Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Sidekick. Purrfect Deseit. Purrfect Ruse [calibre 5.14.0]

And having delivered this barb, she was off in the direction of the guest bedroom that was her momentary home. A home she now shared with Marge and Tex.

Not an ideal situation, I think you’ll agree.

Tex was rolling his eyes. “And here I thought things couldn’t get any worse,” he said. “As if living under the same roof with that woman wasn’t enough, now I have to live under the same roof with her in the same room!”

“It’s just for a couple of weeks, honey,” said his wife of twenty-five years. “Soon the new house will be ready and we’ll have all the space we need.”

“Let’s hope so,” Tex grumbled, and since the others were so courteous to let him go in first, he made haste to close the door behind him and moments later the line had been reduced from four to three waiting adults.

“If it’s really urgent you can use my litter box,” Dooley said helpfully to Marge, who, like her husband before her, was now dancing on one leg.

“Thanks, Dooley,” said Marge with a tight smile. “That’s very kind of you. But if it’s all the same to you I prefer to do my business on a regular toilet.”

We followed Gran into her room, and saw that she’d gotten dressed in her usual tracksuit, this one a purple specimen with red stripe. “Where are you going, Gran?” asked Dooley curiously.

Humans are such a strange species, they never fail to amuse and entertain. And it is always with great interest that we watch their daily shenanigans.

“Today I’m going golfing,” said Gran proudly.

“What’s golfing?” asked Dooley.

“Golfing is where you hit a little white ball with a stick and try to make it land in a hole,” I explained.

He stared at me. “And what’s the point?”

“That, I do not know,” I had to admit.

“It’s a sport,” said Gran, who apparently had read up on this strange pastime. “In fact it’s the perfect sport: you don’t overexert yourself, as in some of these weird and exotic sports like jogging, and your eye-hand coordination gets a real kick out of it, which is never a bad thing, especially when you’re my age and things start to go a little haywire.”

“Can we come?” asked Dooley, whose interest had been piqued by this enthusiastic endorsement.

“I don’t think so, Dooley,” said Gran. “No cats allowed on the golf course, I’m afraid.”

“But why?”

“They don’t need us there,” I said. “They prefer to dig their own holes.”

“That’s right,” said Gran. “Besides, a golf course can be a dangerous place for cats. Those balls fly around at dizzying speeds, and if one should hit you in the face, it’s bye-bye, birdie.”

I shivered. The prospect of getting hit in the face by a ball didn’t exactly hold a lot of appeal to me, and I was glad Gran was so considerate. “Have a good time,” I said therefore.

“Break a leg,” said Dooley.

“I hope not,” said Gran. “But first things first. Let’s have breakfast.”

I gave her two thumbs up. Or at least I would have, if I’d had thumbs.

Chapter Two

Things were a little hectic in the kitchen. In a corner of the room the television was blaring away, a newscaster announcing the happy return of one of Hampton Cove’s favorite sons: the world-famous golf pro Carl Strauss, who was playing a tournament in town a week or so from now, and was staying at his beachside mansion, one of the many homes the successful sports star owned. Unfortunately for Mr. Strauss the reporter seemed more interested in the golfer’s private life than in his sporting achievements, as rumor had it that he was on the verge of yet another divorce, already his fourth.

“I had a great idea,” Gran suddenly announced as she nibbled from a piece of buttered toast.

“God help us,” Dad muttered, taking a sip from his cup of piping hot black coffee. The entire family was seated at the kitchen counter, and frankly Odelia was happy to have her parents and her grandmother staying with them, even though it wasn’t exactly the most practical solution. Still, it reminded her of the time when she was still living at home, only this time her parents had moved in with her and not the other way round.

“Wait till you hear my idea before you start with the comments,” Gran snapped.

“And what is this brilliant idea of yours, pray tell?” asked Dad.

“Well, we’re building a new house, right?”

“No thanks to you,” Dad couldn’t help but add.

“Let’s not go there again, Tex,” said Mom, always the peacekeeper in the family.

“So I was thinking, if we’re building a new house anyway, why not make a few modifications?”

“What modifications,” asked Dad suspiciously.

“Why don’t we build an extra floor? Or maybe a couple extra floors? After all, once you’ve got your contractor nailed down, and your architect, it’s not going to cost you a lot more money to add a few more walls and windows.”

“What did you have in mind?” asked Mom, as she took a tentative spoonful of oatmeal pudding and nodded appreciatively, giving her daughter a nod of approval.

“Well, if we build another three or four extra floors, we can rent them out and make some extra money is what I was thinking.” When Dad started protesting, she held up her hand and yelled over him, “It’s sound business sense, Tex!”

“It’s impossible,” said Chase, shaking his head.

“Another naysayer,” said Gran acidly. “See what I gotta deal with?” she asked her granddaughter. “One person in this family who’s got all the brilliant ideas, and a bunch of negative nellies who can’t wait to tear ‘em down. So please tell me why it’s impossible?”

“Because local zoning ordinances won’t allow you to build those extra stories.”

“And why is that?”

“Because. You can’t build an apartment block in this neighborhood—you just can’t.”

“Says who?”

“Says the zoning laws!”

“I’m afraid Chase is right, Ma,” said Mom. “You can’t build apartments here. It’s not allowed.”

“I don’t get it. It’s our land. Why can’t we build whatever we want to build on it?”

“Because you just can’t, all right!” Dad exploded.

“It’s to do with urban planning,” Odelia explained for her grandmother’s sake. “If everybody just built whatever they wanted, things would quickly look a mess. This is a neighborhood of family homes, and an apartment block will stick out like a sore thumb.”

“And our neighbors would complain it blocks their view,” Mom added. “Or that the sewage system or electric grid or the water supply wasn’t built for all those extra units. And so it needs to stay the way it was originally planned by the zoning commission.”

Gran’s face had taken on a mulish look, and she said, “We’ll see about that.”

“No, we won’t,” said Dad. “I don’t want to live in an apartment. I want to live in my own house, and not have to deal with a bunch of tenants.”

“What you’re really saying is that you don’t like money, Tex,” Gran pointed out.

“I don’t want to be a landlord!”

“See? You don’t like money. But I do, and I think I can make this happen.”

Dad made a scoffing sound and returned to reading his newspaper.

“No, I think I can. It’s all about making the impossible possible, and that’s what I’m all about.” She took another bite from her toast then dropped it on her plate. “I’m going golfing, and while I’m at it I’m going to be networking the hell out of all of those movers and shakers. I’m bound to hit on someone on that zoning thing who’ll be only too happy to give me the permit I need.” She wagged her finger in her son-in-law’s face. “I’m gonna be winning friends and influencing the hell out of those people. Just you wait and see.”