Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Cut

Purrfect Cut The Mysteries of Max 14

Nic Saint

Puss in Print Publications

Contents

Purrfect Cut

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

About Nic

Also by Nic Saint

Purrfect Cut

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When Leonidas Flake, the world-renowned fashion designer and style icon, is found murdered by his live-in boyfriend Gabriel Crier, police are quickly convinced it’s an open-and-shut case. After all, Leo’s killer was caught red-handed. Grandma Muffin is not so sure, though, and decides to dig a little deeper.

Max and the other cats, meanwhile, are on strike. They feel very strongly that Odelia has been neglecting them lately and they need to teach her a lesson. Unfortunately their strike lands Max and Dooley in more danger than they anticipated, especially when they get mixed up in the saga of Pussy, Leo and Gabe’s famous and very Instagramable white Birman. Soon they are faced with their most formidable foe yet, a Siamese cat appropriately named Tank.

Will Max and Dooley escape Chateau Leonidas alive? Will Odelia be exposed as a cat whisperer? And will Dooley find love for the very first time? Find out in Purrfect Cut , everyone’s favorite cat sleuth’s exciting new adventure.

Chapter 1

A bashful sun was playing peekaboo over the horizon and distributing its first timid rays upon a restful world when I woke up. As usual I’d been dozing at the foot of my human’s bed after having spent the first part of the night exploring the ultimate range of my singing voice. As you may or may not know, I’ve long been a member of Hampton Cove’s cat choir, pride of our small town, where cats can still be cats and sing their little hearts out. Only Shanille, our stalwart and earnest conductor, had recently kicked me out of the choir, on account of the fact that several of the members had complained about my abject failure to carry a tune. The incident had greatly saddened me, as you can well imagine, since I’ve always been a staunch proponent of cats’ rights to express themselves in song. So when my membership card was withdrawn I must confess it shook me to the very core of my being.

Fortunately I’m not the kind of cat who takes life’s vicissitudes lying down, so to speak, even though ironically enough I do spend a great portion of my life lying down, and soon I was practicing hard to make a triumphant return.

Last night offered me the first opportunity since returning from England, where my human’s adventures had taken us, to showcase my progress. And to my elation Shanille and the other members—even those whose complaints had terminated my contract in the first place—deemed me fit for duty once more.

So it was with renewed fervor that I rejoined the choir’s rank and file, and I won’t conceal the fact that the whole thing gave me a distinct sense that all was well in my world, and upon ending last night’s rehearsal, I practically skipped along the road, extremely pleased with myself and my progress.

It isn’t too much to say that the mood was festive, so my friends and I decided to paint this small town of ours red, and Brutus led us along all of his favorite haunts, like a nice little rooftop restaurant that keeps the bins out where we can reach them, and our gang of four—myself, Dooley, Harriet and of course Brutus—experienced an enjoyable night on the town. It was only understandable, then, that I felt the need to sleep in. It was with a slight sense of annoyance, therefore, that I greeted the rising sun, which had decided to cut my extended slumber short by spreading its light across a peaceful world.

I stretched and yawned cavernously, as is my habit, and glanced around in search of Dooley, who usually likes to fall asleep next to me. Once upon a time we used to have a big chunk of the bed all to ourselves, but that was before Odelia decided to hook up with a burly policeman who answers to the name Chase Kingsley, and asked him to move in with her. Nowadays the bed is a little cramped for two humans and two cats, which tends to create a touch of awkwardness. The issue isn’t Odelia, who’s a fairly shortish human being, so her feet don’t invade the stretch of bed I like to call my own. What’s more, she tends to curl up into a ball when she sleeps—the fetus position I think experts like to call it—which adds to my acreage. No, the problem is Chase, who’s one of those long and stretchy humans, and likes to stick his feet where they don’t belong: in our territory. I’ve mentioned this to Odelia, and she’s promised to have a talk with the invasive cop, but until then it’s tough for a cat to find the space to sleep in peace. Especially since Chase is not one of your more peaceful sleepers. The man tends to toss and turn, and even lash out when the mood strikes, giving poor Dooley the occasional kick in the tail end.

I guess scientists who claim that people sleeping in separate beds enjoy a deeper, better sleep are on to something. All I know is that if only Chase would sleep in a separate bed, we’d all be better off—or at least I would.

Yes, I know I can always sleep on the couch, and I also know there are several other spots at my disposal. Like Marge and Tex’s bed. But Odelia’s parents’ bed is already spoken for, by Brutus and Harriet, and even they have confided in me they suffer the same fate Dooley and I do, with Tex being one of those stringbeany types, whose highly-strung feet seem to have a mind of their own. Dooley, of course, is in the best position of all: he can choose to sleep at Odelia’s, or Grandma’s. Why he chooses Odelia’s is beyond me. She’s not technically his human, and still he spends all of his nights here. Then again, it’s comforting to have my best friend and wingman nearby, and perhaps he feels the same way, which is why he endures Chase’s nervous footwork, and so do I.

I opened one eye, then the other, and saw that Odelia was awake already. Oddly enough she was staring at Chase, who was still fast asleep. So I elbowed Dooley in the tummy and he muttered something that didn’t sound entirely friendly.

“Check this out,” I whispered. “Odelia is making a study of Chase.”

Dooley reluctantly dragged his heavy eyelids open and stared in the direction indicated.

“Huh,” he said finally. “Weird.”

“Right?”

We both watched on as Odelia watched, with a strange look on her face, the sleeping cop.

“I don’t get it,” said Dooley. “What’s the big attraction?”

“I have no idea,” I confessed.

“It’s just a sleeping human.”

“It is, and he’s not even looking his best.”

Chase, who some people claim is a handsome fellow, with one of those chiseled faces, strong jaws and long, brown hair, doesn’t look his best in the morning. His trademark mane is usually tousled, and more often than not there’s a tiny thread of drool visibly at the corner of his mouth. Not exactly the kind of face that would successfully grace the cover of a romance novel. Then again, Odelia’s features aren’t much to write home about either. Her fair hair is usually a mess, and she develops weird sleep marks on her fine-boned face.

“I mean, if you’ve seen one sleeping human, you’ve seen them all,” I said.

“It’s love,” suddenly a third party entered the discussion.