I was making coffee Saturday morning when I noticed Pandora’s phone sitting on the kitchen counter. There was nothing particularly unusual about that. People leave their phones on counters all the time. I’ve done it myself, usually right before spending twenty minutes looking for mine. But Pandora had gone out to run errands, and she rarely went anywhere without her phone. Meanwhile, John Mercer was in his bedroom, typing away on his laptop like a man trying to finish a novel before the publisher changed the locks. He’d been working on some mysterious project for days, and every time I asked what it was, he gave me the same answer: “Just something I’m putting together.” That’s not an answer. That’s what people say when they don’t want to give you an answer.
I poured my coffee and considered the possibilities. John had mentioned helping Dave with something, although he hadn’t explained exactly what. Dave works with me, and while I wouldn’t describe him as mysterious, he does have a habit of turning simple tasks into complicated operations. Last month, he spent three days organizing a spreadsheet that nobody had asked him to organize. So when John said Dave was involved in this project, I assumed there would be charts, unnecessary calculations, and possibly a meeting to discuss the next meeting. What I couldn’t understand was why John had suddenly become so secretive about it. Every time I walked past his room, he minimized whatever was on his screen. I could have accepted that as a coincidence once or twice. By the fourth time, I was beginning to feel personally excluded from something I probably wouldn’t have wanted to participate in anyway.
Then I remembered something Mrs Jenkins had said the previous afternoon. I’d been helping her carry a bag of groceries to her door when she asked whether John had finished his project yet. I told her I didn’t know what the project was, and she gave me one of those pleasant little smiles people use when they know something you don’t. “Well, I’m sure it’ll turn out nicely,” she said. Nicely. That was an interesting choice of word. You don’t usually describe spreadsheets as turning out nicely. You describe them as finished, accurate, or an unfortunate necessity of modern employment. Whatever John was doing, Mrs Jenkins seemed to know about it. And for some reason, she wasn’t telling me.
Mr Whiskers wandered into the kitchen while I was thinking this over. He jumped onto a chair, stretched his neck toward Pandora’s phone, and sniffed it with the seriousness of a customs inspector examining suspicious luggage. Then he rubbed his cheek against the corner of the phone and looked at me. I looked back. “You know something, don’t you?” I asked him. He blinked slowly, which I took as a refusal to cooperate. I’ve lived with that cat long enough to recognize when he’s being difficult. Unfortunately, he’s difficult most of the time, so it wasn’t much of a clue.
I decided to ask John directly. I knocked on his bedroom door and waited until he told me to come in. His laptop was open on the desk, but he immediately leaned forward, blocking my view. That was subtle. About as subtle as throwing a blanket over a television when somebody walks into the room. “What are you working on?” I asked. “A project,” he said. “For Dave?” He hesitated just long enough to make me suspicious. “Sort of.” I folded my arms. “John, you realize that every answer you give me sounds like something a person says during a police interview?” He looked at me for a moment, then started laughing. “Hal, I promise you, nobody is committing a crime.” I hadn’t mentioned a crime. Interesting.
I went back to the kitchen with considerably more questions than I’d had before. Pandora’s phone was still sitting on the counter, which meant she hadn’t returned for it. I considered checking whether she’d left me a message somewhere, then realized that the easiest way to find out what she was doing would be to wait until she came home and ask her. It was a reasonable approach, but it lacked the excitement of an investigation. Instead, I texted her from my own phone and asked whether she knew anything about John’s project. A few minutes later, she replied that she did, but I should let John finish it. That was all. No explanation, no details, not even a reassuring sentence about how I wasn’t about to become the subject of a documentary. Apparently, everybody had agreed to be vague today.
By lunchtime, I’d developed three theories. The first was that John and Dave were planning some kind of business venture. The second was that John was preparing a surprise for somebody. The third involved Mrs Jenkins, although I hadn’t worked out what her role would be beyond knowing more than I did. I mentioned the business theory to Mr Whiskers while he sat on the windowsill watching birds. He seemed unimpressed. I told him that a good investigator considers every possibility, even the unlikely ones. He yawned directly in my face. There are times when I wonder whether that cat understands English and simply chooses to be rude.
Things became more interesting when Karen called. She’s a coworker of mine, and I’d mentioned John’s strange behavior to her at work the previous day. I asked whether Dave had said anything about a project. “He mentioned helping John with something,” she said. “Why?” I explained that John had practically barricaded himself in his bedroom and that Mrs Jenkins seemed to know what was going on. Karen laughed. I’m beginning to notice that people laugh a lot when I explain things that concern me. “Maybe you should just leave him alone,” she suggested. “That’s exactly what someone involved in the project would say,” I replied. She laughed harder and told me she had to go. I added her reaction to my mental list of suspicious behavior, although I was starting to suspect the list said more about me than anybody else.
A little later, I heard John moving around in his room. He came out carrying a cardboard box, which he immediately turned away from me when he noticed I was standing in the hallway. “What’s in the box?” I asked. “Stuff.” “What kind of stuff?” “Project stuff.” I stared at him. “You’re really not making this easy.” He sighed and told me he needed to take the box to Mrs Jenkins. That got my attention. Mrs Jenkins was involved after all. I offered to help carry it, but John said he had everything under control. Then he made the mistake of asking whether I could keep Mr Whiskers out of the hallway while he went next door. I looked down at the cat, who had already appeared beside my feet. Somehow, the two of us had become obstacles to an operation we knew nothing about.
Naturally, I followed John as far as our front door. I wasn’t spying. I was making sure he didn’t need help. There’s a difference, although I admit it becomes harder to explain when you’re standing behind a partially open door. Mrs Jenkins greeted John with a smile and immediately asked whether he’d brought everything. Everything. There was that word again. John stepped inside her apartment, and I heard the unmistakable sound of someone setting a cardboard box on a table. Then Mrs Jenkins laughed and said, “Oh, that’s wonderful. Hal is going to love it.” I nearly dropped my coffee. Whatever they were planning, I was apparently the intended recipient.
I spent the next half hour trying to remember whether I’d forgotten an important date. It wasn’t my birthday. It wasn’t our anniversary. As far as I knew, I hadn’t won an award, been promoted, or done anything that justified a secret gathering of my friends and neighbors. I briefly wondered whether they were organizing an intervention about my tendency to investigate ordinary household objects. That seemed unfair. I’d only conducted three investigations that week, and one of them had produced useful information about where John was hiding the good coffee. When Pandora finally came home, I met her at the door and asked what was going on. She took one look at my expression and said, “You’ve been bothering John again, haven’t you?” I told her that was a very negative way to describe gathering information.
Pandora put down her shopping bags, retrieved her phone from the counter, and called John into the living room. He emerged looking tired, although I suspect that had more to do with me than his project. “Fine,” he said. “You want to know what I’ve been doing? Come next door.” I followed them to Mrs Jenkins’ apartment, with Mr Whiskers slipping through the doorway before anyone could stop him. On her dining table sat a small wooden structure painted in cheerful colors, with a pitched roof, tiny windows, and a little platform extending from the front. For a moment, I thought John had taken up architectural modeling. Then I noticed the miniature steps, the dangling feather toy, and a little cushion inside. It was a custom-built cat house. For Mr Whiskers.
I stared at it while John explained that Mrs Jenkins had found a design she liked and wanted to give Mr Whiskers something special. Dave had helped him work out the measurements, and Karen had suggested a few details to make it more entertaining for the cat. Pandora had helped choose the cushion and toys. John had spent several evenings building it, and Mrs Jenkins had painted the finishing touches. The whole project had been kept quiet because they wanted to surprise me when it was finished. “You’ve been investigating a cat house,” Pandora said, trying not to laugh. “A very elaborate cat house,” I corrected her. John shook his head. “Hal, you asked me yesterday whether I was involved in a financial conspiracy.” I pointed out that he’d been unusually evasive. “Because you kept asking questions about a surprise,” he said. That was a fair point, and I didn’t appreciate it.
The real humiliation arrived when Mr Whiskers inspected his new residence. He walked around it twice, sniffed the little steps, examined the doorway, and stuck his head inside. Everyone went quiet, waiting for him to climb in and enjoy the result of several days of work. Instead, he turned around, jumped into the empty cardboard box John had used to carry the supplies, and curled up inside it. Nobody said anything for a second. Then Pandora started laughing so hard she had to sit down. John stared at the cat with the expression of a man reconsidering every decision that had brought him to this moment. Mrs Jenkins covered her mouth, but her shoulders were shaking. I looked at the beautifully painted cat house, then at the cardboard box, and realized that the only person in the room who had understood the situation from the beginning was Mr Whiskers.
John eventually carried the cat house back to our living room, where it looked quite nice beside the bookshelf. Mr Whiskers followed us home, but only because John was also carrying the cardboard box. Once we set everything down, the cat climbed straight back into the box and settled in as though he’d personally commissioned it. Pandora suggested putting one of his favorite blankets inside the wooden house to encourage him to use it. John said he wasn’t making any further improvements until the cat demonstrated some appreciation for the work already completed. I offered to conduct a study of Mr Whiskers’ preferences, but everyone told me not to. Apparently, my investigative services were no longer required.
I still think John could have saved us all a lot of trouble by giving me a less suspicious answer when I first asked about his project. On the other hand, I suppose I could have accepted that he was doing something nice and left it alone. That would have been the sensible thing to do. Unfortunately, sensible behavior has never been my strongest quality, especially when somebody tells me there’s nothing to worry about. As I write this, Mr Whiskers is asleep in the cardboard box, John is admiring the wooden cat house that nobody is using, and Pandora keeps smiling whenever she looks at me. Mrs Jenkins says the cat will probably come around eventually. I hope she’s right. Otherwise, John spent four days building a beautiful little home for a cat who would apparently prefer to live in the packaging.
And I spent an entire Saturday investigating a conspiracy that turned out to be a cardboard box.
I’m not sure which of us should be more embarrassed.