Sofie Kelly - Copycat Killing - A Magical Cats Mystery

I tried to imagine his reaction if I told him that my cats’ talents went beyond being able to hear a can of tuna being opened from a hundred feet away; that Hercules had the ability to walk through walls and Owen could disappear whenever it suited him, which was generally at the worst possible time for me. How could I explain it to anyone else when I didn’t even understand it all myself? At best, I’d end up somewhere having my head examined, at worst the cats would.

Ric was just putting a gauze bandage on my forehead when Officer Derek Craig came around the side of the carriage house. I’d met the young policeman for the first time the previous summer when I found conductor Gregor Easton’s body at the Stratton Theater. He’d been at the library several times in the past couple of months, checking out books on the law and law school. I wondered if he was thinking about a career change.

“Is Ms. Paulson okay to go home?” he asked the paramedics.

Ric nodded. “We’re done.” He turned his attention to me. His partner was already packing their things.

“I know,” I said, before he could start giving me his list of warnings. “I should see my family doctor. And if my head starts to hurt, or if I have problems with my vision or breathing, I should go to the emergency room right away.”

“Or if you feel nauseated or start vomiting,” he added. “In fact, you should make an appointment with your own doctor as soon as possible to get checked out. Just to be on the safe side.”

“I will,” I said. “Thank you.” I leaned around Ric to thank the other paramedic as well. Then I turned to Derek. “I’m okay. And my truck’s right there. I can get home.”

He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Ma’am, Detective Gordon told me to drive you home. He also said I should use handcuffs if I had to. Do I have to?”

I didn’t want to leave my truck behind. On the other hand, Marcus wasn’t above having those handcuffs put on me.

I shook my head. “No you don’t have to. But do you have something to cover the seat?” There was mud on my boots, clumped on my clothes, even some still in my hair.

“Not a problem,” he said with a smile. “A little dirt won’t hurt anything. There’s been worse in that car.”

I got to my feet and brushed what dirt I could off my jeans and hooded sweatshirt. I looked around for Marcus. He was at the far end of the field, bent down, clearly studying the bones that had been unearthed by the hill collapse. He turned and straightened up then, almost as if he could feel my eyes on him. I lifted a hand to let him know I was all right and I was going—more or less willingly—with Derek. He raised a hand in return.

I limped my way slowly over to the police cruiser. My ankle felt a little better now that it was wrapped with a support bandage. Derek hovered beside me and I had the sense that he could and would toss me over his shoulder and carry me the rest of the way if I stumbled. I scraped what mud I could off my boots before I got in the car. He reached across me and fastened the seat belt. I wasn’t sure if he thought I was too banged up to do it myself, or that I might bolt for my truck when his back was turned.

We crept down the rutted driveway, bouncing over every bump. I knew I had to have a lot of bruises I couldn’t see and I felt every one of them with every lurch of the car.

At the bottom Derek turned to me. “Where are we headed?” he asked.

“Mountain Road,” I said. “On the left-hand side, not that far from the top.” I gave him the number.

He frowned. “Little white farmhouse?”

I nodded. “That’s it.”

We drove the rest of the way in silence. He pulled into the driveway and before I could tell him not to, he was out of the police car and around opening the passenger door for me.

“Thank you,” I said, smiling up at him.

“You’re welcome,” he said with a dip of his head. I was at the back steps before I heard the car pull onto the street again. It was a safe bet that Marcus had told him to make sure I made it safely to the door.

I pulled off my muddy boots in the porch and unlocked the kitchen door. As if they had some kind of cat radar, Hercules and Owen both appeared in the living room doorway.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I said.

They exchanged glances, almost as though they were engaging in some kind of telepathic communication. Then Herc came across the floor to me. I pulled out a kitchen chair and dropped into it, biting off a groan when my right hip made contact with the seat. The little black-and-white cat sat in front of me, eyes narrowed, and looked me up and down.

“The bank behind the carriage house let go,” I said, feeling a little foolish explaining myself to a cat. “I’m fine. Marcus called the paramedics, not that I needed them.” I pulled my muddy sweatshirt over my head and dropped it on the floor.

Hercules recoiled and took a couple of steps backward. He sniffed the shirt, and then he sniffed at me, his face twisting in distaste at the odor.

“Yes, I know I don’t smell very good,” I said. “Kind of the same way someone did after they got into Rebecca’s compost pile.” I shot a quick glance at Owen.

Hercules came closer again. He stood on his back legs, put a paw on my knee and gently nudged my re-bandaged hand. “It’s just a little cut,” I said, reaching down to stroke his fur with my other hand. “I actually did that down at the store with Maggie.”

At the sound of Maggie’s name, Owen bounded over to me. “Maggie’s fine,” I reassured him. He had a major kitty crush on her. “So am I, so you can stop worrying.” Sarcasm was wasted on Owen—he was already poking my sweatshirt with a paw.

Hercules suddenly dropped back onto all four feet, looked at the refrigerator door—where I’d stuck the Wisteria Hill feeding schedule—then turned back to me, tipping his head to one side and meowing quizzically. He might have been asking if we had any sardines in the fridge. Or it was possible he was asking if Marcus was okay. Improbable, but not impossible, since Hercules and Owen weren’t exactly ordinary house cats.

“Yes, Marcus is fine too, and in case you were asking about sardines and not everyone’s favorite detective, no, there aren’t any open.”

The answer seemed to satisfy him. He turned to watch his brother still poking at my hoodie. I knew Herc had no intention of touching it. Not only did he dislike having wet paws, he didn’t like having dirty ones either. Owen had found the little purple thingie I’d picked up out at Wisteria Hill. He gave it a swipe with one paw and it slid over the floor like a curling rock, ending up at my feet.

I bent to pick the thing up before Owen sent it underneath the refrigerator. I still had no idea what it was. A wig for some kind of tiny forest sprite, perhaps? It wasn’t the oddest thing to be discarded out at the old estate. I knew that Harry Taylor and his younger brother, Larry, had found a full-sized, claw-foot bathtub out there in the woods. Being practical guys, they’d loaded it in the back of Larry’s truck and it had eventually ended up in Larry’s bathroom—with the approval of Everett Henderson, of course.

My entire right side ached and I guessed I was probably turning into a giant bruise all over that part of my body. I needed coffee and a shower and a couple of aspirin.

I looked at the cats. “I don’t suppose you two know how to work the coffeemaker,” I said. Owen’s head immediately swung in my direction. He knew the word coffee generally meant I’d also be eating something he probably could wheedle a few bites of. “Yes, we’ll have something to eat, too,” I assured him.

I stood up, stretched and groaned a little, partly because everything hurt and partly for effect. Not only do cats not get sarcasm, they don’t get shameless bids for sympathy either. I set the tiny purple puff on top of the refrigerator, washed my hands, started the coffee and headed upstairs for the shower.