The director threw himself into a seat in the front row of the theater before hollering, "Start at the beginning of the play!"
That's when the magic happened.
The thick, red curtains swept apart, and, suddenly, we were looking at 221B Baker Street! It was just as I'd imagined it: there were two chairs in front of a fireplace, a skull sitting on the mantelpiece next to a stack of letters that had been stabbed into the wood with a knife. There was even a violin sitting on one of the chairs. And then, Sherlock Holmes, The Great Detective himself, came onstage, wearing a swirling cape and deerstalker hat! Beside me, Sherlock's eyes widened. "Watson, do you know what this means?" he whispered.
"No," I whispered back. "What?"
"It means," Sherlock gasped, "that Sherlock Holmes is real!"
And once again, the game was afoot!
The director threw himself into a seat in the front row of the theater before hollering, "Start at the beginning of the play!"
That's when the magic happened.
The thick, red curtains swept apart, and, suddenly, we were looking at 221B Baker Street! It was just as I'd imagined it: there were two chairs in front of a fireplace, a skull sitting on the mantelpiece next to a stack of letters that had been stabbed into the wood with a knife. There was even a violin sitting on one of the chairs. And then, Sherlock Holmes, The Great Detective himself, came onstage, wearing a swirling cape and deerstalker hat! Beside me, Sherlock's eyes widened. "Watson, do you know what this means?" he whispered.
"No," I whispered back. "What?"
"It means," Sherlock gasped, "that Sherlock Holmes is real!"
And once again, the game was afoot!
SCREEEEECH!
It was the worst sound I’ve ever heard in my life.
I had been napping on Mary’s bed when I heard it — this loud, hair-raising squeak. It sounded as if a cat—no, make that a hundred cats—were having their tails pulled. I raised my head sleepily, and saw Mary, digging around in her toy chest. “Kitty,” she said. “Have you seen my earmuffs? The pink, fluffy ones I wear when it’s cold?”
I wasn’t sure why she needed them because it wasn’t too cold outside, but I meowed softly to let her know I hadn’t seen them.
The sound came again, even louder, and squeakier than before; this time, I had to investigate. After all, I am the assistant to Sherlock Cat, the World’s Greatest Cat Detective. Solving mysteries is what we do.
I found the Great Cat Detective, himself, downstairs in the hallway hiding behind the coat rack. His eyes were wide. “Watson, in case you were wondering,” he said, “that is not the sound of a hundred cats having their tails pulled.”
I squinted at him. He was wearing Mary’s pink, fluffy earmuffs.
“Hey,” I said. “Mary’s looking for those. Why are you wearing them?”
“I hoped they might block out the…” he began, but, at that moment, the sound came again—that horrible, off-kilter squeal.
It was coming from the library.
“What is that?” I gasped.
“It’s the Man,” Sherlock hissed.
“Is he dying a slow and agonizing death?” I asked.
“Worse!” Sherlock cried. “He’s gone and done it! He’s bought himself a violin!”
“But… that can’t be what’s causing that horrible sound!” I said. “Violin music is beautiful!”
“Look for yourself!”
I walked cautiously to the open library door and peeked inside, Sherlock right behind me.
The Man noticed us and gleefully held out an old, battered violin that looked like it had seen better days. “Look, boys!” the Man said happily. “I am going to learn how to play the violin! Sherlock Holmes played the violin, you know, so I thought I’d learn, too.”
“I found it at a thrift shop,” he said. “The shop owner said a customer brought it in after finding it in his grandfather’s attic!”
“They should have left it in the attic,” Sherlock said, but the Man gazed at the dusty-looking instrument as if it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his entire life. He balanced the violin on his shoulder, picked up a wooden bow that looked as battered as the violin, and scraped it across the violin’s strings.
SCREEEEEECH.
Sherlock hissed.
The Man frowned and inspected the bow in his hand. “Maybe it needs more rosin,” he said. “See, boys, when you play a violin, you have to put this gooey stuff on the bow’s hair so that it can help you play.”
Sherlock snorted loudly. “I don’t think that is going to help him.”
He was right. It didn’t help.
SCREEEEECH.
“Hmmm.” The Man looked at his violin, then set down the bow and started turning the pegs on the end of the violin. The strings began to tighten even more, stretching and stretching and…
“Oh, no,” I gasped.
Sherlock’s eyes were round like saucers. “He’s going to…”
“Vatican cameos!” I yelled. “Hit the deck!”
We crouched down as low to the ground as we could, our bellies pressed against the carpet, just before one of the violin strings snapped in half and zinged across the room.
CRRRACK! PING!
The Man was standing there dazed. His violin, which had had four strings a moment earlier, now only had three.
“What happened?” I gasped.
“He wound up his string too tightly,” Sherlock said. “A rookie mistake. When you are tuning a violin, you must wind the strings very slowly, very gently.”
“He twisted it like he was trying to take the top off of a stuck jar of marmalade,” I said.
Sherlock nodded. “Exactly.”
The Man said a bad word—I won’t repeat it here— before he turned the peg in the other direction, taking off the broken string and tossing it in the garbage. He held up a little paper packet in his hand. “I am not foiled yet!” he exclaimed.
Inside the packet was another violin string! While sticking the tip of his tongue out of the side of his mouth, as he always did when he was concentrating very hard, the Man carefully laid the string in place before he began cranking on that peg. We watched as the string grew taut over the violin’s fingerboard, tighter… and tighter… and…
“I can’t look,” I gasped.
CRAAACK! PING! The second string snapped and zipped across the room.
But the Man wasn’t discouraged yet! He pulled another little packet from his violin case, holding it up as if he was showing it to us. “Now,” he said, “Now, this string is not going to break!” he said. He winked at me. “Wish me luck, Watson!”
My ears perked. “What?”
Sherlock wasn’t listening; he was watching the Man as he threaded the new string into his violin peg, then began turning it until the string was taut. I poked him with my paw. “Sherlock! Did you hear that?” I asked. “He called me Watson! Why did he call me Watson?”
Still, Sherlock wasn’t listening. His eyes were round and wide. “RUN!” he yelled and turned tail. I did the same, and a moment later, we were both hiding underneath the coat rack in the hallway.
“Maybe he should learn to play the flute instead,” I suggested.
Fortunately, the Man managed to not break his third string. How did we know that? Because a minute later, we heard it:
SCREEEECH!
Sherlock titled his head a little. “Does that sound like ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?’” he asked.
“Kind of,” I said. “If the violin was on fire, maybe.”
Sherlock nodded. “We’d better make a run for it.”
We dashed for the cat door.
A clever blend of theatrical drama, deductive sleuthing, and feline idiosyncrasies keeps this warm and whimsical middle grade mystery purring.
Does a fallen lamppost on the stage of a local theatre have any connection to a missing statue? What about a missing diamond tennis bracelet? And the “shifty-eyed,” sweater-wearing dogs who keep visiting the Petersons? Their cat is named… Moriarty. So what are those four-footed miscreants up to?
Well, never fear. The game’s afoot and our furry detective duo is on the case!
Told from the perspective of Sherlock Cat’s catnip companion and devoted feline friend, Watson Cat, the story is chockful of dubious rescue missions, platefuls of fish, “STEVIE!,” a very rare blue carbuncle, a stuffed cat, a stretch cord, and a ladder. So what could possibly go wrong? Also, What would Tom Cruise do in this situation? And, “Don’t worry, kitty.” Tip: Whenever you hear that, worry!
Brisky paced and nimble, Sherlock Cat is also up to its ears in colorful characters. One example is Mac the restaurant owner. He makes “the world’s greatest tuna melt.” Ditto Mac’s tortoise shell cat, Annie. There’s also Pretty Kitty Irene and her lady, the Duchess. And Billy, the “Mouse Around Town” who keeps his ears open for any mystery our feline duo may want to solve.
Strong writing buoys a story that’s as intriguing and engaging as it is warm and whimsical. Most chapters are relatively short, with smooth-as-silk transitions gliding the action effortlessly from one scene to the next.
Additionally, the illustrations in this book are paws-itively terrific! Ditto the banter between Sherlock Cat and Watson Cat and Watson’s internal dialogue. All of the above are hilarious, in a “catty” sort of way. Other tip: Don’t miss the Epilogue. It “tucks in the tail,” so to speak. It also leaves the door open for a sequel. Oh yeah.
This book is a lot of fun! It’s smart. It’s sassy. It’s suave. It’s Sherlock-ian. With enough snark and spunk to appeal to its target audience of middle grade readers, older fans of things 221b Baker Street-ish will also enjoy this Mission Impawsible story. With some truly groanworthy puns (“we’ve caught her red-handed!”) and plenty of action and intrigue, this is the kind of book you’ll want to read with a hot cuppa in one hand and a funny bone in the other. After all. “Diamonds are a cat’s best friend…”
My Rating: 3.5