Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Peril

“Mh.”

“She wasn’t sure about a flea collar but the poor creatures are so riddled with fleas I’m going to have them wear them for a while. Only a couple of days. Until they’re free of the pests. And I’ll have to vacuum the carpets, the floors, the bed, the sofa, wash the sheets…”

“That’s great, honey,” her mother said distractedly, probably still fuming. Odelia could hear the tack-tack-tack of books being stacked on the rack. It sounded like gunfire.

“You should probably do the same.”

“Mh.”

Odelia heaved a sigh. Looked like Mom was a goner for now. At least until she got what she perceived as Gran’s betrayal out of her system. Which could take a while. And as she filed a Debbie Macomber Christmas novel under the letter M, she thought about what Max had said. Burt Goldsmith had a cat. A cat that had gone missing. If Max could find out where Burt’s cat was holed up and talk to her, there was a lot he could find out.

She suddenly remembered the conversation about her and Chase having babies and smiled to herself. It wasn’t just Mom who could get worked up. Her cats did, too. As if she and Chase were ever going to have babies. Hah. Just the thought was ridiculous.

Still, the sudden fire lighting up her core at the thought of having Chase’s babies told her otherwise. She tamped down on the sudden heat. The whole thing was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

But when her phone lit up with a message from Chase she felt ridiculously excited.

Chapter 13

We were stuck on the fire escape. No doubt about it. Staring at a closed door willing it to open and the door wasn’t budging. At least not until some helpful human opened it for us. That’s the disadvantage of being a cat. No opposable thumbs. Imagine the damage we could do if only our creator had outfitted us with opposable thumbs. We could actually open this damn door. Oh, wait. Human to the rescue. A young man dressed like a bellboy shoved open the door, pinned it against the wall so it stayed open, and took out a pack of cigarettes.

Dooley and I slipped inside.

Thank God for smokers.

“You know, Max?” said Dooley as we traversed the nicely carpeted corridors of the Hampton Cove Star hotel. “This collar isn’t so bad. I mean, it smells like diesel fumes and everything but it’s not a smell I can’t get used to, if you know what I mean.”

I rolled my eyes. I hated the collar from the moment Vena put it on me. Like Dooley said, it smelled like diesel, and it itched. Besides, cats aren’t meant to wear collars. Dogs are. Because dogs are an inferior species. Cats are meant to roam wild and free. Collars don’t feature into that story. Odelia had promised us it was only for a few days. Until all the fleas had fled. Between the drops and the collar and the comb she said she’d apply to our furs, it wouldn’t take more than two or three days for this whole terrible episode to be behind us.

“I mean, as long as it’s for a good cause I’m quite willing to wear the collar,” Dooley prattled on. “I’m not saying I like it. But I’m not saying I don’t like it, either.”

I kept a dignified silence. As long as we didn’t meet A) other cats, and B) dogs, I was fine. Kingman might get away with wearing a collar and keeping his dignity, I could not.

We’d arrived at the room formerly occupied by the Most Fascinating Man in the World, now fascinating the Suffolk County medical examiner with how dead he was, and peered inside. The door was missing, but some helpful police officer had put up yellow crime scene tape to keep people out. People, not cats.

We entered the room, padding around a nice hole in the floor, and checked around for signs of Shadow, Burt Goldsmith’s elusive cat.

“Shadow,” I called out. “Where are you?”

“Shadow,” Dooley echoed. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

I gave Dooley a scowl. Cats don’t debase themselves by using those awful words. Here, kitty, kitty indeed. We covered the entire hotel room in half a minute. Not much to see. Terrible smell, though. Like when Odelia burns her toast in the morning. But worse. Much worse. I thought I even smelled charred meat at some point in the proceedings. Yikes.

We got out of there as fast as we could, having exhausted our options and our capacity to take in terrible odors. Out in the corridor, a door opened and a man walked out, a cat slipping out in his wake.

“Don’t be too long, Princess,” said the man softly, and the cat growled something rude that the man probably didn’t understand, for he heaved a contented sigh and giggled.

The door closed and the cat stared at us. We stared back. It was one of those Clint Eastwood moments, from the days when Clint still starred in westerns as the inscrutable hero with the inscrutable squint. Then the cat spoke. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m glad you asked,” said Dooley, approaching the black cat. He wasn’t just black but more as if a black hole had suddenly opened up in the corridor floor, only the whites of his eyes indicating he was animated by the force of life. That and that grating voice. “We’re looking for Shadow? The Most Fascinating Cat in the World? Maybe you’ve seen her?”

The black cat—Princess, according to his owner—merely continued to stare.

“We’re trying to figure out what happened to Shadow’s human,” I explained. “Apparently he was blown up this morning and we’re trying to determine if foul play was involved.”

“You fools,” Princess growled. “Of course foul play was involved. What do you think? That he accidentally blew himself up when he lit a cigar? The guy was murdered!”

“Oh,” said Dooley excitedly. “Do you have any evidence to corroborate this theory, my friend?”

The cat growled something between gritted teeth, looking and sounding just like Clint, Clint squint and all. For a moment I fully expected him to snarl, ‘Make my day, punk.’ Instead, he said, “Corroborate? What are you? Some two-bit Sherlock Holmes wannabes?”

“We work with Odelia Poole,” Dooley explained helpfully. “She’s an investigator and a reporter. She helps out the police from time to time when they’re stuck. She’s very smart.”

“Yeah, right. A bunch of loser cats helping a nosy parker journo solve crime. Where have I heard that before?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But did I hear your owner call you Princess?”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” he growled.

“But… isn’t Princess a female name?”

“I am a female,” he snarled. “Can’t you tell?”

Frankly I couldn’t, but I was prepared to be broad-minded. “So, Princess, can you tell us some more about this theory of yours? Burt Goldsmith was murdered, you say?”

He—or she—was reluctant, I could tell, but finally the desire to confide in someone won out. “Someone was after him, all right. Shadow used to say they were all after Burt.”

“All?”

“All the interesting men. His competitors. All except one, of course. The Most Compelling Man in the World. My human.” She stuck out her chest. “Curt wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s the greatest. And the most compelling, of course.”

“Of course,” I said graciously.

“You look like a male,” Dooley said abruptly. He’d been studying the black cat closely.

“I was born a male,” Princess explained gruffly. “But then I decided I was a female. What’s it to you, you insensitive bozo?”

“Just curious, I guess,” said Dooley, not insulted in the least.

“I always felt like a female trapped inside a male body. Do you have any idea what that does to a cat? No, of course you don’t, you ignoramus. Well, take your judgments and shove them up your keister, will you?”

“What’s a keister?” asked Dooley, interested.