Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Advice. Purrfect Passion. A Purrfect Gnomeful

“Well, I’m sticking to my theory that Allison killed Kirk.”

“Gran talked to Kirk’s wife,” said Dooley. “And she said Kirk was a corn dog.”

“Why did she call Kirk a corn dog?” asked Jasmine, confused.

“Well, a corn dog is a person who keeps falling in love all the time. And that was Kirk.”

Jasmine grinned at Dooley’s description. “Uh-huh. Go on.”

“So Kirk was a corn dog and his wife told Gran that she caught him with the cleaner, the maid, the gardener, the housekeeper and every other member of staff over the years. And he was having relations with every single one of them, even with the gardener.”

“I see. Sticking his corn dog where it didn’t belong, huh? Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me one bit,” said Jasmine. “Kirk wasn’t just having affairs with Allison and Mia, but also with several members of staff. And I didn’t just catch him in the kitchen, but also in the laundry room, the wine cellar, the garden shed and one time even in Allison’s office with Allison’s own secretary. The man was incorrigible.”

“And you still think Allison did it?” I asked. “Even though all of these women are perfectly valid suspects?”

“All of these women knew exactly what they were getting. Only Allison and Mia thought he was the real deal. The rest were just flings.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Well, I do. And now could you please get lost? I was enjoying a perfectly nice beauty sleep before you barged in here with your stupid questions and your stupid theories.”

And so we got lost.

“What do you think, Max? Could Jasmine be right about Allison and Odelia wrong?”

“I have no idea, Dooley,” I admitted. “But I have a feeling Jasmine doesn’t like Allison very much, which may be why she keeps harping on the fact that she’s Kirk’s killer.”

Dooley shivered. “Imagine eating a mouse while it’s still alive. The poor creature will be screaming all the way down your gullet, wriggling and writhing. How can Jasmine be so cruel, Max?”

“I don’t know, Dooley. I guess she considers herself a cat’s cat. And cat’s cats eat their mice whole.”

“So what does that say about us, Max?”

“It says that we’re humane cats, Dooley.”

“And is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I like to think it’s a good thing, though I’m not sure Odelia would agree with me when those mice start raiding her cupboards and start leaving droppings on her pillow.”

Chapter 24

“What are we doing here, my turtle dove?” asked Brutus urgently.

“We’re here to find a friend, my sweet patootie,” Harriet replied.

They were in one of the numerous back alleys Hampton Cove is littered with, and she’d just sniffed at a large dumpster and struck out again. She was experiencing a strange feeling, and had since that morning. It was a feeling she hadn’t recognized at first as she didn’t think she’d ever felt it before. Oh, she’d heard about it, of course, from others, but had never actually experienced it firstpaw, so to speak.

Often referred to as ‘guilt’ it was commonly associated with something called a conscience. More specifically it was the feeling that you’ve done something wrong and you regret it and wish you could turn back time and undo the damage that you’ve done.

When Max and Dooley had looked at her that morning with consternation written all over their features, she’d experienced a pang of guilt, and it had only intensified since.

She’d called Max obnoxious for wanting to heal Mia’s sundered heart, and had called Dooley dumb for his earnest wish to address her childless relationship with Brutus.

Only she hadn’t interpreted it that way, and so she’d made a mistake.

“And who is this friend we’re looking for?” asked Brutus.

“You’ll see when we find her,” she said, tapping another dumpster, hoping for a response.

She didn’t want to go so far as to apologize to Max and Dooley, even though she probably should. But then she’d have to reveal her secret identity as the Gazette’s Chloe, and she didn’t want that. So instead she had decided to do Max and Dooley a favor so big they’d forget all about Chloe’s response.

And she’d thunked her paw against another dumpster when inside a snarl sounded and she smiled.

“Clarice? Is that you?” she called out.

A furry face came peeping over the dumpster’s edge, and growled, “What’s it to you?”

“It’s me, Clarice—Harriet,” she said, elated that she’d found the other cat.

“Hi, Clarice,” said Brutus, lifting his paw in greeting. He didn’t sound excited, nor could she blame him. Brutus had always been a little bit afraid of the feral cat.

“What do you want?” asked Clarice, gracefully jumping down from the dumpster and starting to lick her paw, razor-sharp claws out.

“I have a problem,” said Harriet.

“And why should that be of any concern to me?” asked Clarice, with her usual frosty manner.

“The thing is, our house is infested with mice. Again, I should probably add. And we have no idea how to get rid of them.”

“And now you want me to go in there, guns blazing, and solve that little problem for you, is that it?”

“Yeah, that’s about what it boils down to,” Harriet confirmed, happy that Clarice was so quick on the uptake.

“No can do, toots,” said Clarice, much to Harriet’s dismay. “I’ve got plenty of food right here.” Suddenly, from underneath the dumpster, the largest rat Harriet had ever seen came scurrying, nose twitching and front teeth exposed as it sniffed at a piece of moldy bread.

Brutus squealed as he saw the rat, and hid behind Harriet.

“See what I mean?” growled Clarice. Then, quick as a flash, her paw shot out, and moments later, before Harriet’s horrified gaze, the rat was in her mouth, face down, and within seconds it disappeared, whole and hairy, down her throat, only the tail still hanging out. One more gulp, and the tail, too, disappeared down the hatch.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Brutus cried, his paws on his head as he stared at Clarice, absolutely horrified.

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” Clarice said as she burped. “So if you want a nice juicy rat, help yourselves. No one has ever accused Clarice of being stingy.”

Harriet gulped. “But you ate it alive!”

“Of course I ate it alive. What did you expect, that I would chop it into little pieces and fry it with onions and carrots?”

“That would be nice,” Brutus admitted. “Though it would probably need seasoning.”

“Look, if you’ve got mice, you need to put your paw down. Eat a couple of the big ones, and the rest will get the message and scatter. If you don’t, they’ll reproduce and soon you’ll be overrun with the vile creatures. Though it sounds like you already are.”

“But Clarice, I can’t,” said Harriet.

“You can’t what? Eat them? Then tell your human to buy mousetraps and get rid of them that way. I wouldn’t advocate poison. That stuff has a habit of getting into your food, too, and you’ll get a nasty tummy ache and, worst case, die a pretty painful death.”

“I don’t think Odelia wants to put out mousetraps, though.”

“Why the hell not?”

“She feels they’re not humane.”

Clarice barked a short laugh. “My God. What a joke.” She thought for a moment. “There is such a thing as a humane mousetrap. You catch the suckers and dump ‘em somewhere.”

“But won’t they find their way back?”

“Possibly,” said Clarice, who seemed to be something of an expert. “Which is why it’s best if you simply kill a couple, then the rest will skedaddle.”