Ruby had just settled into her 3rd nap of the morning (post-breakfast, pre-lunch) when the sirens started again. Not real sirens. Worse.
Mrs. Pimm’s wailing.
“MURDER! FOUL PLAY! My feather duster’s been… murdered!”
Ruby opened one eye. Blinked. Rolled onto her back and pretended not to care. But curiosity is a cruel mistress, and by the third sob-scream of “It’s been PLUCKED BALD!” she was already halfway across the garden fence.
Chestnut Crescent was once again in tatters. Metaphorically. The actual tatters were what used to be Mrs. Pimm’s prized ostrich feather duster, now lying in pieces across her hydrangeas.
“Look at it, Ruby! Look at it! It was French-imported. Named it Claude!”
Ruby stared at the scattered feathers. They practically screamed foul play. (Or foul bird play, at the very least.)
The neighbourhood pets were gathered, whispering in tail-wiggles and whisker-twitches. The Labrador from No. 11 had already licked half the crime scene. Useless. Absolutely useless.
* * * * *
Ruby launched into full detective mode. She stalked, she sniffed, she interrogated.
“You ever seen these feathers before, Dandelion?” she asked the posh Siamese who lived two doors down and once tried to marry a guinea pig.
“Feathers? Darling, please. I only wear faux fur. Cruelty-free only.”
Suspicious. But Dandelion was far too busy modelling for the local vet’s Instagram page to commit flufficide.
The trail thickened when she spotted Mittens, a scrappy tuxedo kitten with a taste for drama—prancing around the garden shed… wearing what looked suspiciously like a feather boa.
“MITTENS,” Ruby growled.
“It’s FASHION, Ruby. Don’t hate the player, hate the creative expression.”
“That’s Claude around your neck.”
“Claude looks better on me.”
* * * * *
Ruby lunged. Mittens squeaked and darted off like a caffeinated squirrel. What followed was 11 minutes of absolute chaos:
- Two garden gnomes decapitated.
- One elderly tortoise knocked onto his back, legs flailing.
- A picnic ruined.
- A toddler scarred for life by the phrase “Give me the boa, you miniature burglar!”
Eventually, Ruby cornered Mittens under the community compost bin, where he finally coughed up the truth (and a hairball):
“It wasn’t me! I found Claude already dead! Honest! The real killer, he lives inside the house!”
Ruby froze.
“Wait… a human?”
“No!” hissed Mittens. “The Roomba.”
* * * * *
Turns out, Mrs. Pimm’s new smart vacuum, “Baxter,” had gone rogue during its 3 a.m. cleaning session, gotten tangled in Claude, and in a frenzy of AI confusion, eviscerated the duster while trying to “optimize floor fuzz management.”
Ruby confronted Baxter head-on. It blinked its tiny LED eyes and tried to reverse away.
“You made one mistake,” she whispered.
“Bee-boo?” said Baxter.
“You tried to clean in my territory.”
And with one strategic flick of her tail, Ruby pushed Baxter straight down the cellar steps.
Claude was avenged. The duster may have died in vain, but justice was served with a purr and a headbutt.
* * * * *
Mrs. Pimm bought a new duster, named it Claude Jr. and Ruby was rewarded with the highest honour: first pick of the tuna cans.
Mittens now runs a feather-accessory Etsy store under heavy supervision.
And Baxter? He’s been demoted to garage duty, watched day and night by the Roomba Resistance Alliance (a nervous parakeet, a goat, and Ruby herself).
Because in Chestnut Crescent, crime doesn’t rest.
But Ruby does.
Preferably on freshly laundered laundry you just put down for one second.
END
Ruby Forensics 