Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

“Okay, that’s the same thing that Reese said.”

She left Jake and headed back into the store, where she finished her closing routine more quickly than usual; then, after another look in the courtyard and then setting the alarm code, she slipped through the side door connecting to her private hall and locked the shop door behind her.

As she mounted the first stair, she half expected Hamlet to go flying between her feet in his typical kamikaze kitty routine. In fact, tonight she would have welcomed his bad behavior. But she made it up both flights unhampered by fleet paws trying to trip her. Neither was he sitting at the top of the main landing trying to open the door by pure force of his cold green stare.

The little beast is probably lounging by the refrigerator , she reassured herself as she turned the key. But once inside her apartment, a quick sweep through the living room and kitchen did not reveal Hamlet in any of his usual spots.

“Hey, boy, I’m home,” she called out experimentally, even though she would have fainted on the spot had she received a cheerful meow in return. Hamlet never greeted her when she came home. He waited for her to come to him bearing food, water, or the occasional catnip mouse. Coming when called was something that lower forms of life, like dogs, did.

“Fine, stay outside all night,” she muttered into the resulting silence and headed toward her bedroom. If he was still gone come morning, she’d enlist Jake’s help and slap up a couple of “lost cat” signs in the neighborhood. Otherwise, she had enough troubles without having to worry where Mr. Prince of Darkness, Jr., was going to lay his feline head this night.

That decided, Darla flipped on the bedroom light, glanced at her bed, and let out a muffled shriek.

Hamlet lay sprawled upon his back in the center of her blue and gold comforter. His sleek black legs stuck out in the direction of all four compass points, while his head was turned at an unnatural angle. His eyes were green slits, and his jaw hung open to reveal sharp white teeth and a pink tongue that lolled to one side. She’d never noticed the thumbnail-sized diamond of white fur on his lower belly before.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, taking a cautious step closer toward the motionless form.

In the few months that she’d lived in the apartment, Hamlet had never once set paw in what was now her bedroom. Since he seemed to think the rest of the place belonged to him, she’d wondered if this was a nice little cat courtesy on his part, or if his marked boycott of her personal space simply was some sort of veiled feline insult. But now, he lay on her bed, looking like that guy in the opening scene of The Da Vinci Code . All he needed was the circle drawn around him and a few more fuzzy legs to be the quintessential Vitruvian Cat.

“Hamlet, are you okay?” Darla whispered, realizing the question likely was futile. She’d driven past enough roadkill on Texas highways to know it when she saw it.

A cold little blade of guilt pierced her. She should have dragged his furry butt out of the courtyard the minute Valerie said she’d seen him there. But she hadn’t, and as a result maybe he’d found something toxic in the alley—a puddle of antifreeze or one of those plastic trap things filled with rat poison. Or maybe he’d been hit and run over by Marnie and her gang, and stubbornly managed to hang on long enough to crawl home and die. Or perhaps all the dark stars had aligned at once, and it simply had been his time to go to the big litter box in the sky.

Or maybe he witnessed something he should not have seen , a little voice whispered in her head, and curiosity—or rather, its human equivalent—actually killed this cat!

Shoving aside that last thought as way over the top, Darla sighed and started toward the bed. If she could find an old towel or something to wrap him in, she could bury him in the courtyard tomorrow and then hold a little service for him with Lizzie and James and Jake the day after. Maybe she’d even buy one of those pet memorial stones with his name and date, she told herself, surprised to realize that a tear had drizzled down one cheek. Brushing it away, she reached down to lift the furry limp form.

A sleek black paw whipped toward her with the speed of a striking cobra. Two fanglike claws snagged the sleeve of her blouse before she could move out of range.

“Hamlet!”

Her shriek held equal parts relief and outrage as she stared down at the obviously hale and hearty feline. After that initial attack he had flipped onto his belly and swiftly gathered together his limbs and his dignity. Now, he sat crouched with his tail wrapped tightly around him, green eyes daring her to remind him that she’d caught him in a vulnerable position.

Darla’s indignation faded into unwilling sympathy. Poor cat, he was smart enough to know that something bad had happened. Needing comfort, he’d put aside feline self-esteem for the security of her room, doubtless feeling he would be safe there. It was only bad luck on his part that she had caught him in the act.

“It’s okay, Hamlet,” she softly told him. “We’ve all had a rotten night tonight. If you want to sleep on the bed with me, I don’t mind.”

She half expected him to hiss and stalk out of the room at this impertinent suggestion. When he didn’t, she left him where he sat, and, after sending Jake a quick text message— Hamlet safely home! —she headed for the bathroom. She returned a few minutes later, wearing one of the oversized T-shirts that served as her usual sleep attire. She saw in amusement that, in the interim, Hamlet had moved to the farthermost corner of the queen-sized bed. He lay curled so tightly that she could barely tell head from tail.

“You scooch down any farther away from me, and you’re going to fall off,” she warned, feeling an unwilling rush of fondness for the ornery beast. Truth be told, she would welcome a little company, even Hamlet’s. Careful not to disturb him, she slipped under the comforter and snapped off the light.

“Sleep tight,” she told him, though she doubted she herself would be able to do any such thing. Every time she shut her eyes, she saw Valerie Baylor sprawled on the asphalt.

Okay, so think of something pleasant.

Abruptly, Reese’s face flashed through her mind, and she grimaced into the darkness. No, not him! Deliberately, she settled her imagination on a cute little bed-and-breakfast located deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas where she’d once spent a restful three-day weekend. The tranquil mental scene made her smile, until she recalled she’d made that trip with her slimeball ex-husband.

She gave a frustrated groan and, managing not to dislodge the cat at her feet, settled on her back. She still remembered some of the yoga relaxation techniques she’d learned in the beginner’s class she used to attend. Maybe they’d help her block out the night’s events and get some shut-eye.

The technique must have worked. The next thing Darla knew, she had struggled awake from a confusing dream where she was wearing earmuffs while mowing the lawn. She glanced over at the LCD alarm clock on the table beside her bed and saw it was almost three thirty a.m. But for some reason she could still hear the lawn mower that she had been pushing in her dream. Moreover, something very warm and furry was definitely pressed against her ear.

Hamlet.

Sometime after she’d fallen asleep, he had abandoned his sulky post at the bottom of the bed and crept his way onto her pillow, where he now lay snoring beside her. Apparently, the little hell-raiser had deigned to forge a truce between them . . . at least, while no one else was looking. And she had to admit that his presence in the dark of night was surprisingly comforting. She gave a sleepy smile and shut her eyes again. Doubtless in the morning they’d be back to their mutually adversarial ways, but for now the lion was lying down with the lamb.