Mr Bigelow Smells a Rat Page 6

  My mouth is watering even as I order and though it’s a little pricey for my current situation I decide to throw caution to wind – since I’m apparently going to have to sell the house anyway. Why not live high on the hog during my first (and probably last) Christmas here?

  After cleaning up the kitchen in a mad rush, I run upstairs and slip into a simple black strapless sheath dress. I pile my hair up and put a fake-diamond necklace at my throat to look suitably festive. Then it’s onto my makeup.

  I get my eyeliner and mascara finished just in time – as the doorbell rings.

  “Ben! And Choxie! I say as I hurry downstairs and welcome them both inside. “Merry Christmas.”

  Choxie looks adorable in his antler ears, carrying a big, stuffed candy-cane toy. And Ben looks even cuter in jeans and a white button-down shirt. I kiss him on the cheek. He smells good too.

  “Mmn. Smells like someone’s been cooking all day,” he says.

  “I have,” I say, wondering if I can pass off the Bistro’s dinner as my own. But unfortunately, since the delivery-man will be here any minute, I don’t think it’s possible.

  “Oh here, this is for you.” Ben hands me a bottle of good Champagne and I hurry into the kitchen to grab two of GAA’s vintage champagne glasses. He pops the cork and we’re just about to toast…when the doorbell rings.

  “Oh, that’s our dinner,” I say, and Ben looks at me puzzled. “But I thought…”

  “It’s true, I was cooking all day,” I admit. “But I didn’t do a very good job at it.”

  “Ah,” he says with a smile as he goes to answer the door.

  A French delivery-man is standing outside, adding up the bill which he hands to Ben. Ben starts to take out his wallet to pay but I rush over to stop him.

  “No, it’s on me!” I say, grabbing my wallet and pulling out the money. “I insist. I invited you for dinner.”

  “But no,” Ben says, quickly pulling out his credit card. “I insist. Consider it a Christmas gift.”

  “Please, please,” the delivery man says in a heavy French accent. “I don’t care who pays zee beel. I just need to get my monet.” Then he takes Ben’s credit card and swipes it through his portable machine.

  “Now I really feel awful,” I say as Ben and I bring the bag of food over to the dining table. I’ve set it with a pretty white cloth and vintage crystal that I found at the back of GAA’s cabinet.

  “Well then have more champagne,” Ben smiles, refilling my glass. “It’s Christmas. No one should feel bad.”

  “That’s true,” I say. Then we both sit down to eat. The food smells delicious and I notice that both Choxie and Mr. Bigelow are inching closer and closer to the table. In fact, if they come any closer they’re both going to wind up on the table.

  “It’s just a shame you didn’t find that painting,” Ben says with a shrug as he takes a bite of his salmon. He makes a face as if to say that he’s just been transported to heaven. “So do you think there ever was a Monet? Or did Agnes mistake the Finkie for it, the same way we did?”

  “I don’t know. But we definitely looked everywhere and it’s definitely not here.”

  Just as I’m about to try my own salmon, the doorbell rings again.

  It’s the delivery-man again, holding out a dessert box. “I’m so sorry,” he says, handing the pastry box to me. “I forget to to geev you zhis. C’est your dessert.”

  “Oh, thank you,” I tell him. “Let me just grab my wallet.”

  “Ah no, please. Do not worry about zee monet. Eets on me.”

  “Oh really? Thank you again,” I say. “And Merry Christmas.”

  “Oui. To you too.”

  I close the door and bring the dessert box over to the table, frowning…feeling something nagging at my brain.

  “What’s wrong?” Ben asks. “Is it the wrong dessert?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Are you still upset about the painting? Or the house? About all the money you owe on it?”

  “No,” I say, frowning. Then I look over towards the door. “That delivery man was French right? Just like Great-Aunt Agnes.”

  “Right,” Ben says taking another bite of his salmon. “Definitely both French.”

  “And did you hear what he said? About how I didn’t have to pay him…?”

  “Right. He was pretty nice about it. Maybe because it’s Christmas. He said you didn’t owe him any more money.”

  “No…” I say, looking at Ben intently. “He said I didn’t owe him any more Monet.”

  “Well that’s his accent,” Ben shrugs. He sips his Champagne then, a moment later, his eyes light up. “Oh…” Ben looks right at me. “I get it. He pronounced the word ‘money’ as Monet.

  I nod, my mind racing.

  Ben frowns, “So…you think when your Aunt Agnes said “The Monet on the wall” she might have meant money? That she wasn’t talking about a painting at all?”

  “Yes,” I say as I get up and pace. “I think she meant money.” I look around, thinking. “Ben, I inherited everything from Agnes, right? Everything. She left it all to me. But…. you know what was weird? She didn’t have any bank accounts. Not one.” I turn to face him. “What if she hid all her money here? In the walls?”

  “Yeah. Yeah that could be,” Ben says standing up too. “Maybe we only thought she said “Monet on the wall”. But what she really meant was ‘money in the walls.’”

  He looks around and so do I “But which wall?” I say.

  “I don’t know. You can’t exactly start tearing the house apart looking for money that may or may not be here.”

  “No,” I say frowning. Thinking. Trying to figure out where Agnes might have hidden her stash of cash.

  Then it hits me. I look at Ben. “There is one wall I’ve been wanting to do something about since I moved in. I’ve been wanting to knock the darned thing down myself.”

  I hurry over to the stairway and start heading upstairs. Ben follows close behind. But halfway up I stop and look around for Mr. Bigelow and Choxie. Suspiciously – neither of them are following us.

  They’ve both inched even closer to the dining table and are now staring hungrily at our unguarded Christmas meal.

  Ben looks over and whistles sharply. “Hey! Guys. Upstairs!”

  The two reluctantly join us on the stairway and follow us upstairs and we all head into my empty sitting room/closet.

  “Here?” Ben asks looking around the empty room. “You think the money is behind one of these walls?”

  “Yeah, look, remember?” I say, flinging open the walk-in closet door. It smashes hard into the wall that’s catty-corner to it. “I’ve always thought this was a really bad design…I mean look, the actual closet inside continues past where this side wall would be.”

  Ben frowns and looks at the oddity of the architecture.

  “But what if it wasn’t designed like this at all?’ I continue. “What if this wall right here…is a facade?”

  “A fake wall?” Ben goes over to the wall and starts knocking on it. “It does sound pretty hollow.”

  I nod and we both stare at it. “Well there’s only one way to find out,” Ben sighs. “Got a hammer?”

  I hurry out of the room and find the hammer I’d been using to fix the one of the telephone tables in the guest bedroom. Then I return and hand it to Ben. He looks at me as if to make sure it’s really okay.

  “Go for it,” I say with a firm nod.

  He nods back – then he bashes the hammer into the wall and it splits open with very little effort.

  Slowly…and with great anticipation, I go over and peek inside the hole he made…and there it all is. Bundles of it. Stacks of it.

  “Wow,” I say in shock. “I can’t believe it.”

  Ben pulls out the rest of the fake wall then he picks up one of the stacks and studies it. “They’re fifties,” he says. “Stacks and stacks of them. There must be hundreds of thousands of dollars in here.”

  “Wow,” I
say again. “I can’t believe it.” After a few moments of stunned silence I find that I can’t stop smiling. “I can now pay off all Aunt Agnes’ debts,” I say, dazed.

  Ben looks over at me and nods. “And you won’t have to move after all.”

  MR. BIGELOW

  I pounce on my toy and it makes a loud squeaky sound which causes them both to look over at me and laugh. They’re both drinking Champagne and piling up the bundles of green stuff and smiling happily at one another.

  “Hey, remember when you asked Mr. Bigelow where the treasure was, and he led you into this room?” Ben is studying me through narrowed eyes.

  “Yeah,” she says looking over at me too. She stares at me. I stare back at her unblinking.

  She’s finally going to see the truth. Finally…she’s going to get it.

  Instead she shrugs and pats my head. “Yeah, but you can’t think he was trying to tell us something. I mean…he’s a cat.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Ben says with a shrug. “He’s just a cat.”

  I go back to playing with my toy.

  They’ll never learn.

  PENELOPE

  Ben and I go back down to finish our Christmas dinner which is when I notice that one large piece of salmon is missing from my plate. And so…suspiciously…is Mr. Bigelow.

  I call out to him, but he seems to be nowhere in the house so Ben and I and Choxie go out looking for him. Again. But he doesn’t seem to be anywhere in sight.

  MR. BIGELOW

  Trust me it’s hard carrying a large piece of salmon all those blocks without stopping to eat some of it. But I’m on a mission. I won’t even let myself think about it.

  I get to the big green dumpster and see that skinny, mangy cat sniffing around it, looking for something to eat. He’s so desperate for food that as soon as I get close, he looks up at me, obviously smelling the salmon I’m holding.

  I drop the fish down in front of me and then sit down on the sidewalk and stare at him.

  He slinks over. He’s interested but wary of getting too close.

  So I pick up the fish and start heading to Rafe’s building, looking back to make sure he’s following.

  He is.

  I keep walking.

  PENELOPE

  Ben and I follow Choxie’s lead and we wind up back at Rafe’s building. Again.

  “Why would he come back here?” I ask. “What is it with that cat and this building?”

  I press the buzzer of the old lady who lives next door to Rafe and explain through the intercom about my missing cat. She buzzes us in, and we head up the stairs. And there…in front of Rafe’s doorway is Mr. Bigelow. And what’s left of my salmon. And a mangy cat who’s busy gobbling it up.

  “Mr. Bigelow! What are you doing back here?” I say as I hurry over to him.

  Just then, the old lady opens her door and almost trips over the two cats as she steps out into the hallway. She grabs onto the doorframe to catch herself. “Oh dear,” she says, holding onto her heart. “Well I guess you found your cats.”

  “Just one cat,” I tell her. “Mr. Bigelow’s mine. I don’t know who this other guy belongs to.”

  “Hmm,” she frowns, looking at him closely. “Judging from his condition, he doesn’t look like he belongs to anyone.” She looks at him sadly, then bends down to pet him. The cat is so busy lapping up my salmon dinner that he doesn’t seem to mind.

  “Yes, you’re a good boy, aren’t you?” she whispers. He looks up at her. And for a moment I’m afraid he’s going to bite her. But instead, he noses her fingers then rests his head on her hand.

  “I’ve always thought about getting another cat,” she says softly. “After Max died. But I wasn’t sure if I should.” She blinks back tears. “But now…maybe it’s time.”

  As she lifts him up gently and carries him into her apartment – we wish her Merry Christmas. And then she invites us all in for some hot chocolate.

  And as we sit, sipping the rich, warm liquid, Mr. Bigelow jumps into my lap and stares at me. I look back into his yellow eyes, wondering…Wondering if somehow, everything that worked out tonight was made possible by him.

  He looks back at me and blinks…and I could swear, he’s telling me that it was. But then he lies down and begins purring as I scratch his neck and I realize I have to be imagining it. After all, he’s a cat, not some mastermind, mystery solver.

  As I frown at Mr. Bigelow, wondering, Ben raises his mug and wishes everyone a merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

  And I smile, feeling that it will be.

  THE END

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