by Nic Saint
“They sure will.” He stared at her, and she noticed for the first time that his blue eyes were flecked with green. He was pretty amazing himself. Then he shook his head and smiled, flashing those dimples at her. “You should have been a cop, Odelia. Are you sure you don’t want to join the force? I bet we’d make one hell of a team.”
“What would Dan do without me? I’m the only reporter he’s got.”
“He’ll find someone else.”
“Why don’t I stay a reporter and we can still be one hell of a team?”
He grinned. “Teaming up with the world’s nosiest reporter, huh?”
“Why not? This is Hampton Cove, Detective. We do things—”
“—a little differently out here. Yeah, I got the memo.”
He was leaning in now, and for a moment she thought he might kiss her. But then a sharp voice sounded from behind them. “How long do I have to sit here in this stinking truck?! I have rights! I demand to see my lawyer!”
Chase patted the truck and moved away. “Duty calls, Poole.”
“If I’m not mistaken it’s the black widow calling.”
He cocked his index finger at her and lithely rounded the truck and slid behind the wheel. “This time you follow me, Poole. No more surprises.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, tipping an imaginary cap.
She climbed into her own pickup and let the four cats in behind her. They jumped up onto the backseat and she slammed the door shut, then put the car in gear and drove off in Chase’s wake.
“You guys did great,” she told the fearsome feline foursome.
“Is Chase staying?” asked Harriet eagerly.
“He is.”
“Oh, thank God,” said Brutus.
“Thank Max,” said Odelia. “He’s the one who got us out here.”
“Thank you, Max,” said Harriet.
“Yeah, thanks, Maxie, baby,” grunted Brutus, then held up his paw. “Hit me, bro.”
“Oh, God,” muttered Max, rolling his eyes, but then he did as instructed and gave Brutus a high five.
Odelia, watching the cats through the rearview mirror, noticed that Dooley was the only one who wasn’t smiling. “What’s wrong, Dooley? Cat got your tongue?”
“Ha ha. Very funny. Max scratched my nose. It hurts.”
“All for a good cause, Dooley,” said Max.
“Yes, you’ll get over it, Dooley,” said Harriet.
“It’s called taking one for the team, Dooley, baby,” said Brutus.
“I’m not a baby!”
“Oh, yes, you are, you big baby,” Harriet cooed, and gave Dooley a peck on the whiskers. It perked him up considerably and he touched the spot reverently.
“We make a great team, you guys,” said Brutus. “A great team with a great leader.” He thumped his chest. “Yours truly. Bruce is back!”
“Oh, God,” muttered both Dooley and Max.
Odelia smiled. The four cats had accomplished the seemingly impossible: expose the Commissioner’s affair and exonerate Chase. And as she turned on the radio, a song of John Paul George came on.
“I’m Your Bi-ba-boy,” the singer crooned. “Your bi-ba-bad bad boy.”
Soon, they were all singing along, four cats and one human giving John Paul George a run for his money. Pop music had never sounded so bi-ba-bad.
Purrfect Revenge
The Mysteries of Max - Book 3
Prologue
Clarice casually licked her paws. She’d snapped up a few morsels and was taking a breather on the windowsill. Overhead, a full moon shone, and inside the house all was quiet. Just the way she liked it. Word in town had it there were rodents to be found at the beach house, and word hadn’t lied. She’d snapped up a few critters and decided this place was a keeper. Usually she liked to hang out in the hills west of Hampton Cove, but since she owed allegiance to no one, being a free spirit and all, she went where she pleased.
Clarice was a feral cat, her hide a mottled reddish brown riddled with bald spots. Once, she’d belonged to someone. Some tourists passing through who’d gotten her for their kid. When she’d gotten sick in the back of their Toyota Camry they’d decided she was more trouble than she was worth, and had tied her to a tree and left her. Good thing some kind soul had come along and freed her, or she would still be fettered to that damn tree, chewing bark.
The beach house was a property that had recently gone through a major renovation. They’d taken a worn-out beachfront property, completely gutted it and turned it into a remarkable success story. Currently it was occupied by a sprawling family of exceedingly attractive females who’d come straight down here from Hollywood to film some scenes for a popular reality show. The three sisters lived in the main house while a small film crew had taken up lodgings in the guest house. The house was guarded twenty-four seven, but since no one ever stopped to frisk a cat, Clarice had easily slipped in and out.
Luckily for her the sisters didn’t own a cat. Unfortunately what they did own was a nasty little yapper. A French Bulldog named Kane, who’d practically given her a heart attack when she’d entered the kitchen looking for some tasty little snack. The pooch wouldn’t stop yapping. Sheesh. You’d think he had to pay for the food out of his own pocket. Good thing she knew how to handle a bully. She’d given him her best hiss and claw routine and he’d quickly run off with his tail between his legs, crying for his mommy.
She now sat licking her claws, savoring those final pieces of rat guts, when she noticed that something was going on inside the bedroom. She stared through the window and saw that someone had decided to play dress-up. They were donning a black gown that extended all the way to the feet and even covered the face, leaving only a tiny slit for the eyes.
The masked person was standing at the foot of the bed, staring down at the sleeping forms of one of the sisters and her husband. Way creepy.
She watched intently as the intruder brought out a rag and a small bottle and sloshed some liquid on the rag, then walked around the bed and pressed the rag against the face of the man, then reached over and repeated the procedure on the woman. This was no game. He or she was sedating them.
And then it got really freaky. Whoever was beneath that black robe suddenly reached inside the folds and brought out a shiny meat cleaver.
Clarice's eyes went wide with horror and shock when the robed intruder heaved the cleaver high and then let it drop down with a sickening thud on the woman's neck. Ouch! She cut her eyes to the French Bulldog lying at the foot of the bed. The stupid mongrel was stoically staring at the scene as if everything was hunky-dory. How weird was that? And as she watched, she felt a little sick to the stomach. She knew all humans were nuts and some were a little twisted, like the guy who'd tied her to that tree back in the day. But this was beyond sick. This was some evil Game of Thrones stuff right there. After a while, she had to look away, her stomach lurching. And since she was Hampton Cove’s resident Feral Feline, that was saying something.
When Damien woke up it was as much from the rays of sun caressing his tan face as from the strong sense of nausea that assaulted him. It reminded him of that time he’d had plastic surgery, creating a cleft in his chin he’d hoped would add to his general look of cool dudiness. He’d woken up feeling just as nauseous from the anesthesia as he was feeling now. And then there was that smell. A pungent odor filling his nostrils and making him gag.
He groaned and rubbed his face. Did he have too much to drink last night? Nope. He and Shana had sat on the porch while her sisters cavorted in the pool. He hadn’t felt like jumping in and neither had Shana. They’d had a huge fight, and neither had felt like having a romp in the pool or the Jacuzzi.
He cast a quick glance at his wife and saw she was fast asleep, judging from the bump under the sheets. Oh, Christ, he just hoped she wouldn’t start screaming again. He hated when she did that. There was no real argument possible when she screamed her head off. The sense of annoyance suddenly returned when he thought about the predicament she’d p
laced them both in.
With a sigh, he swung his feet to the hardwood floor, fisting his toes.
Wow. He had to hold onto his head when a sense of vertigo assaulted him. It was as if the entire room was spinning out of control. He had no idea what was going on, but judging from that horrible taste in his mouth and that terrible smell, things definitely were not A-okay.
He stalked off to the en-suite bathroom and stuck his head under the tap, allowing the water to run over his close-cropped hair and into the marble sink. The cold water did him a world of good, and he almost felt human again. He toweled off his head and checked his face in the mirror. His skin was blotchy, eyes bloodshot. Nothing some makeup couldn’t fix. Good thing the camera crew wasn’t filming. He so didn’t want to go on TV looking like this. People would think he’d had too much nose candy last night. Which he hadn’t. With a marriage on the rocks he had no appetite for the stuff. If he got divorced, all of this would go away. No more Mr. Big Shot Fancy Pants.
He walked back into the room and was surprised Shana wasn’t up yet. All his stomping around and putting his head under the tap should have roused her by now. He took a deep breath and decided to get this over with. The mornings after a big fight were always the worst. He didn’t know what to say and neither did she. Better to address the elephant in the room right away.
He sat down on the bed and gently shook her shoulder. “Shana, we need to talk,” he said. When she didn’t stir, he gave her a slight nudge. “Shana? Come on, honey. Things can’t go on like this. I need some answers. Stat.”
With a frown he noticed a spot of crimson on her pillow and he started. What the hell… He slowly slid down the sheet to take a closer look. And as he did, his eyes went wide and all the blood drained from his face. He would have screamed but no sound came. Later he didn’t even remember staggering from the bed, falling to the floor and scrambling back, crab-style, to the door.
Like bile, a scream finally rose from his throat, coinciding with a scream that sounded from inside the house. He was up and racing down the corridor, and as he came hurtling into the dining room he saw Shayonne screaming her head off. When he turned to see what had set her off, he joined her in a long, protracted wail. Right there, in the middle of the table, was Shana’s head, her eyes closed as if she were sleeping, her mouth open and biting down on a Jonagold, like a frickin’ pig roast. A note was taped to her forehead, typed in Arabic script. And then he fainted and went down like a ton of bricks.
Chapter 1
Dooley, Harriet and I were seated next to the bed, staring up at our human, who was still fast asleep, even snoring a little. When Odelia Poole had taken me in, I’d vowed a sacred oath never to let her be late for work. And even though keeping my promise was a lot harder than I’d anticipated, on account of the fact that Odelia slept like the dead, I wasn’t giving up.
I’d snuggled up to her, digging my claws into her arm while purring in her hair. I’d mewled, meowed and mewed up a storm. I’d even scratched the closet door, pounding it in a steady rhythm, and all I had to show for my efforts was Odelia muttering something unintelligible and turning over.
“She looks cute,” Dooley said.
“Is she drooling?” Harriet asked.
“She always drools when she sleeps,” I said.
“I think it’s cute. She’s almost like us,” said Dooley.
“Not me,” said Harriet. “I don’t drool in my sleep.”
“You snore, though,” said Dooley. “It’s so cute.”
“Snoring isn’t cute, and I don’t snore.”
“You do, too. Soft, little snuffles. Like a cute, little hamster.”
“I’m not a hamster!”
“I didn’t say you were a hamster. I said you sound like one. A cute one.”
We went back to staring at Odelia. Her blond hair was a mess, her pixie face full of sleep marks, and her sheets were twisted and tangled as if she’d fought off Darth Vader in her sleep. And there was definitely drool. A lot of drool. As if she’d tried to scare off the Dark Lord by spitting at his helmet.
“All right,” I said. “It’s almost nine o’clock. She’s going to be late.”
The three of us were seated on the fuzzy pink bedside rug and could have sat there indefinitely, as the rug’s softness felt great beneath my tush. But we had a responsibility. Being a cat isn’t just about catching critters and looking cool doing it. It’s about taking care of our humans while they’re taking care of us. At least that’s the way I see it. I may be an exception to the rule.
My name is Max, by the way, and I’m a blorange tabby. Yes, you read that right. I’m blorange. It’s a color. It really is. A kind of strawberry blond.
“I think this calls for a serenade,” Harriet said, licking her snowy white fur. She’s a Persian, and pretty much the prettiest cat for miles around. She belongs to Odelia’s mother, who lives next door, but she’s in here all the time.
“A serenade?” asked Dooley. “What do you mean, a serenade?”
Dooley is a beige ragamuffin. You know, the kind that looks like a big, furry rabbit. Only he looks like a small, furry rabbit. A beige-and-white furry rabbit. Dooley is my best friend and neighbor. He comes with Odelia’s grandma, who also lives next door. Yep. We’re one big, happy family.
“I mean, a genuine serenade, like Romeo sang to Juliet?”
“Who’s Romeo?” Dooley asked suspiciously. Dooley is secretly—or not-so-secretly—in love with Harriet, and jealous of every cat sniffing around.
Harriet rolled her eyes. “Romeo is a fictional character in a Shakespeare play. Don’t you know anything, Dooley?”
Dooley raised his chin. “I know plenty. I know that Shakespeare is some dude who’s in love, that’s what I know. In love with Gwyneth Paltrow.”
“That’s not the real Shakespeare,” Harriet huffed. “That’s just a movie.”
“Well, I don’t see the point. There was no singing in the movie at all.”
“I think Harriet is right,” I said, deciding this was not the time for bickering. “We need to serenade Odelia. She loves our singing so much she’ll wake up the moment she hears our sweet voices. Just like a radio clock.”
“What’s a radio clock?” asked Dooley.
“Oh, go away, Dooley,” said Harriet. “Why don’t we try the song we practiced last night? I’m sure she’ll love it. She’ll wake up gently and in a wonderful mood, completely refreshed. Like you said, just like a radio clock, but without those annoying radio jockeys jabbering about the weather.”
“You mean Sorry?” I asked. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not? It was a big hit for Justin. I’m sure Odelia will love it.”
“Who’s Justin?”
“Oh, Dooley,” Harriet sighed.
I stared at her. “Do you really think that song is appropriate?”
She laughed. “Appropriate? When is a love song not appropriate?”
“When is it?” asked Dooley, who had disliked the song as much as I had.
The thing is, Dooley and I had started cat choir a little while back, and had picked out a repertoire of cat-themed songs. You know, like What’s New Pussycat. But when Harriet joined us she decided to glam up our repertoire, whatever that means. And then her boyfriend Brutus came along and took over conductor duties from Shanille, Father Reilly’s tabby.
Things went downhill from there. Harriet started to dictate song choice, relying heavily on her mood. Last night she and Brutus had had a fight, and the big lug had us practicing Justin Bieber’s Sorry all night. Oh, the horror.
We’d still managed, though, much to the chagrin of the neighbors, who hadn’t liked our version as much as Harriet had. She’d been moved to tears when Brutus performed his solo and had responded by giving a rousing rendition of Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On. It was all very disturbing.
“Oh, all right,” I finally said. “Let’s give it a try.”
“Let’s give what a try?” another v
oice now piped up behind us. I didn’t even have to turn to know who the voice belonged to. Brutus happens to be my personal nemesis. The big black cat belongs to Chase Kingsley, who’s the newest addition to the Hampton Cove police department, and has been making my life miserable ever since he arrived in town. He likes to think that just because his human is a cop he can lay down the law. And to add insult to injury, he’s managed to snag Harriet’s heart and dash all of Dooley’s hopes.
“Oh, Brutus, sweetie,” Harriet cooed. “We were about to try out that wonderful new song you taught us last night.”
“That’s a great idea, honey bunch,” he said in that gruff voice of his.
He punched me on the shoulder, slapped Dooley on the back, and we both toppled over. “Let’s do this, fellas,” he growled, and cleared his throat.
Brutus is just about the worst choice when it comes to conducting a choir. The cat doesn’t have a single musical bone in his big-boned body. But that doesn’t stop him from belting his heart out every time he opens his mouth.
I shook my head. At least when Brutus decided to tackle Justin Bieber, Odelia would finally wake up. Judging from the dozens of angry neighbors last night, and the half dozen shoes thrown at our heads, it was hard to sleep through the racket. Then again, waking up Odelia was what we were here for. She’d told me yesterday the Hampton Cove Gazette is going through a rough patch. Circulation is down, so she needs to buckle down and find a killer story. And the first rule to finding a killer story is getting out of bed.
“One, two, three,” Brutus grunted. He’d taken position in front of us, his back to Odelia, like a genuine conductor. He was even swinging his paw just so, claws extended in case we hit a wrong note. Brutus believes in tough love.
“Is it too late now to say sorry?” Brutus bellowed at the top of his lungs. He was eyeing Harriet intently, who was giggling more than she was singing.
“Cause I’m missing more than just your body,” she responded coyly.
