Ник Сайнт - Purrfectly Hidden. Purrfect Kill. Purrfect Boy Toy

“But how could such a mix-up happen?”

Odelia looked over to Harlan, who was now being comforted by Marilyn, and lowered her voice. “Someone phoned the salon, and said Opal wanted to have the full Botox treatment today. They were pretty adamant, too.”

“They phoned the salon? But who?”

“All I know is that it was a woman’s voice.”

“A woman’s voice. That must be our culprit.”

“Opal really should get the police involved this time. They can track phones and find out where that call was coming from.”

“If her assailant is clever they’ll have used a burner phone,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Still, the police have the kind of resources we don’t.”

“You’ll figure it out,” I said, having complete faith in my human. Well, except when I practically accused her of having me cloned and neglecting to tell me about it, of course.

“I’m not so sure, Max,” she said, sounding and looking a little downhearted. “Opal almost got killed on my watch twice now. I think the moment she regains consciousness and hears about what happened, she’s going to put us on the first flight home.”

“No, she won’t. She knows you’re her best shot at catching whoever is behind this, and she’s not going to lose faith in you just because—”

“I almost let her die twice?”

“We’ll catch the person responsible,” I said. “I just know we will.”

She nodded, but I could tell she’d lost faith in herself. And I shouldn’t wonder. She was right. Opal had almost died on her watch. People lost faith in themselves over less than that, especially when they’d been tasked not only with keeping their client alive but with catching the person trying to send them to an early grave—or the cloner’s freezer.

I returned to my friends, thinking about this strange case. It now appeared that a woman was behind this. How many women did we know who were involved with Opal and who had access to her home and the studio? Suzy, one of the members of her team, came to mind, and Helga, of course, though she seemed like a long shot. There were others, at least two dozen, who all worked side by side with Opal at the studio. Any one of them could be behind this. It was clear to me that Odelia had her work cut out for her.

“And?” said Prunella. “What’s the latest?”

“Your human will live. The doctors anticipate a full recovery.”

“Yay,” said Prunella. “Though wouldn’t it have been nice for her to be cloned, though? That way we could have been two clones together. Like clones in a pod.”

I didn’t know whether it was the cloning or if the original Prunella had a very peculiar sense of humor, too, but it did make me wonder about this whole cloning business. What if I went in a normal, regular Max and came out a fruitcake?

Food for thought.

Chapter 27

Opal made a remarkable and downright miraculous recovery, and in spite of the doctor’s insistence she stay in hospital overnight, she decided to discharge herself. A nurse had put her in a wheelchair and pushed her all the way to the exit before an indignant Opal got up before the collected paparazzi caught sight of her and then charged out of the hospital under her own steam, ignoring flashing lightbulbs and cameras until she’d reached her limo and had gotten in, slamming the door as she did.

The rest of the small company didn’t garner the same attention Opal did, except for Marilyn. But she, too, ignored the barrage of questions hurled in her direction, and they all got into the second limo, which had pulled up right as Opal’s limo had pulled out.

Soon they were on their way to a destination unknown, and the atmosphere in the limo was fraught with a mixture of elation and anxiousness. Elation that Opal had recovered so well, but also anxiousness that this could happen again, and that whoever was responsible was out there somewhere, plotting their next move.

“Opal needs to cancel her show,” said Marilyn. “She needs to stay home until this person is caught.”

“Yeah, and who is going to make her?” asked Harlan. “You? Me? Opal doesn’t listen to anyone. You know that, Marilyn.”

“We’ll have to make her see reason, Harlan. She needs to be protected.”

“She’s not going to cancel her show, not now, not ever. She wouldn’t cancel her show if someone dropped a bomb on her office. She’s stubborn that way.”

“It’s amazing how quickly she recovered,” said Marge. “A medical miracle.”

“Not really,” said Tex. “She suffered an extreme allergic reaction. People can come back from an episode like that very quickly.”

“Thank God there was a doctor present,” said Marge. “Who knows what would have happened otherwise.”

Harlan grimaced. “I prefer not to let my mind go there, Mrs. Poole.”

“Marge, please. And I completely understand.”

“I’m just glad you had the presence of mind to call an ambulance, Odelia, and that they got there as quickly as they did.”

“Does the salon have a recording of the person who called in?” asked Marilyn.

“No, unfortunately, they don’t,” said Odelia. “They just said the voice sounded young, though that doesn’t mean anything, of course.”

“A young woman,” Marilyn said slowly as thought wrinkles appeared on her brow. “Maybe you should talk to Opal’s staff again. Most of them are women.”

“We’re going into the studio tomorrow,” said Odelia. “We’ll talk to everyone.”

“I thought there was no show on Sundays?” said Marge.

“There’s no show on Sundays but the team starts preparing the Monday show on the Sunday,” Marilyn explained. “Though Opal doesn’t always join in. At this point it’s a well-oiled machine, and she usually meets with her team on Monday morning.”

“Where are we going, by the way?” asked Tex.

“The Villa Marguerite,” said Harlan. “It’s a great little restaurant in Sherman Oaks. We booked last week, and come hell or high water, Opal wasn’t going to let that booking go to waste.”

We arrived at the Villa Marguerite and got out. It was one of those ultra-fancy restaurants, and I was already licking my lips in anticipation of the feast we would be served.

Unfortunately soon after we arrived we cats were all relegated to the kitchen, as no pets were allowed in the dining room, and soon after we were all kicked out of the kitchen by an irate chef, and found ourselves in a back alley, which left a lot to be desired.

“Um… I was actually looking forward to having a sumptuous meal,” said Prunella.

We stared at the row of dumpsters lining one wall, and a heap of rubble and garbage piled up against the other. It didn’t look all that appetizing.

“Clarice would love this,” said Brutus with profound affection.

“Who’s Clarice?” asked Prunella.

“A friend of ours back home,” I said. “She likes to eat in the rough.”

“Oh, a feral cat?”

“Exactly, though she has mellowed out a little and has taken a liking to Odelia.”

We took a seat on the wet cement floor behind the restaurant and even as I put my nose in the air and smelled all those delicious smells wafting from the vent attached to the kitchen, my stomach was grumbling louder and louder.

“Man, I’m hungry,” said Brutus.

“Me, too,” said Harriet sadly. Not only did she only have three paws whose nails had been buffed and polished, but now she had to place her perfectly white Persian tush on this dirty cement slab. A sad ending to a sad day.

Just then, two dogs came wandering up.

“Oh, God. Not dogs, too,” Harriet lamented.

“Oh, hey, you guys,” said the first dog, a male Schnauzer. “Any luck?”

“If you’re referring to the food on offer, no luck, I’m afraid,” I said.