Free The Whiskered Spy by Nic Saint

that some day some half-witted member of the opposite sex will take a fancy to the silly poop, move in and boot me out on my red fanny. I suppressed a shiver at the mere thought.
    “I’m done for,” sighed Stevie, stooping his shoulders in dejection.
    “Yah, well…” Then something occurred to me. “Look, have you ever seen the wench? I mean, actually seen her come round here?”
    Stevie shook his head. “Only Zada Sellar drops in from time to time. She’s one of Sam’s most faithful parishioners. And Mathilda Bladder of course. Chairwoman of the church council. But as far as I can tell Sam has never harbored any romantic notions about either of them.”
    Since Zada Sellar is about a hundred years old and Mathilda Bladder the worst gossipmonger Brookridge has ever harbored, this didn’t surprise me. “It occurs to me that perhaps it’s not too late yet. I mean, if he’s still in the writing stage of the proceedings, it stands to reason nothing has happened yet.”
    He looked at me with hope and confusion nicely blended in his clear blue eyes. “What do you mean?”
    “Well, you know how it goes. When humans fall in love they start writing letters, dozens of them, each one soupier than the next.”
    “Like this one.” He pawed the exhibit with distaste.
    “Exactly. But this is only in the early stages of the disease. Once the virus spreads, and they’ve gone on several dates together, there’s the kissing stage—”
    He closed his eyes. “Please. Spare me the details.”
    “—and then, finally, they move in together.”
    His tail quavered visibly. “Must you remind me?” he said, pained.
    “All I mean to say is that the letter-writing stage is usually situated somewhere between the kissing stage and the cohabitation stage. Which means…”
    His eyes lit up. “Which means there’s still hope!”
    “Sure there is,” I said encouragingly.
    “And then there’s the fact that Zack was also murmuring the ghastly female’s name.”
    I started at these words. I’d forgotten all about that. “I wouldn’t exactly say murmuring,” I corrected this misinterpretation of the facts pertaining to the case.
    “I do say murmuring,” he went on. “And I’ll say more. Zack can’t stop thinking about the Bluebell menace, Sam can’t stop writing her long and ghastly letters and Lucy Knicx mentions her as she heaves her dying breath—”
    “It wasn’t her dying breath,” I corrected him once again. “She was already dead.”
    “Still.”
    “Still,” I agreed. He had a point there. Now that I came to think about it, Zack had indeed muttered the Bluebell name like he does when he’s just fallen truly, madly, deeply in love again.
    “I’ll bet you a can of tuna that the Bluebell is one of those femme fatales who waltz into a place and leave a pile of dead bodies and broken hearts in their wake.”
    “You know what?” I said, musing. “I think you’re on to something there, Agent Steve.”
    “Of course I’m onto something,” he said very immodestly. “And you know what we’re going to do, Agent Tom? We’re going to find out who this Bluebell dame is and put a stop to this femme fataling she’s been doing.” He extended a claw. “One. We solve the Lucy Knicx murder, which is probably some sort of crime passionnel .”
    I was impressed Stevie had words like crime passionnel in his vocabulary.
    He extended a second claw. “Two. We drive the Bluebell out of town and…” He extended a third claw. “… three. We save our homes from being wrecked and our butts from being evicted. What do you say?”
    I had to hand it to him. It sounded like a good scheme. I only saw one flaw. “How are we going to drive La Bluebell out of Brookridge?”
    He deflated a little. “That’s… something we need to think about.”
    “Let’s first find out more about her, shall we?” I suggested. “We can figure out the rest as we go along.” I still thought the girl was an enemy spy but since I didn’t