Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Murder

“Oh, you sly son of a…”

“Max!” cried Harriet.

“It’s all right, gummy bear. Max and I are buds now. Aren’t we, Maxie?”

My eyes darted from Dooley, giving Harriet’s butt another sniff, to Odelia, offering Chase a drink, to Brutus, eyeing me with a warning grin on his smug mug. Two could play this game, I thought, and plastered a smile on my face. “Of course we are. From now on we’re one big, happy family.”

“Oh, yay!” cried Harriet.

“Yay,” snarled Brutus.

“And so three become four,” Dooley said, beaming all over his face.

“The four musketeers!” Harriet yipped.

“Max can be our Porthos,” said Brutus, and gave me a playful punch on the shoulder that hurt a lot more than it looked. “Right, Maxie, baby?”

“Wasn’t he the fat one?” asked Dooley.

“Ha ha,” said Brutus.

“Ha ha ha,” said Harriet.

“Ha ha ha ha,” said Dooley.

Oh, God, I thought. This was hell.

There was more playful ribbing and joking, and I wondered if I was the only one who could see Brutus for what he was: a nasty intruder. And I wondered if his human was anything like him. If he was, Odelia was in for an unpleasant surprise. I gave the paw I’d touched Brutus with a good lick to wash away the foul stench. Yeah, this wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

THE END

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Excerpt from Purrfectly Deadly

Chapter One

Morning had arrived bright and early, and as usual I was having a hard time rousing my human. Odelia was still snoozing, even more reluctant than usual to throw off the blanket of sleep. She’d been stirring for the past hour, ever since her alarm clock had gone off and she’d unceremoniously silenced it with one well-aimed punch. In spite of all my nudging, meowing, and even scratching the closet door, she still showed no signs of getting out of bed.

She’d sat up half the night preparing for her interview today, but if she didn’t get up now she’d miss it entirely. And it wasn’t just any old interview either. For the first time in years, famous eighties pop singer John Paul George, aka JPG, had granted the Hampton Cove Gazette an exclusive.

John, whose star had shone so brightly back in the day, now lived as a recluse in his Hamptons mansion, only rarely venturing out. He was one of those pop deities and eighties icons whose name would go down in history along with Madonna, Michael Jackson, Prince and George Michael.

Originally he hailed from England, where they produce pop stars in a factory just outside London, but had settled in the Hamptons in the nineties, where he could enjoy sun and surf and an endless parade of boy toys.

“Odelia,” I tried again, nudging her armpit with my head. “Oh, Odelia. Rise and shine, my pretty. John Paul George and legend are awaiting.”

But instead of opening her eyes, she merely mumbled something and turned the other cheek, her blond hair fanning across the pillow and her green eyes remaining firmly closed. I stared down at her sleeping form. I could always give her a gentle nibble, of course. Maybe that would do the trick. Somehow I doubted it, though. When Odelia is asleep, only a shot from a cannon can wake her, or perhaps a piper beneath her window, like the Queen of England. I should know. I’ve been Odelia’s constant companion for going on eight years now. My name is Max, by the way, and I’m a cat.

Finally, I’d had enough. I wasn’t going to miss this interview, as JPG was as much a hero of mine as he was of Odelia’s. The man had taken in more stray cats than the Hampton Cove animal shelter, and all of them had been given such a good life they’d spread the word far and wide: JPG loved cats and they, in return, adored him. Heck, if I wasn’t so fond of Odelia I might have presented myself on the JPG doorstep, looking slightly bedraggled.

I’d talked to more than a few of the cats he’d taken in, and they said he actually served them pâté on a daily basis. The food supposedly melted on the tongue, and was so delicious and plentiful it sounded like feline paradise.

The thought of pâté decided me. I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to sample the best gourmet food in all of Hampton Cove just because Odelia liked to sleep in. So I jumped on top of her, prepared to give her a good back rub, claws extended. If that didn’t do the trick, nothing would.

Just then, Dooley wandered into the room.

Dooley is Odelia’s mom’s cat, a beigeish ragamuffin and not the smartest cat around. He’s also my best friend.

“Hey, Max,” he said now as he leisurely strode in. “What’s up?”

“What’s not up is the more apt question,” I grumbled, gesturing at Odelia, who turned and clasped her pillow with a beatific expression on her face.

“Aw, she looks so sweet,” said Dooley, looking on from the bedside carpet.

“We’ve got an important interview scheduled in an hour, and if she doesn’t get a move on she’s going to miss it.”

“One hour? She can make that. Easy.”

“Well, unless she gets up right now she won’t,” I insisted.

And then I got it. Maybe we could serenade her. Dooley and I had recently joined the cat choir. We got together once a week to rehearse, and even had our own conductor. We sang all the old classics, like Cat’s in the Cradle , Year of the Cat , What’s New Pussycat and things like that. The good stuff. Since we usually practiced at night, though, we were having a hard time finding a regular spot to get together, as the neighbors didn’t seem to appreciate our nascent talent as much as we did.

“What was that song we did last night?” I asked Dooley.

He looked up at me. “Mh? What song?”

“For the cat choir. What was that last song we did? The one that made the mayor throw that old shoe at you?”

Dooley frowned at this, and rubbed the spot on his back where the shoe had connected. “That wasn’t funny, Max. That really hurt, you know.”

“Yeah, but what was the song?” I insisted.

“ Wake me up before you go go ,” he said. “The old Wham! classic.”

“Of course,” I said with a grin. “Let’s do it now. I’m sure it’ll be a nice way to wake Odelia up, and put her in the right mood for her interview.”

I jumped down from the bed, and took up position next to Dooley. We both cleared our throats, just like our conductor Shanille, Father Reilly’s tabby had taught us, and burst into song.

“ Wake me up before you go go ,” I howled.

“ Don’t keep me hanging on like a yo-yo ,” wailed Dooley.

And even though we hadn’t practiced the song a lot—the mayor’s shoe had kinda ruined the moment—I thought we were doing a pretty good job. It probably wouldn’t have carried George Michael’s approval, as cats don’t exactly sing like humans. When we sing, it sounds more like… a bunch of cats being strangled. Nevertheless, the effect was almost magical. We hadn’t even gotten to the chorus yet, when Odelia buried her head in her pillow, then dragged the pillow over her head, and finally threw the pillow at us.

“Stop it already, you guys. You sound horrible!” she muttered.

“It’s Wham!,” I told her. “So it can’t be horrible. And if you don’t get up right this minute, you’re going to be late for your important interview.”

At this, she darted a quick look at her alarm clock, and uttered a startled yelp. The next moment she scrambled from the bed, practically tripped over Dooley and me, and raced for the bathroom.