Ник Сайнт - Purrfectly Deadly

“Not now, Mom,” Odelia said, embarrassed.

“Odelia’s favorite teddy bear went missing one day, and she wouldn’t let it go,” Mom said with a smile at the memory. “I just figured she’d lost it somewhere, you know, but she was adamant someone had kidnapped it.”

“I remember that,” said Dad, also smiling now.

“Turned out she was right. Billy Bob Turner, whose family used to live right across the street, had gotten it into his nut to collect all the bears from all the houses on the block and hide them under his bed. Turns out his folks were into some kind of religious cult and he thought the world was going to come to an end soon and he needed to save all the teddies of all the kids.”

“Aw, that’s actually kinda sweet,” said Chase.

“So Odelia stomps over there one day and accuses Billy Bob of kidnapping her teddy and holding him hostage, and lo and behold, she was right. She’d found a small footprint right outside her window, and had tracked it all the way to the Turner place.”

“Well, as much as I hate to tell you this, Marge, there’s a difference between finding Mr. Teddy and catching a killer,” said Chase. “This is some seriously dangerous stuff, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to involve untrained and unarmed civilians. And I’m only telling you this for her safety.”

“Who says she’s unarmed?” Gran now piped up.

“Gran, not now,” Odelia hissed.

“Yes, Mom, not now,” Chief Alec said, looking decidedly ill at ease.

“What do you mean, she’s not unarmed?” asked Chase. “I checked the registry when I first arrived in town and your niece doesn’t have a license.”

“Of course she’s got a gun,” Gran insisted. “And she’s a great shot, too.”

“You checked my license?” asked Odelia, incensed.

“When I keep bumping into someone, I want to be sure they’re not carrying,” Chase said. “Call it my innate sense of self-preservation.”

“You had no right,” she began, but then realized he did have the right.

“Anyone want more meatballs?” Mom asked in a faux-chipper voice.

“She keeps it in her purse,” said Gran now, “just like any girl should.”

“So you’re carrying a gun without a license. Why am I not surprised?”

“Chase,” said Uncle Alec warningly.

“I can’t believe you’d let your niece carry an illegal gun!”

“It’s not her fault she lost her license!” Gran cried. “So back off, tightass.”

“Lost her license? Why? Did she shoot somebody?” he asked. When she refused to look him in the eye, he cried, “You actually shot someone?!”

“He was a nobody,” Gran supplied. “One of those no-good boyfriends of hers. And good riddance, too. The guy was too old for her anyhoo.”

Chase’s eyebrows rose. “You killed him?!”

“Nah, she missed,” said Gran.

“I didn’t miss,” she snapped. “If I wanted to kill him he’d be dead right now.”

“Would have been better if you had,” said Gran. “Piece of no-good scum.”

“He was one of her boyfriends,” Mom said when Odelia clamped her lips together. How had this conversation gotten away from her so fast?

“One of her no-good boyfriends,” Gran said, rubbing it in.

“Odelia always had horrible taste in men,” Mom said, quite unnecessarily.

“This one was even worse than the others, though,” said Gran. “Talk about a loser.”

Chase, shaking his head, asked, “Who was he? The bank robber? Or the crook wanted in six states?”

“Twelve states,” Uncle Alec muttered. “But who’s counting?”

Odelia looked up at Chase, and saw that a twinkle had appeared in his eyes. “If you have to know, he was a rookie cop,” she finally said. “I was eighteen and he said that if I showed him mine he’d show me his. So I did, and accidentally shot his… package. Hey! He said he wanted to do it with the safety off!”

“Talk about unsafe sex,” said Dad with an eyeroll.

Chapter 15

That night, Dooley and I decided to go out to the house of John Paul George for a recital of the cat choir in honor of our now orphaned brethren and sisters. It was the right thing to do, we felt, as a treat to the cats who were now going to be pâté-less for the rest of their lives, and who, if Jasper was convicted of his boyfriend’s murder, might never see each other again.

“It makes you think about your own mortality, doesn’t it?” I asked as we trotted along in a slow procession to Johnny’s expansive mansion.

“It sure does,” said Dooley with a sigh.

Perhaps a dozen cats had decided to make the trek, which just went to show how popular JPG had been with Hampton Bay’s cat population, and how legendary his pâté. Not that we would get any of that tonight. Or at least I didn’t think so. Father Reilly’s tabby Shanille was there, Stacy Brown’s cat, and Kingman, of course, Wilbur Vickery’s cat. Conspicuously absent were Brutus and Harriet, but then they hadn’t been invited.

We’d started the choir purely for our own amusement, and to give vent to the artistic talents of its members, but now, with this tragedy, we’d found a new purpose: to honor the cats of recently departed humans. In most cases they were taken in by relatives, though in rare cases they ended up at the animal shelter. Not that they were to be pitied. The Hampton Cove animal shelter was a well-funded operation, its animals well taken care of.

“I wonder what would happen to us if anything ever happened to Odelia or her mom,” said Dooley now, striking the morbid note.

“I’m sure nothing will happen to Odelia,” I told him. “She’s perfectly healthy and perfectly capable of taking care of herself. And us.”

“Yeah, but it’s still a possibility, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” I admitted. I didn’t want to dwell on such a ghoulish and depressing topic, even though we were about to organize what was essentially a wake. “I think Odelia will have a long and prosperous life.”

Dooley heaved a deep sigh. “I sure hope so.”

We finally arrived at Johnny’s mansion and gathered in a circle outside the wrought-iron gate where fans and townsfolk had placed dozens, perhaps even hundreds of floral tributes. They were piled up high against the fence, accompanied by candles and cards and all manner of commemorative gifts people had left behind. The outpouring of grief and love was impressive, and reminded us how beloved the singer had really been, and not just by cats.

We stepped through the gate’s bars, and proceeded to the house, walked around back until we reached the pool area, and took a moment to gaze at the place where the great man had breathed his final breath. George, Princess and the other cats were all seated on pool chairs, and joined us in this silent tribute. Father Reilly’s Shanille then spoke a few words in honor of the singer while we all stood there, heads bowed, listening to the brief sermon, which centered on the topics of ephemerality and the importance of enjoying every moment life so graciously gave, for you never knew what the future held.

And then we all broke into song, choosing for this opportunity a song of John Paul George himself, the rather apt ‘ Queen in a King-Size Bed ,’ one of his biggest hits. We massacred the popular hymn with glee, Kingman leading the choir and the rest of us meowing, yowling and caterwauling up a storm. Johnny’s twelve cats, after listening with rapt attention for a while, soon joined in, and for the next twenty minutes or so, nothing could be heard but the sweet sound of two dozen cats screeching at the top of their lungs.

I don’t know if the neighbors could hear our very special midnight concert and frankly I didn’t care. But if they had, I’m sure they would have appreciated it as much as I did. At one point a window was thrown open upstairs and a curler-covered woman’s head appeared, shouting something and throwing a shoe. It made a nice splash as it landed in the pool, and the head disappeared again, grumbling some choice curse words under its breath.