Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Peril

“No, I mean, you could have gotten yourself hurt. That cat meant business.”

“Eh. Just a little pussycat. What harm can it do?”

“Did you see those claws?” Dooley cried. “That cat was going for the kill.”

Muzak softly played on the elevator sound system. ‘Raindrops are falling on my head,’ someone crooned. A cat had just fallen on my head, and Chase had saved us. Suddenly I was feeling all warm and fuzzy, and gave the cop’s square chin a nudge with the top of my head.

“Aww,” Odelia said.

“Hrmph,” Chase said, stiffening.

I could be mistaken, but I had the distinct impression Chase was not a cat person, and he was merely doing this to get in good with Odelia. I would have said he did it to get in bed with Odelia, but he’d already accomplished that particular feat. So what was he after?

“Babies!” Dooley cried suddenly.

I turned to him. “What are you talking about, Dooley?”

“He wants babies! That’s why he’s being so nice to us all of a sudden!”

I hate to admit it but once in a while Dooley gets it right. Now was such an occasion. There’s only one reason why a dog person would suddenly turn into a cat person—or at least pretend to do so: the old baby maker is stirring its ugly head. “You know what, Dooley?” I said. “I think you just might be right.” Then again, maybe a couple of babies wasn’t so bad?

‘Because I’m free. Nothing’s worrying me.’

The elevator dinged and the doors opened, allowing us a nice view of the lobby. I had no idea why Chase insisted on carrying us. We might have been dinged a little, and lost some of our fur and a lot of our dignity, but my paws still worked. And yet I didn’t stir from my comfortable perch, and neither did Dooley. As far as I was concerned, Chase could make as many babies with Odelia as he liked. I’d suddenly grown quite fond of the sturdy cop. First he’d turned out to be Hampton Cove’s fiercest fleaslayer, and now he’d saved our lives.

We walked through the lobby and past the hotel restaurant when a curious sight met our eyes. As one man—or one woman—or one cat—our small company halted in its tracks.

Chase frowned. “Isn’t that—”

“Grandma!” Odelia cried. “She’s at it again.”

I don’t know what she was referring to. Grandma Muffin was having lunch with a bespectacled young man who reminded me of John-Boy of The Waltons fame. He was pale and self-conscious and kept laughing at Grandma’s dubious jokes. The old lady, meanwhile—Dooley’s human, coincidentally—was dressed up like—there’s no other word for it—a tart. She was sporting the kind of cleavage usually reserved for women with more assets than the bony old woman possessed, and the whole thing fell kind of flat. Her face was painted with various types of makeup, and she had on the sort of hat that other, more extravagant and loud women could get away with. Not her. Nor could she get away with the lime-colored fluorescent dress she was wearing. Queen of England Grandma Muffin is not.

Before I had hitched up my lower mandible, Odelia was already stalking in the direction of her grandmother. Chase reluctantly followed in her wake.

“Gran, what are you doing here?” Odelia demanded with not a little heat.

Grandma looked up with a supercilious glint in her eye. She might not be the Queen of England but she could do a fine impression of condescending snootiness. “And who might you be, young lady?” she asked.

“Gran! What on earth has gotten into you?”

Grandma turned to her lunch date. “I’m sorry about this. She must be mistaking me for someone else.” Then she leaned into Odelia and hissed, “Beat it, missy. Can’t you see I’m buttering up my grandson?”

The grandson in question didn’t hide his discomfort. He went so far as to dart apologetic glances at Chase, who stood watching the scene with the kind of inscrutability and thousand-yard stare cops learn during their first week at police academy.

“You’re coming home with me right now,” Odelia snapped. “Get up. Now!”

“Get lost! Now!” Grandma retorted smartly. “You’re cramping my style!”

“Oh, for God’s sakes,” Odelia said.

I could have pointed out that it wasn’t God who’d put Grandma up to this, but I had a feeling keeping mum was the safer option at this juncture. Safe behind the bulwark of Chase Kingsley’s brawny arms, Dooley and I had front-row seats to the show that was about to begin, and I for one was ready to enjoy it to its full potential. I’d never seen Odelia and her grandmother square off before, and it promised to be a corker.

Just then, a third party joined the fray. I recognized her as Scarlett Canyon, and she had the dizzyingly deep neckline to live up to her last name.

“Ooh, Philippe, darling. I thought I’d find you here,” she purred as she swooped down on the pale youth, and smothered him with both kisses and some prime real estate.

“Get off him, you tramp!” Gran snapped, indignant. “That’s my grandson you’re slobbering over!”

Scarlett straightened, allowing Philippe to come up for air and adjust his glasses. “Did you say something, you bony old witch?”

“I said that’s my grandson! Get away from him!”

Scarlett wrapped her arms possessively around the young man, draping herself all over him in the process. Once again his glasses—steamed up by now—went askew. “He’s mine, Vesta. All mine. I mothered his father and I won’t let you take him away from me again.”

“I mothered his father!”

“Says you.”

“I think I would remember giving birth to a fine specimen like… Burt Goldsmith’s son.”

Scarlett threw her head back in a raucous laugh. “You don’t even know his name, do you?”

“I do,” said Gran, a dark frown marring her features. “His name is…” She darted a hopeful look at Philippe, trying to cast him in the role of her personal prompter. But Philippe Goldsmith was struggling with the weight of Scarlett’s full-bodied presence on his shoulders and was momentarily lost to the world.

“His name was Hunter Goldsmith. I say ‘was’ because he died—from a broken heart because he missed his dear precious mother so. And why do I know these things? Because I christened him Hunter before Burt and I were so brutally separated by his unfeeling and cold-hearted parents.” Scarlett sniffed theatrically. “Which is why his death comes as such a shocking blow. Our final chance at the happy reunion. Ripped away by cruel, cruel fate!”

“Oh, you’re full of crap,” Grandma said, and made a menacing step in her rival’s direction. “I’ll show you what cruel, cruel fate can do to a painted hussy like you!”

Scarlett reared back, but before Gran could act out her threat, Chase stepped between the two women. I don’t know how he did it, for he had his arms full of feline, but he still managed to act the perfect traffic cop, holding up his hands at the two old ladies.

“You’re coming with us now,” he growled at Grandma, who nodded reluctantly. And to Scarlett, he grunted, “And you better behave, Mrs. Canyon, or I’ll have to write you up for disorderly conduct, you understand?”

The woman knew better than to protest, and nodded furiously. But when Gran’s back was turned, she still managed to stick out her tongue at her longtime nemesis.

“I’m starting to like this Chase guy, Max,” said Dooley. “First he breaks up a vicious cat fight and now a nasty old lady fight. I don’t know how he does it but he does it very well.”

“The man is a god amongst men,” I agreed.

And then we were finally on our way home. Not a moment too soon. I enjoy helping out my human, but the awful truth of the matter is: sometimes it’s hard to be a cat.