Ruby, a cat of suspiciously high intelligence and a dramatic flair that could rival Judi Dench during mating season, sat on her windowsill in a brooding squint. She stared at the house opposite. Mr. Henderson’s. There was trouble afoot. Not the kind involving birds or squirrels or cucumbers (the holy trinity of household terror), but something worse. Something unnatural.
The sunbeam was gone.
Not just any sunbeam, mind you. This was The Sunbeam. Capital letters, all day long. The one that spilled across Mr. Henderson’s chintz carpet at precisely 11:03 every morning, warming a velvet patch of floor like a golden god, where Ruby had her daily, unauthorized nap. It was her office, her meditation spot, and the place she once coughed up an entire rubber band in front of the vicar.
But today? Darkness. The beam had vanished. Poof. Gone.
“Unacceptable,” Ruby muttered, flipping her tail like a small angry whip. “This is sunshine theft. A crime against comfort. Someone’s going to pay.”
She leapt from the sill, landed with an ungraceful thump (Ruby had the physique of a very posh sausage), and dashed out the cat flap with the manic energy of someone late for a fur appointment.
* * * * *
Ruby slinked in through the window she had been dramatically pretending not to use for three years.
Mr. Henderson was asleep in his chair, mouth open, television flickering something about migrating geese and unexpected volcanoes. Ruby ignored him.
The floor where the sunbeam used to live was now as cold and lifeless as a stale prawn. Ruby gave it a sniff.
No scent. No warmth. No vibe. It was dead.
Ruby turned to the window. “Hmm. The angle’s wrong,” she said, to no one. Then she said it again, louder, for effect.
From the hallway came a chortle.
“You lost your tan line, Rubes?” It was Biscuit, the local golden retriever and her sometime informant. He trotted in, tail wagging, tongue lolling, smelling like cheese and chaos.
“This is a crime scene,” Ruby said. “Don’t drool on the evidence.”
“I thought Mr. H just got new curtains?” Biscuit asked, already licking something that definitely wasn’t food off the floor.
“Curtains don’t affect trajectory,” Ruby snapped. “This is architectural. Someone’s moved something. Or built something. Illegally. Probably to trap cats.”
Biscuit blinked. “You think the humans made a cat trap… using sun?”
“Yes,” she said. “They’re clever. And evil. And tall.”
She stalked to the window, staring out.
There. Across the yard. The fence.
It was new. Taller. Greyer. Slightly smug-looking.
Ruby gasped. “The new shed! It’s blocking the sunbeam!”
Biscuit stared at her, tail thumping against the wall like a drunk metronome. “You’re saying… Mr. Henderson’s neighbour built a shed and now your butt’s cold?”
“I’m saying,” Ruby said with dramatic weight, “there’s been a sunbeam assassination and I’m going to claw the truth out of someone’s trousers.”
* * * * *
Ruby didn’t walk to the neighbour’s garden. She stormed. With her tail held like a hairy exclamation point.
The neighbour was a woman named Trish who wore too much perfume and had a gnome collection that Ruby had peed on more than once.
Ruby leapt the fence. Skidded across mulch. Approached the Shed of Doom.
And then, plot twist, found herself face-to-face with Clementine.
Clementine was Trish’s cat. Orange. Sassy. Looked like a croissant with attitude.
“Well, well, well,” Clementine drawled, licking a paw. “If it isn’t the neighborhood drama llama. Come to scream about your missing sparkle spot?”
“You know exactly what I’m here for,” Ruby hissed. “Where’s the sunbeam, Clem? You stole it.”
Clementine purred like a Bond villain. “It’s not my fault your sunbeam got relocated. We all have to adapt. It’s called climate change, sweetie.”
“Don’t play dumb,” Ruby snapped. “You orchestrated this. You told Trish to build this shed, didn’t you?”
Clementine stood, tail flicking, then leapt daintily onto the shed roof. “Some of us enjoy an elevated sun experience. It’s called ambition.”
Ruby narrowed her eyes. “It’s called greed, and it’s disgusting.”
They stared each other down. Somewhere in the distance, a pigeon exploded for no reason. The tension was that high.
* * * * *
Ruby returned to Mr. Henderson’s house with a plan. A bold, utterly idiotic plan.
She was going to redirect the sunbeam using…
A mirror.
Specifically: Mr. Henderson’s framed photo of his third wife, who once screamed upon discovering Ruby curled up in her gym bag. (Unforgivable.)
She knocked the frame off the shelf. Dragged it. Slowly. Inch by painful inch. Across the floor.
Biscuit, watching from the window, looked like he was watching a war documentary narrated by a squirrel.
Finally, with a grunt, Ruby propped the frame up using a fallen knitting needle and a suspicious amount of dried spaghetti.
And just as the clock struck 11:03…
BAM. SUNBEAM. DIRECT HIT.
Right onto the carpet. Glorious. Warm. A perfect oval of light. Ruby threw herself into it with all the grace of a collapsing deckchair.
Victory.
* * * * *
Mr. Henderson stirred.
He blinked at the mirror, the knitting needle, the strategically re-bent spaghetti.
He squinted at Ruby, curled up in blissful smugness, purring like a microwave.
“I need to get out more,” he muttered.
* * * * *
Clementine, sunning herself atop the shed roof, blinked in lazy surprise as a paper plane fluttered toward her.
She batted it open.
Inside: a photo of Ruby basking in a perfect sunbeam. On Mr. Henderson’s floor.
On the back, scribbled in paw-print font:
“Shed Happens.”
THE END
Ruby Forensics 