I was up late reading an old leather-bound Edgar Allan Poe collection when the night thundered softly and the rain started to beat against my office window — rapping, tapping. Perhaps you can guess which story I held between my paws. More of a poem really. But it never failed to chill me. I could always sense my pupils widen to full circles when my eyes reached this stanza:

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

Merely this and nothing more.

Though on the front of my office door are chiseled the words: B. BUCKLEBERRY — BLACK CAT DETECTIVE AGENCY, even I can suffer a fright from time to time.

As I sat in the dimly lit office, my large orange eyes looked up and scanned the room. I was alone, right? I closed the leather cover of the book. What if someone was right outside my door? Or my window? I put my furry face up to the glass and looked out into the forest, both paws shielding my eyes from the glare. 

TAP TAP TAP

I let out a shocked mewl and flinched backwards, almost falling off the shelf where I was reading. There, in the dim shaft of light my banker’s lamp threw out the window was a sliver of a bird, yellow, with black eyes that reflected the amber glow of my office interior.

“Ariella!” 

Gathering myself, I rolled from my back to all four paws. I jumped down and headed to the door. As soon as I opened it, the autumn breeze brought a cold chill inside. I called out to her again and ushered her indoors, but she shook her head and wouldn’t move from outside the window. 

“Ah. Okay,” I said, realizing that she was reluctant to sidle past me, a cat. As it was, I had to suppress my cat senses every time she stepped into my office. Controlling my natural feline propensities when in the close proximity of a bird, of any type, was steadily becoming easier, but I still couldn’t manage to stop my chittering from time to time. Which, of course, made Ariella hesitant to trust me. She was looking a bit plump lately. But I stepped back into my office and sat behind my desk, giving her safe passage inside.

Her head peered around the corner of the door, ensuring that I was indeed far enough away from her that it would be safe to proceed. She put one foot into the office.

“Ariella, it’s c-c-c-c-clear. C-c-c-c-come on in…”

With a crash, more thunder boomed, and a lightning flash lit up my office in blue-white. She ran inside all the way and slammed the door.

Ariella is my messenger. In fact, she is the official messenger of Black Cat Detective Agency, and she knows I’m not going to hurt her. And I know I’m not going to hurt her. But our ingrained behaviors are difficult to overcome. For each of us. Usually I’ll summon her for a case, so this was unusual behavior.  She rarely shows up on her own, especially asking to come inside. This must be important. There was only one problem, though. I don’t speak Finch. I did have a small pamphlet on the language of pigeons in its entirety, but I’ve never gotten around to perusing it. 

“Is everything o-k-k-k-kay?” I asked her. It was after 10 pm, and all birds that I knew flew back to their nests before dark. The skies had been black for over three hours.

She nodded her head up and down. Okay. She’s not hurt, nor is anyone else. I think. She looked outside the windows at the rain as it started to fall heavily.

“Did someone come to you with a case?” I asked. Yes, she nodded her head up and down several times enthusiastically. 

“Oh. Good. I was beginning to think I’d have to start putting ads on C-C-C-Critter.” Critter is a neighborhood app that keeps all the animals informed about things we need to know; mercury levels in the river, the potential for severe weather, as well as all the obligatory gossip. For instance, last week I would never have known that several of Ranger’s cows had escaped. Ranger’s a black and white Australian Shepherd. He’s the only dog on the property, and herding and keeping an eye on over 100 head of cattle by himself must be exhausting. But after 22 minutes on Critter, Ranger followed the posts about the cow’s whereabouts and was able to track them down to the parking lot of the Piggly-Wiggly on Main Street. From there, he herded them home all on his own.

I asked who was wanting to hire me.

Ariella ruffled her feathers, getting herself ready for our game of Charades. She put a wing on top of her head, closed her eyes, and pretended to snore, though it sounded more like a squeaky door opening.

“Snore? Sleep? Head? Sleepyhead! Sleepyhead Hetta!”

She jumped up and down and nodded. Hetta was a small pot-bellied pig that only talked about two things — her boyfriend, fellow pot-belly Richard Swinbourne, and shopping. If it wasn’t one of those two subjects, Hetta could not reliably carry on a conversation. Also, as if this weren’t barrier enough to becoming good acquaintances with the little pig, she had a slight narcolepsy condition. At the drop of a hat she could fall into a deep sleep. It didn’t happen all the time, but when it did, Hetta would just zone out for a few seconds, nothing too long.

“Is she missing?” I asked Ariella.

She shook her head no.

“Is a friend of hers missing?”

She shook her head no.

“Is she missing something?”

Ariella jumped up and down a few times. Then she drew a circle around her wrist with the tip of her wing.

“She’s missing a bracelet?”

Correct, she nodded.

“And Hetta believes it was stolen?”

Yes, yes, nodded Ariella.

“Is this bracelet valuable?”

Yes.

“So it’s worth a lot of money!”

Ariella touched her bright yellow chest, and then drew a small heart there.

“Oh, it has sentimental value.” Ariella nodded again. “Darn. Was hoping for a big stolen diamond bracelet heist that only the most cunning of thieves could pull off. And only the smartest of detectives could solve.”

Ariella shrugged her shoulders.

“So, why bring this to me now? It’s way past your bedtime.”

Ariella made multiple gestures with her wings; lifting her feet like she was marching, drawing triangles in the air, pretending to feast on — oh my goodness, was that a chicken leg she was eating? — then bending her feathers and rippling them in front of herself as the tips moved down to the floor.

“Ah! You and Arristarkis were at the first night of Harvest Fest. It closed down for the evening because of the rain, and you’re just getting back. And you ran into Sleepyhead Hetta there?”

Ariella jumped up and down, clapping the ends of her wings.

“I see. Fine. And you told Miss Hetta to come by in the morning, yes? This time is normally outside of my working hours…” Yes, she nodded. She drew a one, a zero, and the letters AM in the air. “Good,” I told her. I mean, technically I open at 9, but that’s just so early.

Another small head bob, this one with intention as her two black eyes looked straight at me.

“Of course. You’ve earned it.” She walked to the door, opened it with her foot, and hopped outside into the rain. Coming around the edge of the desk, I grabbed a handful of wriggling worms from the silver bucket I kept on the floor. I walked to the open door and tossed them outside on the ground. “Thank you, Ariella. I hope you and your husband had a good time at the Festival. I hear they’re making some great changes this year.” She ignored me as she pecked and ate.

I was sure both Ariella and Arristarkis had eaten endless scraps of funnel cake, pumpkin pie, and fried Twinkies at Harvest Fest. But outside my window, the little yellow bird continued to chirp and pounce in front of the worms I gave her, gulping them down one by one.

Harvest Fest is the town festival that runs the week before Halloween with the last night falling on the 30th, allowing the kids to have the 31st for trick or treating. There are rides, food, games, bands, pumpkin picking, jack o’lantern and scarecrow contests, corn mazes, and a haunted house. People come from all over the state and beyond to attend. But best of all, in my opinion, is the cider from White Barn Winery. Every year I ask my goat friend that works there for a bottle of Teacher’s Pet, made with a variety of late-season local apples aged in bourbon barrels for a year, which adds subtle notes of oak and caramel. Bumper usually comes by my office with a bottle of the stuff hooked behind his horns. But I hadn’t seen him yet. 

Pumpkin, cider, and the white tips of candy corn. Three of my favorite delicacies this time of year. The Shaws had lined their front porch with tiny little pumpkins and gourds, so occasionally I would jump up on the railing and pick one up in my mouth. Taking it back to my office under the shed, I’d patiently bite around the stem until I could take the top off and scoop out the insides with my paws, eating beyond satisfaction. Admittedly, I needed to take a bath after, but with a fire in the fireplace, that was the height of luxury. 

It was late. Ariella had already flown home to her nest at the top of the tree next to my shed. I contemplated going out to the porch to see what I could pilfer, but the thunder and rain kept me inside. I lit a small fire, turned off my desk lamp, and curled up on the braided rug in front of the fireplace to get a good night’s sleep.

And tried not to dream of Lenore.