Jackaby squatted, resting his forearms on his knees and staring into the water. He watched the fish take a few cramped laps, studying its movements, and then he plucked a bit of damp cat hair from the rim, sniffed it, tasted it, and tucked it into a pocket somewhere in the depths of his coat.
I whipped out the little black notepad Jackaby had given me upon the completion of our first case, trying not to let Mrs. Beaumont see that I was still on the very first page. “Your message said something about a sick cat?” I prompted the woman while my employer poked at the sticky pile of leftovers in the other bowl. “I’m sure Mr. Jackaby will want to see the animal.”
The woman’s lip quivered. “Mrs. W-W-Wiggles.”
“Yes, and where is Mrs. Wiggles now?”
Mrs. Beaumont tried to answer, but she managed only a sort of squeak I could not decipher and gestured toward the alcove.
Jackaby stood. “Mrs. Wiggles is right here, isn’t she?”
The woman nodded.
“Mrs. Wiggles is the fish, isn’t she?”
She nodded again. “Only since recently,” she sniffed.
“I see,” Jackaby said.
His matter-of-fact response seemed to burst a dam within the woman. “You must think me mad! I didn’t know to whom I could turn, but your name has come up from time to time. I entertain, you see. Very prominent people come to my soirees. Mayor Spade had tea here, just last week. Some of the people I dine with tell me that you specialize in things that are . . . that are . . . different.”
“To put it mildly,” I submitted.
“Nice to hear I’ve come so highly recommended, madam,” Jackaby said, turning his attention back to the big fish in the little bowl.
“Oh, I wouldn’t call them recommendations, exactly,” she added. “More like anecdotes, some of them warnings, actually . . .”
“Yes, yes, very nice.” Jackaby’s attention had migrated back to his investigation. He dropped to his hands and knees, peeking at the pile of blankets.
“I’ve always taken such good care of Mrs. Wiggles,” the woman continued. “I keep her brushed and washed, and I buy her the most expensive cat food. I even get her fresh fish from Chandler’s Market from time to time. At first I thought she was just feeling a bit off due to her—well—her state. But then she began to sprout s-s-scales, and now . . . now . . .” Mrs. Beaumont broke down again, her voice wavering into uncomfortable octaves.
“Due to her state?” I asked, trying to press forward. “What state was Mrs. Wiggles in?”
“She was pregnant,” Jackaby answered for Mrs. Beaumont.
The woman nodded.
“How did you know that?” I asked.
Jackaby pulled up the corner of the blanket to reveal a pile of adorable, sleeping kittens. Here and there a patch of scales peeked through the fur. The smallest had fuzzy gills, which puffed up and down as it snored, but they were precious nonetheless.
“Do I deduce correctly that, until recently, Mrs. Wiggles has had significantly more freedom to roam about at night?” Jackaby asked.
The woman blinked back to self-control. “Yes, yes, that’s true. I generally leave the window open at night, and Mrs. Wiggles likes to pop out, but she would always be back home in the morning. I decided it was best to keep her in this past month, at least until she had her litter. It’s been freezing cold out, anyway. Didn’t want the poor thing—”
“Yes, that’s all very good,” Jackaby interrupted. “You mentioned you purchase fish for her from the market, occasionally. Is it also correct to assume you have been treating her to such morsels more often of late?”
“I just wanted her to be happier, cooped up indoors like—”
“Always the same sort of fish?”
“Er . . . yes. Mackerel from Chandler’s Market. Was that wrong?”
“On the contrary, Mrs. Belmont—”
“Beaumont,” she corrected quietly.
“On the contrary, Mrs. Beaumont, it may have been just the thing. Don’t worry. We will see to it the animals receive adequate care.”
“You’re taking the kittens, too?” She sniffled. Her eyes welled up, and her lip quivered.