Джанет Кантрелл - Fat Cat At Large

A slight trespass . . .

The wooden floor planks creaked as she tiptoed across the living room. Chase flinched with each footfall, her nape hairs prickling. No one appeared at the top of the stairs to her right, yelling at her to get out, so she kept going.

She hoped Quincy was in the kitchen, where the food was. If not, she would have to think about exploring further. Quincy could be crouched inside an empty room, scared. For all his fierce bravado, he was a small animal, and vulnerable in so many ways. What if this household owned a pit bull? Or a mastiff? She almost whimpered aloud thinking about it.

Chase braced herself with a deep breath, inhaling another whiff of the delicious aroma, and peeked around the corner into the kitchen. Sure enough, Quincy sat on the counter, devouring the meatloaf. But what caught Chase’s attention was the man, lying on his side on the floor beside some scraps of paper, his back to her. She knew him.

She breathed his name. “Gabe? Gabe?”

Quincy turned his head toward her and blinked his gorgeous amber eyes, then returned to his task.

Gabe must be injured, she thought. She knelt and shook his stiff shoulder. No response. She rolled him onto his back. Gasped. A steak knife was stuck in his chest. That couldn’t be good! She reached toward the handle to pull out the knife, touched it, then hesitated, and started to draw her hand back.

A soft voice from the doorway said, “What have you done?”

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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FAT CAT AT LARGE

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62163-9

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2014

Cover illustration by Dan Craig.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

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Dedicated to the late, great, mighty Agamemnon, my inspiration for Quincy

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’ve had a great team of people reading and catching errors for me. Thanks to Barbara Moye, Gale Albright, and Kathy “Eagle Eye” Waller for helping out. Also, to early readers Daryl Wood Gerber, Janet Bolin, and Marilyn Levinson. Krista Davis, Janet Koch, and Peg Cochran are always in my corner. To Paula Benson and Kinli Bare Abee for reading and assistance. For information on bruxing, to Andrew MacCrae, who was the first to give me this guidance. To my wonderful agent, Kim Lionetti. To my editor, Danielle Stockley, whose ideas generated the Fat Cat Mysteries. To my family for putting up with my long hours, days, weeks, and months of writing. Hubby has done a LOT of dishes and laundry. To Jessica Busen for encouragement and assistance. To all of the Austin Mystery Writers for support and encouragement. My department in charge of cat food, KB Inglee and Bodge, has my sincere thanks, also my dessert bar tasters, the choir at Concord United Methodist Church, Knoxville, Tennessee. And to all the wonderful Guppies, without which I would never stick to it or have the courage to submit a thing.

I’ll mention that I rearranged Dinkeytown a bit and probably mentioned some businesses that aren’t there anymore (and some that never were), so it’s slightly made-up, but every single person is entirely made-up.

If I’ve fluffed anything, it’s because I didn’t heed advice, or just wrote it wrong.

CONTENTS

A Slight Trespass . . .

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Recipes

About the Author

ONE

The butterscotch tabby cat crouched in his soft-sided carrier in the strange room. His nose twitched. This place was full of the smell of fear. He hadn’t eaten for two hours. Time for a decent meal. At least a snack. He clawed at the inside of the zipper. The top flap budged a bit. After he silently worked at it for a few more minutes, the flap opened far enough. Purring, he sprang out.

Charity Oliver jumped up from the plastic chair in the examining room and caught her cat. “Quincy! How did you escape?” She stroked him and he twisted his head to lick her hand.

“Here, let me, Ms. Oliver.” Nice deep, rumbly voice, she thought. The veterinarian took the cat from her. His strong hands were warm. He cuddled Quincy, who began a steady purr.

“Please call me Chase, Dr. Ramos.” Only Anna called her Charity, after all, and hardly anyone called her Ms. Oliver.

Dr. Ramos set Quincy on the stainless steel examining table and fished his stethoscope out of his lab coat pocket. After sticking the earpieces into his ears, he bent his dark curls close to the cat to listen to his insides, then palpated Quincy’s stomach.

Chase felt bad about the poking and prodding her little darling was enduring, but Quincy didn’t seem to mind it. In fact, he licked the vet’s hand.

This guy was no ancient fuddy-duddy vet, like the one in Chicago, she thought. The pictures on the pale blue walls were of angelic children and fluffy pets, not clinical diagrams. Her heart rate sped up a little as she twirled a strand of her straight, honey-blonde hair. He couldn’t be much older than her own thirty-two. And not bad looking at all.