant local dermatologist, Dr. Francis Frumpkin.
Brody’s skepticism is partially overcome when Dr. Frumpkin commissions him to design the first of a planned chain of FlabberGas clinics. But then, during a public demonstration of Frumpkin’s gimmicky new treatment, a volunteer is gassed to death in a hideous mishap that turns out to be no accident. It was murder, all right. Suspects abound. And Brody is drawn into the role of amateur sleuth, assisting Sheriff Thomas Simms.
Funny and tender, thoroughly tangled, with a chilling motive at its core, the mystery comes to a jolting conclusion when Brody pieces together tiny, overlooked details and helps Sheriff Simms name the killer. Along the way, though, Brody himself gets a little help—or so it seems—from the chatty Mister Puss.
Advance praise
“Craft writes in a crisp, lively prose that highlights the quirks of his colorful cast of characters … The idyllic atmosphere of Dumont—where people don’t hold many prejudices even if they can get a bit nosey—is a well-drawn setting, perfect for an exuberant murder mystery … Craft’s talents for characterization and intricate plotting make the novel an entertaining read with delightfully offbeat elements.”
— Kirkus Reviews
“The new ‘Mister Puss’ mystery series opens with one of the most intriguing introductions seen in the mystery genre … FlabberGassed is especially strong in its portrait of deadly mischief … and in its depictions of how a temporary investigator is changed by pursuits far from his comfort zone. Readers used to the usual progression of a murder mystery will find many exceptional twists in this story, from a feline character to a gay architect’s involvement in a case demanding skills that he fears he may not possess. FlabberGassed is quirky, original, and a delightful read.”
— D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer,
Midwest Book Review
FLABBERGASSED. Copyright © 2018 by Michael Craft.
All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews. Query by e-mail to info@michaelcraft.com.
This is a work of fiction. The characters in this story come from the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Design and typography: M.C. Johnson
Cover image, parachute: modified from a 1942 photograph
courtesy of the Library of Congress, LC-USF35-282
Cover image, cat: Adobe Stock
Author’s photo: TimCourtneyPhotography.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Craft, Michael, 1950–
FlabberGassed : a Mister Puss mystery / Michael Craft
ISBN: 978-0-692-13611-9 (hardcover)
ISBN: 978-0-692-13599-0 (paperback)
ASIN: B07DP837VG (this ebook edition)
BISAC subject headings:
FIC011000 Fiction / LGBT / Gay
FIC022110 Fiction / Mystery & Detective / Cozy / Cats & Dogs
FIC022100 Fiction / Mystery & Detective / Amateur Sleuth
First hardcover, paperback, and ebook editions: September 2018
Questover Press
QP1801-E
P A R T O N E
Doubts and Whispers
On a bright May morning, Mary Questman puttered in her kitchen, fixing breakfast, alone in the grand old house that sat foursquare beneath a canopy of oaks and elms. The trees concealed a world of birds that awoke and sang—fed and preened—then sang some more. Mary had seen some seventy Wisconsin winters melt away, but the vernal swerve of mother Earth’s face toward the sun still surprised her with the promise of fresh beginnings.
A breeze riffled the curtains. The back door was open, with only the screen of the storm door separating the kitchen from the leafy universe beyond. Feeling downright girlish, Mary sashayed from the refrigerator to the stove in her cheery yellow housecoat and whistled along with the chorus from the trees.
When suddenly, the birdsong stopped.
Mary paused to listen. Bacon crackled in a skillet, but otherwise, not a sound—as if the birds had been hushed by a cloud of foreboding.
A tentative meow drifted through the screen from the porch.
Mary stepped to the door and peeped out.
The cat hopped up from the stoop and moved toward the door, gazing at Mary with golden eyes. Arriving within an inch of the screen, it sat, looking regal and statuesque, as if pilfered from a pharaoh’s tomb. Its ruddy orange fur, short and dense, bore the flecked markings of a wild, much bigger cat, though this visitor was the size of a household tabby.
Meow—its voice was now clear and confident, almost assertive.
Mary chortled. “Someone smells bacon.”
The cat meowed again, with a lilt that seemed to ask, Won’t you let me in?
Mary cracked the door open. “Entrez, Your Highness.” Stooping to rub behind the cat’s ears, she asked, “And to what do I owe the honor of this visit, Miss Pussytoes?”
The cat stepped over to the stove, sniffing, tail erect.
“Aha,” said Mary. “I beg your pardon—Mister Puss.”
Mary sat at the kitchen table with her coffee, the morning paper, and the plate of bacon. Purring loudly, Mister Puss circled the chair and nuzzled Mary’s shins. Mary tried reading the Dumont Daily Register, but the novelty of the cat distracted her. Where had he come from? He was so distinctive, she’d have recognized him if he lived nearby. He looked healthy and well cared-for, as well as beautiful—a purebred, she guessed, and valuable—but he wore no collar, no tags.
She broke off some bacon. “Is this what you want?” Mister Puss nipped it politely from her fingers and dropped it to the floor, still purring, which sounded like a growl as he chewed and swallowed.
Mary kept an iPad on the table, using it each morning to check e-mai
l. Today, though, she Googled a list of cat breeds. And the first to pop up, alphabetically, was the Abyssinian, which originated in Africa, along the Nile, domesticated near modern-day Ethiopia. The photos left no doubt whatever: Mister Puss was a descendent of the cats of ancient Egypt.
“Well, now,” said Mary, scooting her chair back and patting her knees, “aren’t we special?”
The cat jumped up to Mary’s lap and stretched to touch noses. Mary stroked the cat’s neck; the purring intensified. She peered into his almond-shaped eyes and whispered, “How did you get here? Why did you come?”
His warm breath carried the smell of bacon, but deeper from his quivering body rose a potpourri of subtle, more exotic scents. Closing her eyes, Mary inhaled the sandy dryness of a vast desert—plus a trace of something very old and delicate, perhaps papyrus—and a pungent whiff of kyphi, the sacred temple perfume of once-great dynasties.
Mary rubbed cheeks with the cat. She felt his nose climb her face until the fur of his chin touched the opening of her ear. His purr thundered. And soon, from the drone of his purr, other sounds arose. The rustle of reeds in a delta marsh. The ripple of a crocodile plying the great life-giving river. The hiss of an asp. And rising above it all—gibberish—Egyptian gibberish, the babble of an ancient marketplace. Amid the crowd, one voice struggled to be heard.
Hair fire.
Mary blinked, as if snapping free from a trance. She turned and whispered to the cat, “Did you say something?”
Mister Puss found her ear again, and through his purr, the words became clear: Your hair is on fire.
“My goodness!” Mary stood, patting her head as the cat landed sure-footed on the floor. Then Mary broke into laughter. “Why, you little so-and-so.”
The cat leapt onto the table. Mary lowered her ear to him.
You’re so easy.
Mister Puss showed no interest in leaving Mary Questman’s lovely home, and Mary had no desire to lose the cat’s company. As a girl, she’d had a cat—Boots—but never since, because her late husband, the wealthy Quincy Questman, had been adamant about “no livestock in the house.” In the years since his death, however, Mary had begun to rethink things. After four decades of marriage, she rather enjoyed her independence. So if Mister Puss would like to stay, by God, she’d have him.
Berta, longtime housekeeper at the Questman home, did not share Mary’s enthusiasm for the cat. While heading out to purchase another list of supplies for the comfort and amusement of Mister Puss, Berta turned in the doorway, asking, “Shouldn’t you at least try to find the rightful owner?”
Berta was right. “Finders keepers” was childish. Confiscating such a splendid animal was tantamount to theft. So Mary searched the Internet for Abyssinian breeders, locating only two within hundreds of miles. She sent a photo of Mister Puss, asking if they or their clients had lost a cat. Both replied no, and both confirmed that Mister Puss appeared to come from champion stock.
Locally, Mary ran a classified in the lost-and-found column, asking the claimant to phone and describe the missing cat, but no one called.
Now and then, Mary nuzzled up to Mister Puss and whispered, “Don’t you want to tell me about your other home?” But he always played dumb. And that settled it.
Within weeks, Mister Puss was no longer the new arrival, but a fixture in the household. A lower cabinet in the butler’s pantry was cleared out to accommodate his litter box, and Mary consulted an architect friend, Marson Miles, who designed a circular opening in the cabinet door that would allow Mister Puss ready access for his private needs. Then Mary called in a carpenter, who cut the hole. Then a painter, who refinished the door.
Meanwhile, Mister Puss playfully tormented Berta during her five mornings of chores; later each afternoon, he napped with Mary in her upstairs bedroom, nesting on the pillow, near her ear. Before dozing off, Mary always chatted with him, whispering this and that. Sometimes he responded with only a soothing purr, lulling them both to sleep, but lately, his replies had become more articulate.
One day, Mister Puss mutilated Berta’s feather duster. When Mary bedded down with him later, she whispered, “You were a naughty boy today, weren’t you?”
His voice spoke through the purring: Feathers—it’s what I do.
Mary laughed. “I suppose so. But something tells me you don’t like Berta.”
She’s okay. Humorless. Would it kill her to smile?
“She hasn’t had an easy life. But she’s always been loyal.”
Loyal. Dogs are loyal. That’s nice.
Several days later, Mary couldn’t find her fountain pen, which she used for signing checks. It was kept at the desk in the study, but when she looked for it that afternoon, it wasn’t there. She made do with a felt-tip, but the whereabouts of the pen vexed her till nap time, when she lay down with Mister Puss.
She tossed and turned.
What’s wrong?
“I can’t remember where I put my pen. Any chance you’ve seen it?”
It’s in the kitchen.
She gasped. “Of course. I was making a list for Berta. I left it on the table.”
It’s on the floor now.
Mary chuckled. While exploring the house, Mister Puss liked to swat at things that would slide on a slick surface. No harm done. She gave him a tender stroke, then left him to snooze as she padded out of the room and down to the kitchen.
After finding the pen on the floor, she sat at the table, wondering. Forgetfulness had troubled her for some years, but she preferred to believe her slips of memory were benign. She wasn’t going daft. Not at all. Mental flubs were just a minor, often comical, badge of aging.
With the arrival of the chatty Mister Puss, however, she needed to take stock of her marbles. Was this the beginning of the end? Was this the start of her one-way trek down a blurry road that would lead to diapers and conservatorships and the total loss of her dignity and independence?
Or was she simply—and in actual fact—having conversations with her cat?
A ping signaled an arriving e-mail on her iPad. Mary opened the message, from one of the breeders she had queried:
“If you haven’t located the cat’s owner yet, try taking him to a vet or an animal shelter, where they can scan for a microchip implant. Such a valuable cat, without tags, might have a chip identifying the owner.”
Mary slumped in her chair. It had been settled, she’d thought. She and Mister Puss had agreed that he would stay. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Even so, if he belonged elsewhere, she needed to know.
James Phelps, DVM, had a quaint, shingled veterinary office on the outskirts of town. Though Mary had never used his services, she had known him forever through the Dumont Country Club, so she booked an appointment and brought in Mister Puss.
The cat stood alert and curious on a stainless steel exam table as Dr. Phelps checked his heart, eyes, teeth. He scoped the cat’s ears, took his temperature, and started a chart. “A healthy adult male,” proclaimed the vet. “About a year old, I’d say. Seems good-natured and intelligent.”
“Very intelligent,” agreed Mary. “But I have no idea where he came from.”
The vet slid a drawer open. “Let’s see if he has a chip.”
Mary’s heart raced. Did they really need to do this?
Dr. Phelps produced a gadget resembling a bulky garage-door controller, switched it on, and dragged the scanner over the cat’s coat, trying repeatedly between the shoulder blades. At last, he switched it off. “Nothing. Congratulations, Mary. You’ve got yourself one crackerjack Abyssinian.”
Relieved beyond measure, Mary gave Mister Puss an adoring look.
The vet asked, “Schedule the surgery?”
Mary blanched. “What?”
“About time to get him fixed. Neutered.”
Mister Puss turned to Mary.
Mary looked away, averting the cat’s gaze. “We’ll need to talk about that later.”
“We?” The doctor laughed. “You and I—or y
ou and the cat?”
“You’ll think I’m dotty, Jim, but I do talk to Mister Puss.”
“Sure you do. We all talk to our pets.”
“But Mister Puss, he”—Mary hesitated—“he talks back to me.”
Dr. Phelps weighed his words. “Cats have no physiological apparatus for speech.”
“Don’t be condescending, Jim. I know that. You see, I speak to him in whispers, and he speaks to me through his purr.”
“Ah. Well.”
“Mister Puss and I communicate on some special level—perhaps a transcendent level.” Mary recounted the trancelike circumstances of their first exchange. She explained how they often conversed while slipping into naps.
Tapping his chin, Dr. Phelps asked, “Does the cat ever bring external information to these talks? Or does he just rehash the things you say to him?”
Mary described how Mister Puss had helped her find her missing pen—in the kitchen, not on the table, but on the floor.
The doctor suggested, “But as soon as the cat said it, you remembered where you’d left the pen, correct? And you could’ve guessed he would knock it off the table.”
Mary’s head wobbled. “Maybe.”
“Consider this. As children, we’ve all talked with animals, dolls, or imaginary friends—a normal exercise in creativity. Even though such dialogue seems very real, we put the words in the other party’s mouth. Hearing those words come back to us is sort of a mental loop, like déjà vu. I’ll bet you’ve been ‘channeling’ through the cat to clarify your own thinking. Which is fine. But I’m sure your cat could never tell you something you don’t already know.” Doctor Phelps turned to put away the scanner, concluding, “For every little mystery, there’s always a simple, scientific explanation.”
Quack.
“What say?” asked the doctor over his shoulder.
“Quiet, Mister Puss.”
Meow.
Going home, Mary stopped to buy some prime beef tenderloin, which would make a nice dinner for Mister Puss. He preferred raw beef over anything else, and now was a time to celebrate—he was staying for good.