Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Peril

He decided to ignore the innuendo. “And is it also correct that Dos Siglas were aiming to get rid of Burt but his contract wouldn’t allow them?”

She smiled a tight smile. “Who told you that?”

“I’m a cop, Miss Sting. It’s my job to know these things.” That and the message Chase had just sent him. Apparently his and Odelia’s interview had pointed to Tracy as the killer.

She shrugged. “I guess it’s not a big secret. It’s true that Burt signed an ironclad contract that allowed him to stay on long after what most people would consider the age of retirement. And it’s also true that Dos Siglas had naturally assumed that Burt would call it quits once he reached the mid-seventies. He didn’t, however, and felt that as long as his health allowed, he would keep going. The man was having too much fun, Chief. He wasn’t going to quit the best job in the world just because some company figurehead said so.”

He played with his bottle for a moment. “Did you try to persuade him to quit?”

There was some fire in those eyes now. “No, I did not. I thought he was doing a damn good job. The man might have been older than my father but he was fitter than most men his age and in better shape than a lot of men a lot younger than him. Plus, the public loved him.” She leaned in and tapped the table between them. “Burt Goldsmith sold more beer than anyone that’s ever lived, just by being himself: a funny, charming, sweet old guy.” She leaned back. “If he wanted to go on until he dropped dead, who was I to stop him?”

“Someone stopped him. Permanently,” he pointed out.

“Well, it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t anyone at Dos Siglas. The bosses wanted out of the contract, sure, but that doesn’t mean they were going to blow up their best investment. Can you imagine the shitstorm that would come down on us if it turns out we blew up our most popular pitchman? Burt was Dos Siglas. He was the face of the company.” She shook her head, her red mane provocatively dangling around those slender shoulders. “No, Chief. Someone fed you some wrong information. Someone else killed Burt and I, for one, want to see this person punished to the full extent of the law. Maybe even more than you do.”

“I very much doubt that,” he said, and was rewarded with an icy look. Ouch.

“You think I did this? Blow up my charge and risk my reputation and freedom?”

“I’m sure your company will reward you handsomely for your work—and provide you with future opportunities even more lucrative than babysitting Burt Goldsmith.”

She smoldered for a moment, then laughed, a throaty sound that was very pleasant. “I like you, Chief Alec Lip. You’re direct. You say it like it is. And I can see that you’ve already made up your mind about me.” She rose from her chair in one fluid motion. “You think I’m a killer. A stone-cold murderess.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as that,” he protested. “I merely wanted to point out that—”

“No, you’re absolutely right,” she said. “I am the perfect suspect. Which means I’ll have to convince you that you’re wrong about me. What about dinner and a movie?”

Alec’s brows shot up. Now this was a first. First time a woman asked him out on a date. And first time since his Ginny died that he was actually considering saying yes. Before he could think things through, Tracy Sting gave him a knowing nod. “Pick me up at eight. Room 433. And don’t be late, Chief. If there’s anything that turns me off it’s tardiness.” And then she was off, swinging those hips and turning the head of every guy in the establishment.

Alec shook his own head, feeling dizzy and dazed. What had just happened? And then he was getting up from his chair and moving after her. “Wait up, Miss Sting—Tracy!”

Chapter 23

Once again Dooley and I were on the move. Even though the weight of woe pressed down upon us in the form of Dooley’s potential move to Colorado, we’d decided not to let it worry us too much. Cats are a notoriously resilient species. Not only because of the fact that we have nine lives instead of the measly single one humans have been allotted, but also because we always tend to land on our paws. What was more, Dooley had been blessed with a great idea. If this Most Fascinating Cat in the World had run off and taken to the streets, who better to track him down than Clarice, our feral friend, who owned these very streets?

And so it was that the new day saw us traipsing along the back alleys of Hampton Cove, dumpster diving and searching high and low for the wild cat that was Clarice.

“I hope we find her,” remarked Dooley after we’d scoured our third dumpster that morning. “I don’t feel up to the long hike out into the woods, Max.”

“Me neither,” I admitted.

When Clarice isn’t looking for scrumptious and tasty bits in Hampton Cove’s many dumpsters, she’s scrounging off whatever bestselling scribe is occupying Hetta Fried’s writer’s lodge, which is inconveniently located a goodish bit away from the heart of town.

What with the flea thing and last night’s #pillgate and Dooley’s sad prospects, I wasn’t feeling up to going on a country ramble in the hopes of locating this Shadow feline. I’m prepared to do a lot for my human, but one has to draw the line somewhere, right?

And we were just checking out one of the more dingy back alleys—yes, even a Hamptons haven like Hampton Cove has them—and thumping our paws against the line of dumpsters, caroling, “Clarice, oh, Clari-iece!” like some latter-day Hannibal Lecter wannabes, when suddenly a loud growl sounded and one of the dumpsters spoke back.

“Oh, will you cut it out already?” the dumpster snarled, and I recognized the unmistakable dulcet tones of our favorite wild cat. “You’ll wear out my name. Not to mention scare away the tastiest rats!”

“Rats!” cried Dooley. “I don’t like rats, Max!”

“Relax. She’s just kidding. Aren’t you, Clarice?” I said, louder.

The head of a mangy cat appeared at the top of the dumpster and she jumped down, her fur matted and dotted with bald spots, part of one ear gnawed off and more than a few whiskers missing. Clarice jumped down and started washing her face, giving us nasty glances between licks. “You two look like crap. What have you done to yourselves? Gotten stuck in a wood chipper?” She laughed at her own joke, a series of low and throaty chuckles.

“We need your help, Clarice,” Dooley announced.

“Of course you do.” She then narrowed her eyes at me. “Is that… a collar?”

I cringed. I’d hoped the topic wouldn’t crop up. But of course Clarice’s eagle eyes had immediately spotted the anomaly. “We’ve been suffering from a slight flea issue,” I said.

She laughed a hacking laugh. “Flea issue! That’s why you look so ragged!”

“It’s no laughing matter,” Dooley said. “It’s a terrible ordeal, Clarice. Painful.”

“Painful! You don’t know what pain is, city cat,” she growled, getting in Dooley’s face. “Pain is when you take a punch to the gut from a twenty-pound cat with razors for claws. Pain is when a human steps on your tail and grinds it into the ground. Pain is when your own human throws you off a cliff and leaves you to die!” She was panting from the outburst.

We both stared at her, aghast. “Is that what happened to you?” I asked.

She produced a growling sound at the back of her throat, and for a moment I thought she would lunge at me. Instead, she said, “Never get attached to your human. They will turn their backs on you. And they will leave you to rot and die, alone in the middle of nowhere.”

Cheerful. Life around Clarice is always a feast of careless laughs and cheerfulness.