Colbert sat beside Reid on the porch stairs and looked on as the paramedics labored to get Mrs. Funstel into the ambulance with as little annoyance as possible.  Mrs. Funstel would have none of that; she babbled at the top of her lungs, pulled an arm free of its restraints, and flailed the air randomly with it.  A Ruebenesque young woman ran from the porch to near the stairs where the two men sat. "He did it," she screamed, and pointed an accusing index at Reid.  "Do you hear me?  He did it! He made it all happen!" she reiterated, while one of the paramedics recaptured Mrs. Funstel’s arm and secured it.  The girl flung a small stuffed animal to the ground close to the stoop, and ran back to the Funstel porch.  There, a brace of police officers were at the Funstel door listening, while this, the older daughter, a promiscuous sixteen year old named Tara, blinked her light metallic blue lids, and tried to confirm her prior accusation.  Behind her stood Bob, the twenty-two year old pizza-faced love of her five and dime life, backing every word with threats, expletives, and threatening expletives.  After a fashion, the ambulance took its leave, and Tara, Bob, and the younger Funstel girl went inside, but not until after Bob cast one more threat to his neighbor.

Tom Colbert lit up his pipe, as he watched his friend retrieve the small black and white stuffed creature from the lawn, and settled in for a good listen.  He had just arrived, had not the slightest idea of what was going on, and was enjoying it thoroughly.  He would have preferred having a few more minutes to work out the little puzzle he'd walked into, to reason through why his friend's, and client’s, neighbors suddenly wished him dead, and what they were accusing him of.  The police would allow little time for that, he realized, as the two officers arrived at the stoop.

The sergeant looked as police sergeants should; endlessly patient, in control, and unafraid.  His considerably younger partner tried to match this last aspect by wearing darker glasses and a tough guy expression that fell somewhat short of its designed purpose.  To the latter's dismay the first thing the sergeant did was remove and pocket his glasses, and sit on the stairs before speaking.  He looked almost apologetic as he leaned back and settled in.  "Can I have your name, sir?" he asked pulling out his shirt-pocket note pad and flipping to a fresh page in the note.

“Marcus Ried,” Marc replied.

“And you sir?”

"Tom Colbert."

"Do either of you have any information relating to what happened here?"

"I do," Marc volunteered.

"We'd appreciate it if you could come to the station in an hour or so and give us the details," the younger officer requested.

"The woman seems to have lost her mind," the sergeant added, "and the family's blaming you."

"We'll be there," Marc said, and stood with the sergeant.  The two officers drove off, and Marc led the way up to his apartment of rooms.

"Now what'd you get into?" Tom asked as soon as the door was closed.

"Sit down, Tom.  We have an hour, and I think you'll rather appreciate this one." Tom knew he would and sat before the television hoping his friend would leave it off.  Marc did. "Tell me, Tom, do you like cats?"

"I guess.  I own one, or it owns us or what ever."

"Very well put," Marc smiled as he slouched comfortably into an armchair.  "You and Sharon are your cat's humans.  Does it give you gifts?  Pay you two homage?"

"If you're asking if we're allowed to pet it..."

"No, gifts; results of its craft.  Dead things."

"Good lord, yes," Tom laughed.  "Drives Sharon nuts.”

“Don't laugh too hard, Tom.  ‘It is a good sign,’ as the French say.  When cats respect their owners, their humans, they do this as a means of communication.  They have very few.  Almost all animals allow us to stroke them, and many, like some dogs I know, insist on it.  Cats are unique; they pay real homage."

"How does all this relate?" Tom asked.

"Patience, friend.  First we must understand the subject, and then the story will make sense.  I want you to consider something here; the people who hate cats are the same people who hate dandelions, and for many of the same reasons.  Consider that for a moment.”

It took several moments before Tom replied, “You know, I think you’ve found a common thread there.”

“They’re all major league control freaks.  Both the dandelion and the bird of paradise are flowers, only the dandelion lacks a profit margin; it defies human control and grows in spite of man.  Cats are much the same.”

Tom sat silently, refusing to interrupt.  He knew that Marc was the master raconteur and dared not ever risk derailing him once he had begun.

"The first three major civilizations held cats as gods, and with good reason.  For millenniums before man abandoned his nomadic epic he knew how to plant and harvest crops.   What he didn't know was how to protect his food, not to mention himself. Rodents were the single biggest obstacle in the history of the human save evolution itself.  They kept man on the move.  The rodents would eat much of his stored food and despoil a multiple of what they ate with their excretions.  Then there were the diseases that came with them.  What knew early man of disease?  He just knew that staying in one place eventually brought death, along with mice and rats and a good deal of birds who were also fond of the easy pickings.  As recently as the sixteenth century in up state New York we know that member tribes in the Iroquois confederacy were forced to move every few years.  Why?  Because they lacked cats.

"No society that failed to domesticate the feline ever emerged from the Stone Age.  The reason for this is that true smelting centers take at least decades, and just as likely centuries, to develop and understand.  Imagine we, as a species, trying to get metals other than lead and gold, which are relatively useless, if we lived under the constraint of having to relocate every three to five years.

"The point is, no base metals, no more development; no permanent hearth, no metals; no cats, no time for a permanent hearth.  The American Indians are a classic example.  They failed to domesticate the feline, and never did evolve beyond the Stone Age."

"Why didn't they move the hearth with them?" Tom asked, punctuating it with a perfect ring of smoke that glided neatly through the still air.

"Think, Tom.  You know something in your present village is killing people.  You also know that moving, that changing location works.  Now, of all the hundreds of artifacts even primitive man had as part of a home, which ones were responsible.  All of them?  Any of them? Who knew?  The intervals were too long for real experimentation.  There was no written word, so all knowledge was handed down.  Such experimentation and its history would require the precision of writing.  Lastly, the primary goal of these societies was survival; food, shelter and clothing.  Science was on a back burner.  What metals they knew of were useless for survival.

"Then, along comes the cat.  Probably eaten at first, but sooner or later the people saw that their cycle of movement had been extended.  The cycle itself was probably triggered by a rise in illness or deaths, which, even in the life of one man, would have had a regular pattern.  The advent of the cat would cause unmistakable impact on that.

"Moving right along, if you accept that premise, and it's a good one, then you can understand the high esteem early civilizations held for the cat.  You should also understand that even we stand in its debt.  It has elevated us, removed the single greatest barrier society ever faced, and allowed us access to the relative comfort and security modern man has.  All it asks in return is acceptance, some respect, and to be left on its own to do its share.

"Something less known has also happened to man in his journey through history.  In the few thousand years since we domesticated animals, two have come to be a real part of our makeup; the horse and the cat.  Who sees a horse but feels a certain primitive equation, particularly now when we think we can live without them?

"The cat, on the other hand, is still here, and has been for a longer time.  The amazing part is that the cat was regarded as, and in fact still is, a wild animal.  That the laws of this state agree with this proves even politicians are correct once in a great while.  What is less known is that cats have greater sway over our lives than we think.  Our grand parents used to attribute crib deaths to cats.  'They took a baby's breath away,' or so the adage went.  While I doubt that, I have no doubt that they do have certain powers we sophisticated servants of technology refuse to believe in.  Another old fable from the Phoenicians is that dead cats return to their masters for a few days to properly reward them for the treatment they received."

"Now Marc, this business with the neighbors is serious stuff.  Please don't muddy it all up with some superstitious nonsense.”

“All right.  You be the judge.

"Last month there was a sudden influx of kittens into the neighborhood.  Somewhere nearby, someone who thought little of the thousands of that euthenasations take place every year (or just as likely, two someones), allowed the creation of a litter of felines.  Well, you know how I feel about cats and kids." Marc gave a shrug.

"Too well.  You should have married and had a lot of both," Tom laughed.

"I nearly did, and you know that too.  Anyway, the children, in their visits to my stoop, proudly showed off their new kittens.  It was the single most remarkable collection I'd ever seen.  Of the six or seven cats I saw that the children swore came from a single litter there were an equal number of distinctly different cats.  Not nominally different, mind you. These were nearly completely separate breeds.  One had the distinct features of a seal point Siamese, another was pure black but had six functional toes on each foot.  It effectively had two thumbs."

"Well, don't a lot of cats have six toes?"

"Correct.  The operative word here is 'functional'.  I examined it as closely as I could.  The extra ‘thumb’ functioned as a truly independent digit.  Somehow, it had developed a supporting muscle structure that allowed this."

"A mutation," Tom concluded.

"No doubt, but a most successful one.  It would have, given the time and circumstance, led to a cat that had a much more formidable grasp.  It could climb and kill significantly better than even its own relatives.  Anyway, of all of these kittens, the one the younger Funstel girl brought was the closest to a traditional alley bred tabby.  It was a simple black and white calico, or so it seemed.

"The children and I spent considerable time on the front stairs.  To their credit, they wished to know all there was to know about cats and kittens, and I told them all I could.  They learned to care for them, how to hold and carry them, feed them, and to look for infestation and so on.  Can you imagine a five or six year old knowing about flea and tick infestation, ear mites, and how to take care of the problems? It was wonderful, Tom.

"I also told them stories about cats.  'Puss in Boots', of course, but also all the stories of cats throughout the ages. They, I gather, went home and repeated many of them, for quite often they brought back their parents' or siblings' replies. Well, you know children."

"I also know you, Marc."

"Right again.  I really do enjoy being a storyteller.  The kids enjoy it so much.  Fun without effort.  It's no wonder television works so well on them.  The stories they liked best were the ancient ones from the Egyptians, the Sumerians and early Mesopotamians."

"Ghost stories?"

"You could call them that.  You could also call them myths if you were so inclined.  Did you know that cats were recorded as having the power to grant wishes, assure crops, cure infertility in men and women, and even had power over death?  Not only their own but any creature.  There are more cat ghosts than any other animal next to man.  The horse and dog are tied for third."

"What was remarkable about the Funstels' kitten?" Tom asked as he refilled his pipe.

"Intelligence, Tom.  The damn thing was actually capable of a level of thought."

"You say, 'was'."

"So I do.  It died a week or so back." Marc poured himself a jigger of bourbon and sipped at it absently.

"Why do you claim it was intelligent?" Tom asked, retrieving Marc from some memory.

“Oh, yes.  Well, I was giving one of my sessions to the children and noticed the kitten eyeing a bracelet the Funstel girl wore.  It was rather a good one for a child, and it had a good clasp.  I think I was relating the story of Tutankhamen's, cat but no matter.  The kitten spent considerable time looking at the clasp, and then covered it with both paws and opened it. Simple as that.  No experimentation, no playing with it as all cats would if they were interested.  It just opened it on the first try.  Now, you say, a coincidence; a stroke of luck.  I said so too.  I decided to try the animal at a few other minor tricks.  One afternoon, when the children were off to their homes, I found the kitten in my yard.  Out of curiosity I threw it my key case.  Now I truly doubt that any of my neighbors, particularly the Funstels, have ever seen a Gucci key case let alone owned one."

"It does require a particular form of vanity," Tom quipped.

"Thank you so much.  Anyway, the same exact thing happened. Snoop, as he was called, sat over the thing for a while, flipped it over and looked at every aspect of the case.  That was all normal.  Then, quite abruptly, he pounced on it, gave it a flick and it popped open.  I was astounded.  For an hour or so I gave him more small puzzles.  He untied a succession of knots I made for him.  Some were textbook; bowlines and sheet bends that had regularity to them.  Others were jumbles I created on the spot and which I'd have been hard pressed to understand.  With every one Snoop studied it and then methodically separated it strand by strand.  As a last test for the day I got my puzzle box and put some catnip inside.  Here; look at it.  I picked it up in Tokyo. In order to open it you have to slide seven different pieces in order, three of them to a precise place, or the box won't open.  Well, even Snoop was foiled here.  I was disappointed, and only as an after thought opened it myself and gave him his reward.  When I closed the box and put it down he ignored the catnip and set about exactly repeating what he had just seen, and, he did so. Without hesitation or error, this feline did what few humans could.  On being shown only once, mind you, he learned a rather difficult combination to a puzzle."

"Well, I've toyed with this box many times, Marc, and I still can't get it without some trial and error," Tom admitted as he fumbled with the sliding wood panels.

"Nor have any save that silly cat.  To get on with things, I had to go to Chicago for a week, as you remember, and my experiments with Snoop were put on hold.  Though I had reservations about most of the Funstels, the little girl would see to the cat nicely.  I was confident of that.  Anyway, when I returned she was gone.  Her cousin's parents had offered to take her with them to Orlando, and she had gone, leaving old Snoop behind.  The day I came back Snoop was lying under a bush in my driveway.  At first I thought I'd found him in the middle of a nap and left him there.  A few hours later, when I went out, he was still there; awake but not wishing to move.  When I picked him up I was horrified.  His nose was bone dry, his eyes cloudy, and he had lost considerable weight.  I rushed him over to the Funstel house and learned from another neighbor that they too had taken a trip and would not be back for two days.  Imagine that!  Leaving a four-month-old kitten to fend for itself for such a time.  I was furious but there was little I could do.

"I took the cat to my veterinarian, but it was too late. Snoop died a few hours later.  With all his wonderful ability he could not solve the worst of puzzles; human indifference.  It took all the control I had to relate the story to Mrs. Funstel when she returned.  Her response was that she had not the time to look for the cat before they left, and that they would simply find another."

"Humph! Wonderful people, I'm sure," Tom said with a shake of his head.

"If killing the old broad off would have served any purpose other than to get me locked away, I'd have done it.  Unfortunately, not even the law can protect animals from half hearted ownership.

"The next day the little girl rang at my door.  She was devastated.  Now there was no way for me to tell her the truth no matter how much I detest lies.  One simply does not make villains out of parents.  I offered her my old friend Cuppy here to keep until she got a new kitten.  Cuppy was my mother's offering under a slightly similar circumstance and, though I hadn't realized it at the time, Cuppy is rather alike to Snoop in markings.

"Well, there you have it.  All, except one detail that I think ties it together.  Yesterday the Funstel girl came over with Cuppy and asked if I really believed in the cat ghosts from several of my stories.  I ducked the question and asked why.  She said her mother was terrified of Cuppy.  She had told her mother all my tales, and now the old woman was convinced that, like the ancient cats, Snoop had returned to reward its owners.  Cuppy was, according to Mrs. Funstel, the source of a ghost.  I took Cuppy back and locked him in my chest last night."

"Then how the hell did he get..  did it get back to the Funstel house?" Tom asked as he sat up and stared at the threadbare stuffed toy.  "I saw the girl throw it at you."

"I don't know, Tom.  I only know that the two locking clasps on my chest were opened and that Cuppy was gone when I awoke this morning.  Now, as my best friend and over paid lawyer, you can come with me as we try to explain this to the police."

At the police station Tom related the facts to the sergeant who listened carefully but took no notes.  At the end of it he handed Tom a sheet of paper.  "Mrs. Funstel is dead, Mr. Reid.  They haven't done an autopsy yet but the physician who treated her told me that it seems as though her digestive track failed several days ago.  She died of malnutrition and dehydration."