Лори Касс - Cat With A Clue

His words sent my blood pressure soaring. If there was one thing I hated more than people turning down the corners of pages in library books, it was condescension, and this guy reeked of it.

“Come out, Minnie,” Paul said, “and let’s discuss this like reasonable adults. After all, nothing has happened yet, correct? I haven’t done a thing except frighten you, and that was pure accident.”

It was?

I sidled sideways a little bit more. The end of the shelves were close now. If I leaned to the left, maybe I could see where Paul was and what he was doing. After all, maybe he did just want to talk. Maybe I’d jumped to a conclusion that I’d laugh about later. Maybe my instincts had been wrong.

Moving slowly, carefully, and quietly, and always, always watching the path of the flashlight’s beam, I eased left.

“An accident.” Paul was crouching low, sending the cone of light around the room, looking for . . . what? My feet? “You understand that, right? Why would I want to scare you? Come on out, and we’ll talk about how to deal with the book.”

His lawyer’s voice was soothing and monotonous and almost sirenlike. Happily, a short stint as a telemarketer when I was desperate for cash in college had endowed me with a permanent immunity to sales pitches, and there was no doubt Paul was trying to sell me something.

Groaning, he put his hands on his knees to help push himself upright. As he did, the flashlight dropped out of his hand and clattered to the floor. He cursed and leaned down to pick it up.

But it was too late. When the flashlight had fallen and hit the floor, it had spun around and illuminated what he held in his other hand.

Illuminated the long, shiny, and very sharp-looking knife he was holding with a strong grip.

If there was ever a time to launch Plan A, it was now.

I braced my back against the wall, wedged my knees tight, placed my hands flat against the shelving. And pushed.

Creak!

Paul Utley whirled around, but since I was behind the shelving, there was nothing for him to see.

Though I was pushing for all I was worth, the freakishly heavy thing didn’t tip over. It swayed a little, though, and I moved instantly into Plan A-1, because I hadn’t spent the last four winters in northwest lower Michigan without learning something about how to get my car out of a ditch. The key was to rock it.

Push, release. Push, release. Push . . .

With each cycle, the arc of movement grew wider and faster.

Utley’s flashlight danced around the room, but too fast to catch the slow action of the shelves.

C’mon, I urged it. Tip!

Push, release. Push, release. Push . . .

Paul’s flashlight finally touched on the movement. “What the—”

It toppled over in superslow motion. I heard the boxes on the crowded shelves start to slide forward, heard one thud to the floor, heard Utley shout, and then finally, at long last . . .

Crash!

I didn’t wait to hear any more. I was scrambling for the stairs, tripping over boxes, hurling myself forward, trying to get away from that long, shiny, deadly knife. My cell phone was in the back room, but it was only a couple of blocks to city police station. If I ran fast, I could have someone back here in less than—

“It’s a freaking cat!” Paul Utley said.

I stopped dead.

“Hey,” he said, loudly, “I bet this is that bookmobile cat everyone talks about. What’s your name, kitty?”

“Mrr.”

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

Now Eddie decided to be Mr. Friendly? Now?

But maybe he’d see through Utley’s fake friendliness. Maybe cats really did have some of the traits ascribed to dogs. Maybe Eddie would sense Utley’s underlying intentions, claw the back of his hand, make him drop the knife, pick up the knife in his teeth, and scamper away with it, and I’d take it in my handkerchief to preserve the fingerprints and—

And that’s where my fast-forwarding fantasy came to a screeching halt. I’d never carried a handkerchief in my life.

My hand was on the front doorknob. Outside it was full dark; more time had passed than I realized. The sidewalks were empty of life, and the only car in sight was parked at the far end of the street. I pushed open the door and squinted, trying to see the time on the freestanding clock at the corner.

“That’s a good kitty,” Utley said.

My cat’s purrs were loud enough so that I could hear them from the top of the stairs.

“Just a little closer . . . No, come on now, just a few feet more . . .”

A few feet more and Utley would grab Eddie, my fuzzy friend, my pal, my napping buddy. He’d put that long knife to my cat’s white throat and use him as a hostage. Eddie would hiss and howl and claw and scratch, but Utley wouldn’t care, because he needed that book and he needed me to keep quiet about it and about him.

Time for Plan B.

Which was unfortunate, because I hadn’t had time to formulate more than a rough draft.

I scanned the sidewalk one more time, hoping against hope that I’d see someone coming, someone who could help us, someone who would instantly respond to a shriek for help.

But there was no one.

“Come here, you stupid cat!”

“Mrrrr-RRR!!” Eddie growled and hissed and spat.

I turned and ran pell-mell back down the stairs.

Chapter 19

I screwed my eyes shut and slapped at the light switch. “Leave him alone!” I shouted, then opened my eyes slowly.

I’d turned on the lights in the hopes that the abrupt glare might give me a slight advantage over Utley, but now that I’d followed through on the idea, I wasn’t sure what I’d really hoped to accomplish, other than showing him how small and unthreatening I really was.

Because much as I wanted to smash into Utley, head down and racing fast in my best imitation of a football player trying to make the tackle of his life, toppling him to the ground and smashing his head on the concrete floor to give him a stunning blow that would render him unconscious long enough for me to grab my cat and run us to safety, I couldn’t risk it, not with that knife being so close to Eddie’s . . . to Eddie . . .

I stood like a lumpy rock on the bottom step, swallowing convulsively, so scared for my cat that I could hardly breathe, trying to come up with more ideas that would get Eddie and me out of this alive and unharmed.

“So, here we are,” Paul Utley said, smiling.

It wasn’t a very nice smile—so wide it somehow reminded me of a snake.

I didn’t care for snakes.

“Yes,” I said. “Here we are.”

“Sorry about your cat.” His smile went a little wider, and my heart clutched until a muffled “Mrr” came from under Utley’s arm, where Eddie was being held in place by a firm elbow. The knife must have been in Utley’s other hand, which was hanging low and slightly behind his back.

By this, I assumed Utley didn’t realize that I knew he was armed. I devoutly hoped this gave me some sort of advantage. Too bad I didn’t know what kind of advantage that might be. But I’d play along, see if I could get him talking, see if I could make this spin out long enough for us to get away.

“You scared me,” I told Utley, “turning off the light. If all you want is that book, why didn’t you just ask?”

Utley studied me. “Are you telling me that you’re willing to sell Wildflowers?”

It wasn’t mine to sell, I wanted to shout. The owner, whomever that might be, was the only one who had the right to make decisions about the book. I’d weep myself to sleep if what the owner wanted to do was slice out pages and sell them piecemeal, but it wasn’t my choice to make.

But instead of saying all that, I smiled. “It’s worth a lot of money.”