Лори Касс - Pouncing On Murder

“And there’s no electricity at the school,” Rafe had said. “The maintenance guy already called me.”

I’d been ready for that teensy little problem. “I have a plan. All I need is permission and someone to unlock the door.”

“Minnie,” he’d said slowly, “I don’t—”

“I’ll get down on my knees,” I’d said, grunting a little as I’d done so. “I’m risking grass stains on my khakis to do this, because if you don’t let me use your gym, we’ll have to cancel the fair. There’s no other place in town.”

I’d known I was asking a lot. Rafe was the middle school’s principal, but he worked for the school board and they made the calls on the big decisions.

There’d been a longer pause, but this time I didn’t interrupt.

“I’ll call you back,” he’d finally said, and I’d walked around in small circles on the sidewalk until he did.

“Thank you,” I’d whispered when he gave me the thumbs-up. “You’re all right for a . . .” But I hadn’t come up with an appropriate insult, not that time.

“Yeah, yeah,” he’d said. “I know.”

Happily he’d hung up before I got too sentimental, and now that the fair was in full swing, I was ready to trade verbal abuse with my friend. Of course, he didn’t deserve any abuse at all, since he not only secured permission from the school board’s president for me to use the gym, but also forwarded to the parents of the school’s students the text blast I’d sent to the Friends of the Library, asking everyone to bring battery-powered camping lanterns.

Emergencies can bring out the best in people, and I couldn’t begin to count the lanterns that were lighting the gym, giving it a cozy glow that was encouraging conversation. One father had even hauled over a small generator, and Trock’s table was so well lit it was like a beacon in the night. Plus, many of the folks who’d brought in lanterns had stayed to wander around the displays, and, wonder of wonders, they were purchasing books, too.

The signs my printer friend had pushed into the ground at the library had, I’d been told, been so amusing that even people who hadn’t planned on attending the fair had shown up, and Pam Fazio had called to tell me that the downtown merchants, far from being annoyed that the fair was pulling people away from their stores, were pleased at the influx of fair-bound tourists, and had been pleased for days.

“It’s your fault.”

I turned. Trock Farrand was standing there, glowering at me. “What is?”

“This.” He flung his arms out at the people, the books, the fairyland of lights, the general air of cheerfulness and goodwill. “I am charmed, Miss Hamilton, simply charmed by this entire event. I am inclined to write another book so I can attend next year, and writing a cookbook is a tremendous amount of work, and, therefore, my upcoming busy schedule is completely your fault.”

I didn’t believe a word of it, but I had the perfect response. “It was my boss’s idea.”

“And who did all the work?” Trock asked, raising one bushy eyebrow. “Yes, I thought so. Ideas are cheap, my sweet bookmobile librarian. Turning them into reality is the key. Now. Here is a gift for you.” He handed over a copy of his cookbook.

I blinked at him. “For me?”

“My dear,” he said sorrowfully, “I know you think cooking is for other people, but surely even you could think of a use for this.”

“Oh. Thanks.” It was a big book. Maybe it would work as an industrial-sized paperweight. “But you don’t have to give me a copy. I’m happy to buy one.” Sort of.

“No, no.” He took the book out of my hands and flipped through the pages. “Here,” he said, handing the open book back to me. “Since I’m certain you would never even glance through the outstanding recipes for months, I have to present this to you personally.” He patted me on the head—something I wouldn’t stand from anyone else in the world—and steamed back to his adoring fans.

I looked down at the cookbook and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because right there in front of me was a recipe titled “Eddie’s Salmon Snacks: Treats for Cats of a Discerning Nature.”

• • •

“Hey, Eddie!” I poked my head inside the houseboat’s door. Most days, Eddie was there, waiting for me. Early on in our relationship I’d thought he was waiting for me, anxious about my absence and worried that I’d never return, but I eventually realized he was waiting for me to open the door so he could get outside.

This time, however, he wasn’t at the ready. Sleeping, no doubt.

I came all the way inside and slid my backpack off my shoulder. “Wake up, Eddie. I have something to show you.” Because not only had Trock named his cat treat recipe after Eddie, but he’d also included a photo of said feline and signed the page with his name and “Thanks for the inspiration, Mr. Edward. You are a king among cats.”

While I wasn’t sure I wanted to read the inscription to Eddie, I had to do it at least once, and I might as well get it over with.

“Eddie? Where are you?”

Even on a houseboat smaller than any apartment in which I’d ever lived, it was possible for a cat to find hiding places that took me ages to find.

I checked in the closet.

No Eddie.

Looked in the bathroom cupboards.

No cat.

Stretched high to see the top of the kitchen cabinets.

Nothing but dust.

I even got down on my hands and knees and looked underneath everything there was to look under, but still didn’t find him.

“Well.” I got to my feet and put my hands on my hips. Where the heck was he? He’d been sleeping when I left that morning, so he couldn’t have slipped outside. Then again . . .

I tried to remember if the door had been locked when I came home. Surely I’d locked it when I left, but the morning had been rushed and anxious and I couldn’t remember, one way or another.

“Eddie? Game’s over, okay? You win. I lose. Let’s get some dinner.”

But there was no pad-pad-pad of Eddie feet coming my way and I was starting to feel a flutter of panic. Maybe I’d left the door unlocked. Maybe I’d left it unlatched. Maybe he’d pushed the door open with his little Eddie nose and slid outside. He wasn’t the most graceful cat in the world; maybe he’d fallen in the water and—

No. I wouldn’t think that. He was here somewhere. Or outside somewhere. Maybe Eric had seen him. Maybe Eric had adopted him and was cooking Salmon Snacks for him. Maybe Eddie would never want to come home and—

My cell phone rang, making the noise it made when a new number was calling.

I scrabbled through my backpack and looked at the phone. Unknown caller with a downstate area code. Odd. “This is Minnie Hamilton.”

“And this is Cole Duvall.”

“Oh.” I blinked, not having any idea what to say to a man I’d told police might be a killer. “Um, hello.”

“I have your cat,” he said in a low voice.

My eyes flew open wide and I turned around, looking frantically for a trace of the best feline friend anyone could have. “There’s no way. You can’t. There’s—”

“If you want him back, meet me at my cottage in an hour.”

I protested, I shouted, and I yelled, but he was gone.

Chapter 20

“Eddie!” I tore around the houseboat, looking everywhere I’d already looked. “Eddie?” After all, maybe Duvall was just messing with me. Maybe he really hadn’t taken Eddie, maybe he was just trying to get me out to his cottage and—

The beep of my phone interrupted my anxious thoughts. Since the thing was still in my hand, it was a relatively loud beep and, reflexively, I glanced at the screen. There was an incoming text message and there was a photo attached. I opened the image and immediately sat down. Hard.