Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Heat

“No, that’s all right,” she said, much to my horrified surprise. She stroked my back. “Max will just have to get used to having a new friend. I know it took him a while to get used to having Brutus around, and now look at them. They’re like buddies.”

Odelia and Chase looked down at Brutus and me, sitting side by side, like a couple of chumps. “I think they’re talking about us, Max,” Brutus said.

“Yeah, they seem to think we’re best buds or something.”

Brutus snorted. “As if.”

“Yeah—how ridiculous, huh? Humans are clueless.”

We shared a quick look, then Brutus said, “I liked how you stood up to Diego, by the way. That took guts, Max. I’ve got to hand it to you. You defended hearth and home from that intruder—just like you used to do with me.”

“I know, right? I felt like I had to take a firm line with the cat. And you were great, too. The way you put him in his place? Way to go, Brutus.”

“Thanks. I mean, it’s not my home to defend, but still. He was way out of line.”

“Well, it is your home now, in a way,” I said.

“You really mean that, Max?”

“Sure. Mi casa es su casa and all that, right?”

“Aww. That’s awfully nice of you.”

“Don’t mention it. I feel like we have to stick together and make a stand.”

“Yeah. Let’s put our differences aside and get rid of the new cat.”

“What about me?” Dooley asked. “Is su casa mi casa too, Max?”

“Of course, buddy! You’re my best friend.”

“Thanks, Max. I love you, too.”

Brutus eyed us with a strange look on his face. Then he held out his paw. “Put it there, pals.”

I put it there, and so did Dooley.

“Buds?” asked Brutus.

“Buds,” I said.

“I think they’re actually talking to each other,” Chase said. “It’s way cute.”

“They are talking to each other,” Odelia assured him. “Cats can communicate.”

“So, do you have any idea what they’re saying?” he asked.

“Not a clue,” she said, and gave us a wink.

Chapter 6

Just when their order arrived—an espresso for Chase and a latte for Odelia—Chase got a call from Chief Alec.

“Uh-oh,” he said, disconnecting. “Looks like I gotta run. The Chief managed to locate Serarols.”

“The chef?”

“He’s down at the station now, and he’s asked me to be there when he questions him.”

“Just go. I’ll take care of your espresso.”

He grinned. “I’m sure you will.” He took the espresso and downed it in one gulp. “Just so happens I love espressos, though, so tough luck.”

“You’ll keep me in the loop, right?”

“Sure.” He got up and threw a few bills on the table. “Thanks for the chat—and the update on the world of cats. It was fun—and instructional.”

“See you later, Chase.”

She watched him leave, and noticed not for the first time that he moved with a catlike grace. Like a tiger. Or a panther. It also occurred to her he was a lot more dangerous than she thought when he first just moved into town. She’d never figured she’d ever fall for the cop, and now she found that he was on her mind a lot more than she knew how to handle.

She looked down, and saw that Max, Dooley and Brutus had left. She hated to disappoint them, but she’d already agreed to take Diego in, and she couldn’t go back on her word now. She was pretty sure it would be fine. When Brutus just arrived, Max and Dooley had been equally distraught. And look at them now. They were like buddies these days.

She took a sip of her latte and thought about the case. With so many suspects, it was going to be a matter of deciding who had most to gain from the celebrity chef’s murder. And who’d been in the position to carry out the murder. She imagined it would have had to be a person with considerable physical strength, as it was a tough feat to hoist the chef into the oven.

She looked out across the street at the restaurant, and saw a woman sashay in her direction. She recognized her from several covers of Star Magazine . Cybil Truscott, the soon-to-be ex-wife of Niklaus Skad. And as luck would have it, she was heading straight for the coffee shop.

The woman, large sunglasses on her nose, her hair a lustrous shiny red, her skin a milky white and dressed in designer threads, was carrying three shopping bags in each hand, all from luxury boutiques. It was obvious she’d just gone on a shopping spree. To celebrate the death of her husband?

Cybil took a seat at the next table, and Odelia leaned over. “Excuse me, but aren’t you Cybil Truscott?”

The woman smiled, and took off her sunglasses, shaking out her gorgeous mane of red curls. “Yes, I am. And you are?”

“Odelia Poole. I’m a reporter for the Hampton Cove Gazette.”

The woman’s smile widened. “Ooh, I love reporters. And they love me.”

Of course they did. Ever since Cybil got married to Niklaus Skad, she’d been tabloid fodder, her pictures appearing on more covers than any other starlet or socialite or celebrity wannabe. She’d been a cocktail waitress before she met Niklaus, and now she wasn’t just famous, she stood to gain a substantial fortune after the death of her husband.

“My condolences,” she said now. “I just heard about your husband.”

“Yes, shocking, isn’t it?” She glanced across the street. “And that’s where it happened. Such a sad ending for such a brilliant man. Then again, there is a certain poetic justice in the fact that he would die in the oven of one of the restaurants he was singling out for his notorious brand of abuse.”

“I didn’t know you were in town,” Odelia said.

“Yes, I’m on vacation. I’m staying at the Hampton Springs Hotel.”

“Did you know your husband would be in town?”

“I had no idea! Of course we hadn’t been in touch lately. We only communicated through our lawyers. Ever since I filed for divorce Niklaus broke off all relations.”

Which stood to reason. She had accused him in several TV interviews of domestic violence and of assaulting her. There were even rumors of him forcing her into accepting a trio with the housekeeper. Odelia had the impression a lot of the stories Cybil had dished were simply a way to get as much out of the divorce as possible. Hoping her famous husband would pay her a large sum of money just to shut her up.

“So you didn’t see him last night?” she asked innocently.

The woman threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, honey, I have to hand it to you. You may be writing for some local rag, but you’re good at what you do. You’re trying to figure out if I killed my husband, aren’t you?”

“Well, you do have a solid motive,” she admitted.

Cybil gave her a shrewd look. “I know what you’re thinking. Niklaus was never going to allow me the divorce settlement I was aiming for. Why not kill the man instead and take it all? And you’re right. With him gone, I stand to inherit his entire fortune. The houses in New York, Vail, Los Angeles, Paris, London and Antibes. The business empire he built. The royalties to his bestselling books. The cars, the yachts, the private jet… You name it, I will get it now. But did I kill him? Of course not. I may be a money-grubbing social climber, like the papers will undoubtedly point out—and Niklaus’s friends and ex-wives have done for years—but I’m not a murderer. Besides, I have one of those things you need when someone is killed. What’s it called? An amoeba?”

“An alibi?”

She snapped her fingers. “That’s it. I’ve got me one of those. Ironclad one, too.”

“And would you care to share your alibi with me?”

She laughed again. “Oh, darling. You’re good, but not that good. I think I’ll keep that for the police. If or when they decide to haul me in for questioning.”