Fear Familiar Bundle

by Caroline Burnes

  My pads are toughening up on the pavement again, so the walk isn't too bad. Burn a few calories so I can have a snack. But, wait a minute…That car parked down the street from A Taste of the South. It's been there ever since Sarah got home. Maybe I'll just take a stroll by it, a slight detour. I wouldn't have noticed except it's in a no-parking zone and, let me tell you, the meter maids in this town come with a tow truck instead of a ticket pad.

  Dark sedan, nothing too conspicuous. That in itself is something to note. License plates coated in red mud. A flick of my paw and what do I see? My, my, a government car. I do believe that Dolly is under surveillance by someone beside Super Cat.

  The question is, who? And what do they intend to do to her?

  Chapter Two

  Sarah closed the blinds in her bedroom in a futile attempt to block out the midmorning sun. She was exhausted. She had a million things she needed to do, but a slight headache pounded at her temples. Flopping back in the bed, she pulled the sheet over her head. All attempts to sleep the night before had been a waste of time. Whenever she shut her eyes, she was tormented, either by Daniel Dubonet's sarcastic smile and insinuating questions or by fragments of the past.

  Dubonet troubled her because of the past. Something about him opened a lot of doors that Sarah had worked hard to nail shut. She'd reacted to him— and that was something she couldn't afford. Everything she'd ever loved had been taken from her, and she wasn't willing to risk that pain. Not ever again.

  There was no going back, no changing the course of events that had led to her father's death. She couldn't control the past, but she could certainly control her emotions in the future. Would she ever be able to leave the shadow of the past?

  The thought prompted the action of throwing off the sheet and reaching for the telephone. "My guilt synthesizer is working overtime," she said aloud as she stared at the beige receiver. She hadn't called her mother in several weeks. Mora Covington never called her daughter. She wasn't "the kind of mother who constantly interfered in my grown daughter's life."

  No, Mora didn't interfere. She just laid on a guilt trip that was a zillion times worse than interfering.

  With a sigh, Sarah dialed the Biloxi, Mississippi, phone number and began to count the rings. Seven, eight, nine. Just as expected, the phone was answered on the ninth ring.

  "Hello, Mother." Sarah felt a rush of feeling that was hard to untangle. She loved her mother, but Mora had always held herself so distant, had always been so easily bruised.

  "Sarah, how kind of you to call."

  Sarah sighed. It wasn't kind of her to call. It should be a delight for both of them. Why did her mother put everything in terms of obligation?

  Forcing a bright note into her voice, Sarah chatted for a few moments about her upcoming jobs.

  "I have a big party at the Bingington house. I have to go over this afternoon and make sure everything is in order." As she talked, Sarah felt her lethargy lift. No matter what dark shadows from her past troubled her, she still had her mother. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

  "The strangest thing happened yesterday…." Mora hesitated.

  "What?" Sarah was trained in patience. Mora found a lot of strange things in her life. It seemed that when Cal Covington died, all of Mora's nerve for living had departed, too.

  "This man came by the house asking after you."

  "What man?" Sarah couldn't help the suspicion that began to form in her mind. She'd been away from home far too long for someone to be trying to find her in Biloxi with Mora.

  "He said he was with the Federal Bureau of Investigation." Mora's voice thickened with tears. "It was just like with Cal. It was just the same. He started out nice, and then he got so insistent."

  "What did he want?" Sarah swung her legs to the floor and sat up. The headache was fiercer than ever, but she no longer acknowledged it.

  "He was asking where you were and where you'd gotten your training as a chef. He acted as if you'd done something wrong."

  Mora sounded so pitiful that Sarah felt her anger at whoever was meddling in her life begin a fast climb.

  "I told him you were a good girl and that you'd never do anything wrong."

  "What exactly did he say?"

  "Well, not really anything. It was just the way he showed up and wouldn't leave, and how he asked those questions. You remember how those agent people are, the same question again and again, with the words put in a different order." She took a trembly breath, but her voice grew stronger. "It was so much like the days when Cal was under investigation. I just went all to pieces."

  "It's okay, Mom." Sarah paced the length of the phone cord and back. "Don't let anyone in the house again. Do you hear?"

  "Yes. What's wrong, Sarah?" There was real alarm in Mora's voice. "Is anything the matter up there? I do wish you'd come home. With the new gambling casinos along here, there's plenty of work for a good chef. Plenty of work and good pay."

  "I can't come home." Sarah was tired of repeating the phrase. There was nothing for her in Mississippi. Nothing except the past and a lot of painful memories. "Just don't let anyone in the house again. I'm going to call Uncle Vince and see if he can find out what's going on. That man may not even have been with the FBI or anyone else."

  "He had a badge, like they do on television."

  "Do you remember his name?"

  "No." There was another hesitation. "He gave me a card, but I threw it away. I just didn't want it in the house."

  "It doesn't matter." Sarah tugged her fingers through her thick hair, trying to pull some order into it. She wanted a cup of coffee and a hot shower— one without interruptions. And then she wanted a chance to talk with Vincent Minton, her adopted uncle and the only person she had ever really been able to rely on. Once her father had died and her mother had turned into a shadow of her former self, Sarah had sought out "Uncle" Vince as the only source of real strength. He was a mover and shaker in Washington. He had no official capacity, but he had plenty of reliable sources. "I'm going to get Uncle Vince to check into this guy."

  "The man was very nice." Mora tried to catch hold of the situation. "I overreacted a little bit, I'm afraid. Really, Sarah, he wasn't mean at all. Not like that Joshua Jenkins."

  Even the name brought back a surge of pain and anger. Joshua Jenkins had been the FBI agent in charge of investigating her father. Jenkins was a relentless man who'd decided that he was judge, jury and prosecution for Sheriff Cal Covington. And he'd succeeded in ruining Cal's life.

  "Jenkins is retired, Mom," Sarah reminded her.

  "Well, he should be dead."

  The words were a shock to Sarah. Mora Covington literally could not bring herself to step on a cockroach. But Joshua Jenkins was another matter altogether. Mora might have turned into a wisp of a person, but where Jenkins was concerned, she still had plenty of passion. Passionate hatred.

  "Listen, Mom, that man didn't threaten you, did he?"

  "No, he was asking about you."

  "Well, things are fine here. Don't worry about any of it. Uncle Vince will take care of it."

  "Yes, dear, Vince can do that. God bless him, he's always there when we need him."

  "Love you, Mom." Sarah replaced the receiver. Her own eyes were filled with moisture, but it was from anger. No one had the right to go around terrorizing her mother. No one. Not even the FBI!

  Before she talked to her uncle, she decided to shower, eat, and try to calm down. It was an irritating fact, but whenever she got extremely angry, she found herself crying. The one thing she didn't want to do was cry on Uncle Vince this afternoon. She wanted to be professional, to show that all of his trust and effort on her behalf had been well spent.

  Blinking away the unshed tears, Sarah showered and got dressed.

  It was past noon, and she discovered that her sleepless night and angry morning had made her ravenous. From the depths of her refrigerators she pulled out the ingredients for a crabmeat omelet and set to work. It was hard, but she managed t
o ignore the mountain of dishes until she'd had two cups of coffee and something to eat.

  Feeling slightly less volatile, she placed the call to Vince, only to discover that he was away for several hours. He was almost always at the specialty shop he ran in one of the touristy parts of the city. Though he was the head of Minton Limited, a corporation with real estate and banking interests, he seemed to prefer tinkering with his gift merchandise more than anything else. That, and attending social events. She left her name and asked that he return her call, and then she tackled her dirty kitchen.

  While she loaded the dishwasher, she ran through the menu she was preparing for the luncheon at the Bingington house. As she'd learned through the busy Washington gossip circuit, Clyde Bingington was a very influential man. He ran a chain of newspapers in the South that exerted tremendous control over regional politics, and he was hosting a dinner for Southern governors.

  At Chef André's recommendation, Sarah had been hired to prepare the extensive meal. It was going to be a gala affair with a Deep South theme that dated back to the days when cotton reigned. "Days of Economic Prosperity" was the way the evening was going to be billed. So that called for a menu with no holds barred. She could be as decadent as she liked, and that was great fun. Then she could sit back and watch the fireworks that any Southern theme generated in Washington. There had been a party only a few months back when a cake baked and decorated like a Confederate flag had almost created a national furor. The chef who had concocted the confection had gotten into a peck of trouble, even though his intentions were innocent.

  Sarah glanced at the kitchen telephone, willing Uncle Vince to call her back. She checked the time. Almost four o'clock. She wanted to get to the Bingington house before much later. The family was out of town on vacation and she had her own key, but she didn't like the idea of wandering around someone else's house at night. Someone might mistake her for a burglar.

  With the kitchen spick-and-span, she sat down at the table and started planning her menu. It would be a group of fifty. Clyde Bingington was hosting governors from ten Southern states and their guests, along with some businessmen and the Beltway politicos who hovered at every event that held the least promise of money or a deal.

  Chicken and pork were the traditional banquet meats for Southern fare. She bit the soft wood of her pencil, concentrating. Since it was a meal primarily for men, a heavier menu would not be out of order. Baked honey-glazed ham or possibly even fried chicken…She considered for a moment before she wrote stuffed okra on her list. Okra filled with cream cheese and hot peppers, dipped in egg, battered in cornmeal and baked in the oven was something that never failed to please her guests.

  She gently chewed the pencil, a bad habit that she'd never been able to break. Her mind didn't seem to want to cooperate. Somehow, the menu wouldn't come together.

  When the phone finally rang, she almost jumped out of her chair. She hurried across the room and picked up the portable unit. Relief flooded her as she heard Uncle Vince's voice, and she quickly filled him in on what had happened.

  "Daniel Dubonet," Vincent said in his big-city accent. Even though he'd grown up in a poor section of New Orleans, he was the most sophisticated man she'd ever met. "I can't imagine why the FBI would question you, Sarah, but I have some friends there. I'll explain some things to them and make sure Mr. Dubonet understands that he isn't to frighten you again."

  "Thanks." Sarah felt a twinge of regret. She didn't really want to get the agent in trouble, but he had some kind of nerve showing up at her door at midnight to get a list of ingredients. If he got a reprimand now, it might save him from a bullet later in his career.

  "These young agents." Uncle Vince sighed. "You know, I've been a successful businessman for nearly fifty years. There was a time when common courtesy was the code of conduct for all people. Now there's no consideration for the simple niceties of life. The young man could have conducted this business during proper working hours. He would not have upset you or startled you and none of this would have been necessary."

  "You're right."

  "And tell Mora not to worry. I'll check into the situation down on the coast, too. I suspect it's one of those cases where a couple of young agents are trying a little too hard."

  "Thanks, Uncle Vince." Sarah replaced the receiver and looked at the pencil she still held in her hand. The numerous teeth marks indicated how nervous she'd been. With a tsk of disgust at herself, she threw it in the trash.

  It was nearly five o'clock, and the early dusk of late fall was beginning to settle over the city. She ran upstairs to get her coat, her keys and the map to the Bingington house. With a little luck with the traffic, she could manage to get there before total darkness fell.

  She threw open the door of the shop and stopped. A large black cat was stretched full-length in her doorway. Something about the cat's position warned her that he was injured. His pose was unnatural, and his breathing was shallow and rapid.

  "Kitty, kitty." She eased toward him, not wanting to startle him into running out into the busy traffic. Her precautions were unnecessary. The cat was unconscious.

  She hated to see anything sick or injured. There were so many animals starving to death in Washington, and in every other city and rural area in the country.

  "Kitty, kitty." She offered a soothing sound as she settled down on her knees to examine the cat. His coat was healthy, and he was very well fed. She reached out a tentative hand to stroke him. He was sleek and warm. Perhaps he'd been caught by a glancing blow from a car and was merely stunned. There was no blood anywhere.

  But where had he come from? No one with good sense would allow such a handsome cat to run around one of the busiest intersections in Washington.

  Glancing up and down the street, Sarah honestly expected to see his worried owner hunting frantically for the cat.

  A feeble meow drew her attention back to the patient.

  "Kitty." She stroked him very gently, afraid that if he suffered internal injuries she might only make him worse. As she started to withdraw her hand, he lifted a feeble paw and caught her with the barest tips of his claws.

  "You don't want me to leave you, do you?" All thoughts of the Bingington house disappeared. Very gently, she scooped the cat into her arms and took him up the stairs to her bedroom. With the tenderest possible touch, she placed him in the center of her bed.

  "Meow." He rewarded her with a feeble sound.

  "I'll get you some milk with an egg beaten into it," she said. "That's what my grandmother always said to give an animal that didn't feel well. Cream and egg." It was undoubtedly an old wives' recipe for sickness, but it had certainly piqued the appetites of her grandmother's kittens and puppies. She took the stairs two at a time and disappeared into the kitchen.

  * * *

  I LOVE A LADY with a tender heart. Now that I've gotten an up-close look at Dolly, I'm more positive than ever that the First Cat has excellent taste— for food and the female species of Homo sapiens. I'm telling you, that Socks wasn't born in a tuxedo for just any reason. That's one classy cat.

  Now that I've managed to get into Dolly's lair, what am I going to do? She was on her way to run an errand, so that will give me plenty of time to check out the kitchen and prove that she's clean. I mean, she'd have to have a five-pound sack of poison to bring some of those politicians down. Talk about pork barrel politics. Some of those guys look like they've been eating at the public trough twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

  Oops, I'm not supposed to be political. It might affect my judgment on this case. But I must say that if cats had the vote, this country would be a very different place.

  Now I need a bit of time alone in the pad here to check out the resources. Luckily, my last adventures in Scotland taught me my way around a big kitchen. If there's a dangerous substance, I'll ferret it out. Which brings up one of my pet peeves. Humans have gotten into the habit— and me along with them— of using animals as verbs. Ferret. What kind of action verb
is that? And though I'm not one to take up for the canine species, how about "I'm going to dog you till the day you die"? How unflattering, even for those slobbering beasts. And "catting around." Really, how inappropriate. I think I'll coin a phrase. How about "human environment"? That would describe a polluted beach or a landfill.

  Well, enough semantics. Here comes Dolly with my cream and egg. I prefer my egg slightly poached with a side of salmon, but she'll learn. Humans are slow, but they always learn.

  * * *

  "POOR KITTY. Can you drink this?" Sarah eased the bowl to the floor and helped a feeble Familiar to stand. He wobbled pathetically before he took several laps of the milk.

  With amazing speed, he began to recover. His balance grew steady, and he started looking around the room.

  "That must be a miracle cure," Sarah said. "Now what am I going to do with you?"

  "Meow." Familiar rubbed against her leg and then hopped in the middle of her bed. With great care, he walked a circle and finally curled up, tucking his nose over his front paws, his great green eyes closed shut.

  "You need some rest, and I have an errand to run." She went to the bed and sat down, taking a moment to stroke his fur. "Maybe you should go to the vet."

  Familiar rolled over and displayed his stomach in a most inviting manner. When Sarah gently rubbed it, he purred outrageously.

  "I don't think you were injured at all," she said, suddenly suspicious. "I think you're a con man in a cat suit."

  "Meow." Familiar's green eyes opened, and then he gave her a solemn wink.

  "Why, you are a con man!" Sarah couldn't help but laugh at the cat. He acted as if he understood every word she said. "You can stay tonight, but you can't stay any longer," she warned him— and herself. "I'm not the type of person who can own a cat. I have to be gone for several days at a time." She heard her own voice running out of steam. How nice it would be to have a kitty to come home to. How long had it been since she'd been greeted at the door by someone who was really glad to see her?