Malcolm Goldman and the Mystery of the Missing Cats
It was one of those quiet Tuesday afternoons. The sun was out, birds were chirping, and Winston, my basset hound, was doing his best impression of a snoring log under my desk. Just when I thought the day would pass without incident, Malcolm kicked in the door. Not “opened”—kicked it. My 7-year-old son stormed into the room, trench coat flapping behind him like he was an extra in a low-budget detective film.
“Dad!” he shouted, voice brimming with fake urgency. “There’s been a crime!”
Winston jolted awake, flipped over like a lazy pancake, and immediately went back to sleep. I glanced up from my coffee. Malcolm was in full detective mode, trench coat dragging on the floor, plastic magnifying glass in hand, and a look of determination plastered on his face, upon which was taped a paper mustache. In his other hand? A stack of “Missing Pet” posters, freshly drawn with crayons and about as anatomically accurate as you would expect from a soon-to-be 2nd grader.
“I leaned back in my chair, pretending to take him seriously. Winston, still snoozing, rolled over and let out a snore that sounded suspiciously like a groan. “A situation, huh? What is it this time? Another sock monster in your closet?”
“No!” Malcolm threw the posters onto my desk like they were evidence in a major crime. “Three cats. Gone. Vanished. We have to investigate.”
I stared at the posters. They looked like someone had drawn a spaghetti monster with whiskers. “Muffin, Whiskers, and Buttons, huh?” I raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure they’ll turn up.”
Malcolm crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. “Dad, this is serious. I’ve got a lead.”
“A lead?” I asked, playing along. “Please, enlighten me.”
“I think they’ve all been…kidnapped,” he said dramatically, “by Mrs. Kowalski.”
I smirked. Of course. “And why do you think that?”
He looked around, then leaned in, breaking character for just a moment in a confidential whisper. “Because I’m pretty sure she’s been baking cookies.”
I smiled and whispered excitedly as if swallowing his conspiracy theory whole. “Ah, and… wait. What’s the connection between cookies and missing cats?”
“Fruit punch,” Malcolm whispered, as if he’d just revealed the key to the universe. “She always has fruit punch, Dad. And cookies. Really big ones.”
I sighed. “Malcolm, did you put up these posters just so you’d have an excuse to visit Mrs. Kowalski and ask for cookies?”
He gasped, clutching his magnifying glass dramatically to his chest. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? This is about justice, Dad! There’s even evidence and everything. Come on. I’ll show you.“
I was about to turn him down, protesting I had work to do, when Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle began to play softly on my office radio. Checkmate!
“Well, if there is evidence, dear Sherlock, the game is afoot! We should clearly take Winston the Crime fighter with us,” I announced as I started to rise. There’s no time to waste.” I turned to Winston who eyed me skeptically as if to say “Are you kidding me right now?” Despite his protestations, with a tug on the collar from Malcolm, we were off to solve the crime of the century.
Elm Street was about as lively as a goldfish in a coma. The houses all looked like they were competing to see who could be the most beige, and the lawns were trimmed so neatly that I half-expected a neighborhood HOA sniper to pop out and correct my walking speed. Malcolm strutted down the street like he was marching into battle, his trench coat billowing behind him in a breeze that didn’t exist. It flapped so dramatically, I’m pretty sure Winston considered biting it just to make it stop.
“Notice anything?” Malcolm asked, squinting at a fire hydrant like it was hiding the meaning of life.
“Yeah,” I said. “I notice you look like a guy who’s two feet from getting his coat sucked into a lawnmower.”
Winston, as usual, was much more interested in the local smells. He approached a tree and gave it a sniff like a seasoned detective sizing up a suspect. Malcolm crouched by a bush, his eyes narrowing. He reached in slowly, like he was about to pull out a diamond heist’s missing jewel.
“Aha!” he shouted, holding up his find.
It was an empty tuna can.
“Malcolm,” I said, rubbing my temples, “people feed their cats tuna. It’s not a crime.”
He stood up, the tuna can held aloft like it was the Holy Grail. “No, Dad. This is bait. Someone’s luring them.”
“Luring them with…tuna?”
“Exactly!” Malcolm said, his eyes gleaming with the kind of excitement normally reserved for people who think they’ve won the lottery but actually just read the numbers upside down. “We’re dealing with a professional.”
Mrs. Kowalski’s house was practically buried under a mountain of cats. There were cats on the windowsills, cats on the porch, cats lounging like they were getting paid by the hour. It was the kind of scene that would make any cat video on the internet look like amateur hour. I half-expected one of them to be wearing sunglasses and charging admission.
Malcolm stormed up to the door with the kind of determination you usually only see in superhero movies right before the hero makes a terrible decision. He knocked once, twice, and then…the door fell off its hinges. Mrs. Kowalski opened it as casually as if she’d just opened a cabinet, the door hanging limply by her side. She didn’t even blink.
“Sam, Malcolm,” she said, holding a cup of tea in one hand and a cat in the other. “What brings you to my humble abode?”
Before I could answer, Malcolm whipped out the tuna can like it was Exhibit A at a criminal trial. A few drops of fishy juice hit the porch, and one of the cats darted over to investigate. Mrs. Kowalski’s eyebrow lifted ever so slightly.
“Explain this!” Malcolm demanded, as if he’d just uncovered a major international incident.
Mrs. Kowalski blinked at the tuna can, blinked at Malcolm, and then blinked at the cat currently licking the juice off her porch. “You brought me an empty can of tuna?”
“No,” Malcolm growled, dramatically lowering his voice as if he was on the verge of solving a mystery no one knew existed. “This was found near the scene of the crime.”
Mrs. Kowalski smiled sweetly. “You’re accusing me of…stealing cats? With…tuna?”
Malcolm nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”
The old lady winked at me and said “Well, detective, perhaps you should come in so we can discuss these serious matters over punch and cookies.”
Sam gave her a stern look. “Okay, but I don’t want any funny business.”
Mrs. Kowalski chuckled, shaking her head as she set her tea down on the porch rail. “Oh, Malcolm. The cats come here on their own. I don’t have to lure them with anything. Muffin’s probably upstairs on my bed as we speak. They come for the company.”
Malcolm’s eyes twitched. “Company? You’re telling me this is all…voluntary?”
Mrs. Kowalski nodded again, looking at Malcolm with the same expression you’d give to someone who just tried to argue with a stop sign.
“Likely story, lady,” he said. “At my age, I’ve heard ‘em all.”
An hour later, we walked away from Mrs Kowalski’s house, bellies full of cookies and punch (and a pretty great cup of coffee) and all the cats accounted for, but Malcolm dragged his feet like someone had just told him that all mysteries had been banned forever. Winston was prancing along beside us, clearly satisfied with himself for figuring out that there was nothing to solve about two hours ago.
“I don’t get it,” Malcolm muttered, kicking a pebble that promptly bounced back and hit him in the shin. “The tuna…the cats…it all made sense.”
“It was tuna, Malcolm,” I said, giving Winston a pat on the head. “People feed their cats tuna. It’s not a criminal conspiracy.”
“But…the cans…the empty cans. There were so many of them!” He looked like he might actually cry. The kid was a born actor!
I shrugged. “Sometimes the world is just full of empty cans of tuna. It doesn’t mean you need to open an investigation.”
Winston let out a contented snort and headed toward his napping spot on the front porch. I had to admit, he had the right idea. As far as mysteries went, I figured this one was wrapped up tighter than Malcolm’s trench coat in a lawnmower.
As for my next adventure; how to explain to my wife the upcoming mystery of why Malcolm wouldn’t eat his dinner.
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