Maybe you should have closed your window, then.

Kiwi feathers are brown

She claimed it was a Kiwi feather. I bit back something brilliant about are you sure it wasn’t your glasses that got swiped, or something like that. It was a feather, at least. Even if it looked more like a lit match.

That’s what bugs me about old dames. They throw a fit if they find out you smoke, or drink, or gamble, and then they go and fill their houses with pictures of racing horses, or big ol’ decanters, or antique cigar boxes. Or, in this case, pieces of evidence that reminded me how much I wanted to be out of there so I could smoke without getting librarian death-glares.

Ah well. Anything to avoid tailing that coyote up for indecent exposure and disturbing the peace.

She started in on how it was a kiwi feather again, and I almost slipped and told her to shut up and let me work. It’s weird how I can stay cool in front of bouncers, thugs, serial rapists… but a little old brushtailed biddy gets under my skin like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“Look,” I say, “You live in a tree, right? Kiwi’s don’t fly. So either this isn’t REALLY-” and boy did I drag out the really “-a kiwi feather, or someone planted it.” I decided to leave out that foxes don’t fly, either, so a kiwi coulda come up the same stairs I did. No sense riling a harmless old lady up, right?

I was thinking an owl, because their feathers, unlike kiwi, are white, and there’d been an artist’s rendering of a suspect floating around, when Max pipes up.

Sly?

“You got something over there, Max?”

I’m thinking this’s one a Cassie’s jobs.

“Why’s that? Does it say so in that book?”

Naw, he says, as the insult goes right over his head, I just looked out the window.

“…she’s still here?”

He shrugs. You know how it is with cats. Climb a tree, then can’t figger out howta get down. I think she’s stuck.

First time I’ve ever had to call a fire truck to make an arrest.

The Final Word.

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