Purrfect Obsession Page 5

  “Okay. For now I’ll tell Uncle Alec to look for a man dressed in a yellow parka, wearing a Knicks cap and sunglasses.”

  Which could be anyone. And the killer would have removed the outfit the moment he left the scene. It still boggled the mind anyone would be so brazen to attack a woman in a public place in broad daylight and get away with it.

  “Do I really have to see Vena?” asked Brutus for the umpteenth time.

  “Yes, you do,” she said. “You almost drowned, Brutus. And that water is not clean. Who knows what diseases you picked up. You might have to get shots.”

  “Shots!” he cried, sitting up.

  “Or maybe not. Let’s see what Vena says.”

  “That water was pretty rank,” Dooley agreed.

  “Ducks poop in the water. Just saying,” said Max.

  Brutus gulped. “The things I do for my human,” he muttered.

  She stroked his head. “And your human appreciates it very much. Though next time you might want to be more careful. We don’t want to lose you, buddy. Talking about losing—where is Harriet? I haven’t seen her all day.”

  Another shared look in the rearview mirror. “Um...” Brutus began.

  “She’s home,” Max quickly interjected. “Doesn’t want to miss quality time with Gran.”

  “Quality time with Gran,” Odelia repeated slowly. That was a first. There was something they weren’t telling her. She decided not to press them. Sooner or later they’d come clean.

  She stomped her foot down on the gas, and soon they were hurtling along the road on their way to the vet. She parked right in front of Vena’s office and carried Brutus in, while Max and Dooley entered under their own steam. They might not like it, but Vena was a life saver. Literally. Soon she’d checked out Brutus and declared him fit for duty. Apparently even swallowing a gallon of pond muck hadn’t put a dent in the butch cat. Brutus clearly was a force to be reckoned with. And then they were cruising for the homestead. It had been a long day and Odelia couldn’t wait to be home and put the day’s events behind her.

  But first she had an article to write. Or, rather, two: one about Dany, and one about Chase’s brave rescue mission. It was Dany Cooper she couldn’t stop thinking about, though.

  And she knew she wouldn’t rest until she’d nailed the bastard who killed her.

  Chapter 12

  Gran was watching one of her daytime soaps. Duane Packer, General Hospital’s head of gynecology, had just been unmasked as a fraud and a cheat. He’d never even graduated from high school, his medical knowledge gleaned from textbooks he’d gotten at a garage sale. Not only was he a fraud, he’d also been wearing a toupee for the past ten years. One of the nurses had snatched his toupee, revealing his shiny bald dome. Gran didn’t know what was worse: the knowledge that General Hospital’s most popular gynecologist had been looking up women’s vajajays for the past decade without a license, or the fact that he had no hair. At any rate, she was glued to the television as Dr. Packer was arrested by Port Charles’s Chief of Police Jeb Strong and was being outfitted with a nice pair of shiny cuffs, paraded through the hospital in a long scene, for everyone to see what a cheat he was.

  “Look at that bald pate,” muttered Gran. “Look at the way it reflects the light. My God, what kind of a monster do you have to be to pretend to have a full head of hair while you’re as bald as Kojak.”

  Next to her, Harriet made a dismissive noise.

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re too young to remember Kojak. Let me tell you, Telly Savalas was a fine specimen. He was bald but he was gorgeous. His baldness made him even sexier. Not like this asswipe Duane Packer,” she added, gesturing at the screen.

  “Men are scum,” Harriet intoned listlessly.

  “You’re damn right about that,” said Gran. She studied her feline couchmate for a moment. “Trouble in paradise, toots?”

  Harriet shrugged. “I caught Brutus sniffing another cat’s butt. He claims it wasn’t what it looked like.”

  Gran roared with laughter. “A classic! How many times have I heard that before!”

  In actual fact she hadn’t heard it all that often. Her husband had said it, obviously, when she’d caught him with his pants down boning her best friend Scarlett Canyon. Jack had been bald, too, which might be where her intense dislike for bald men stemmed from. She wasn’t going to delve too deeply into the matter. She was, after all, not a frickin’ shrink.

  “I mean, it wasn’t as if they were actually canoodling or anything.”

  Gran winced. She preferred to keep the mental picture of her cats strictly PC. Her own motto was that if it wasn’t something Disney would approve of, she didn’t want to know about it. Just imagine Bambi canoodling with Bambo. Or the Lion King with the Lion Queen. Stuff like that was enough to spoil the one thing in her life that remained unspoiled.

  “So where is Brutus now?” she asked, without taking her eye from the screen, where Dr. Packer was still being paraded through the hospital, at a snail’s pace, subjected to the scorn of the entire staff and a full wing of patients who, for some reason or other, suddenly had gained the capacity to raise themselves from their sickbeds for this special event.

  “I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Harriet, intently scrutinizing a nail.

  Gran knew better than to persuade Harriet to give Brutus a second chance. She knew for a fact that Brutus and Harriet were mates for life—just like Odelia and Chase. And her own daughter and that moron Tex. Even though she liked to project an image of grating irascibility, Vesta Muffin was a lot more sentimental than she liked to admit. A good love story never failed to bring a tear to her eye. And the love story of Harriet and Brutus was near and dear to her. “So who’s the bimbo?” she asked instead.

  “Darlene. I’ve seen her around. She’s in cat choir, of course.”

  “Of course.” Cat choir was the hub of Hampton Cove’s cat population’s social life. Not much singing went on, as far as Gran could ascertain, but a lot of schmoozing and yapping did, much to the neighbors’ discontent. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  Harriet shrugged. “What can I do? I’d like to bury my claws in his face. Rearrange his features. But then what? It will give me a fleeting moment of satisfaction but his wounds will heal. If there’s a god they will turn into vicious, nasty scars, and the world will move on. Brutus will live happily ever after with his redhead bimbo, always providing she doesn’t dump him on account of his new facial arrangements, and I’ll be left to wonder why.”

  Christ, Gran thought. Her cats’ lives were even more complicated than General Hospital. “Forget about Brutus,” she said. “There’s plenty of good cats for a babe like you.”

  Her words didn’t seem to buck Harriet up. On the contrary. They seemed to darken the cloud that had appeared over her head. “I could always cut his throat when he’s sleeping,” she said, pondering ways and means as she spoke. “Or I could gut him. Make him drown in his own blood. And then when he’s screaming and choking, he’ll look into my eyes and know it’s me who did that to him. Or I could cut off his—”

  “Okay,” said Gran, getting up from the couch. “I think you’ve been watching too much HBO, missy. Didn’t I tell you never to watch HBO? Those shows will give you ideas.”

  “I only watch what you watch,” said Harriet, resting her chin on her paws and staring melancholically at Dr. Packer, who’d finally reached the hospital vestibule and was now locked in a staring contest with the receptionist, a voluptuous blonde named Mandy.

  Mandy and Dr. Packer had shared many intimate moments in the doctor’s office, and as the camera zoomed in on a discarded pregnancy test in the reception wastepaper basket, Gran gasped. “She’s pregnant! Mandy is going to have Dr. Packer’s baby!”

  “Darlene probably wants Brutus’s babies,” Harriet commented with a sigh. “Too bad he’s been snipped. Maybe I should tell her. Maybe I should tell all of cat choir that Brutus is that way. At least they’ll know what they’re getting.�
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  “Oh, honey, forget about Brutus,” said Gran. “It’s his loss and your gain if he’s too busy chasing skirts to see that he’s missing out on the best thing that ever happened to him.”

  Harriet gave her a sad smile. “Gee, thanks, Gran. Maybe you should tell that to Brutus. He doesn’t seem to have gotten that particular memo.”

  Just then, the door swung open and a small procession entered: Odelia was the first, followed by Marge, and then three cats: Max, Dooley and... Brutus.

  Instantly, Harriet’s back went up and so did her tail, which was distended to a degree Gran had never seen before. She was also making hissing sounds at the back of her throat.

  “Harriet!” said Marge. “What’s gotten into you all of a sudden!”

  “Get that cat out of here,” said Harriet in clipped tones. “Before I do something stupid.”

  “Harriet, sweetums!” Brutus cried. “Nothing happened!”

  “Get. That. Cat. Out. Of. Here!”

  “Tootsie roll, please!”

  Harriet suddenly streaked towards Brutus, who produced a loud squeak and then streaked off, his tail between his legs, Harriet screaming, “And don’t come back!”

  Chapter 13

  Brutus was wandering the streets of Hampton Cove, feeling lost and alone. More than the fact of being chased from his own home by his former girlfriend, it was the knowledge that he had only himself to blame for his predicament that stung. If only he hadn’t been so stupid to try his fatal charms on Darlene. But the temptation had been too sweet to resist. She’d immediately invited him into the bushes for some nookie. Not that he would ever have allowed things to go that far. In fact, just when Harriet had descended on the scene with Max and Dooley, he’d already been forming the words in his mind: I’m sorry, Darlene. But there’s only one cat for me and that’s Harriet, so this is where I leave you. The words simply hadn’t rolled from his tongue yet, and then he’d been distracted by a flash that had momentarily blinded him, and then Harriet had appeared.

  Still, if he hadn’t gone into those bushes with Darlene, he wouldn’t have been blinded by a flash, and it wouldn’t have looked as if he was sniffing Darlene’s butt.

  He knew exactly how it looked and it was bad. Now Harriet would never forgive him, and he’d never be allowed to go home again and he’d be forced to roam these streets forever...

  He’d arrived in one of those small alleys Hampton Cove was rife with, and gave the dumpster that was positioned near a store’s back entrance a dubious glance. Would he really have to eat from these dumpsters from now on? No more bowls filled to the rim for him? No more cozy couch to curl up on, or warm body to cuddle?

  He heaved a deep sigh and felt sorrier for himself than he’d felt in a long time.

  “What are you doing here?” asked a voice that cut like a knife.

  He recognized that singular voice. And when a familiar head popped out of the dumpster moments later, he actually felt happy. “Hey, Clarice,” he said. “How are you?”

  “Oh, it’s you,” said Clarice, and disappeared into the dumpster again, only to pop out once more seconds later. “You don’t look so hot, Brutus. Are you sick and dying?”

  “Well, I did almost die this afternoon,” he admitted. “But Chase saved me. And then I was chased out of my own home by my own girlfriend, so I have seen better days.”

  Clarice hesitated, then finally said, “You look hungry. I’ll share my food with you.”

  “Gee, thanks,” he said, perking up. After that visit to Vena, he’d been looking forward to having a nice bite to eat. Harriet had put a stop to that. “What are you having?”

  Clarice jumped out of the dumpster and gracefully landed on all fours. She was a feral cat, and looked as mangy and flea-ridden as any cat that lived on the street. She was also tough as nails, though, and she was Brutus’s friend. “It’s over there,” she said, looking left and right as she led the way. “Best and most juicy piece of meat I’ve found in ages.”

  “Yummy,” said Brutus, his stomach already grumbling. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was before Clarice’s kind and generous offer.

  “I was just looking through that dumpster for some seasoning,” she explained. “Even free cats like me like a bit of seasoning to spice up their meals, you understand.”

  “Oh, I do understand,” he said. “It’s all in the seasoning.”

  With a flourish, she removed a piece of newspaper. “Ta-dah.”

  Before them lay a sad-looking rat, still intact, head, tail and all. Brutus retched.

  Clarice licked her lips. “Seeing as you’re going to need this more than me right now, I’m going to let you have the first bite. I don’t do this for just anyone, so choose carefully.” She then leaned in and whispered, “Go for the hindquarters. They’re particularly succulent.” Brutus retched again, audibly this time, and Clarice studied him with a slight grin. “I should have known. You city slickers don’t know a good thing when you see it.”

  “I’m much obliged, Clarice,” said Brutus, his stomach having gone from anticipatory rumbling to violent retching, “but I’m going to have to pass. I’m not as hungry as I thought I was.” He backtracked towards the mouth of the alley.

  “City slickers,” Clarice grumbled, shaking her head. She then dug in, or at least Brutus thought she did. He couldn’t watch, turning away at the last moment. The munching and tearing sounds were bad enough.

  He practically ran from the alley and into the road. And he would have been crushed by an oncoming vehicle if a bystander hadn’t had the presence of mind to snap him up at the last second and save him from being squashed like a bug.

  The car’s driver didn’t even slow down, clearly heedless of the tragedy he or she had almost caused. Brutus caught a glimpse of a yellow parka as the car took the next turn, and then it was gone.

  “You should watch where you go, buddy,” said the Good Samaritan who’d saved his life. Then: “Brutus? Is that you?”

  Only now did Brutus realize that it was none other than Odelia’s dad Tex.

  “What are you doing out here?” Tex asked, tucking Brutus into the crook of his arm, gently stroking his fur.

  “I was lost but now I’m found,” said Brutus, who was starting to think that the men in Odelia’s family had a curious habit of saving his life today.

  “I better take you home with me,” said Tex. “Did you get that guy’s license plate? I could have sworn he was aiming for you, buddy. Probably one of those maniacs. Some people just hate cats. Don’t know why but they just do.”

  And while Tex prattled on, Brutus suddenly remembered what the ducks had said: the man in the yellow parka. The man who killed Dany Cooper!

  And now had almost killed him...

  Chapter 14

  I was lying on my favorite spot on the couch while Odelia was getting ready upstairs. She was going out again, presumably to do a bit of sleuthing, in spite of her uncle’s instructions that she shouldn’t. Dooley was on the floor, licking his tail, and Harriet, who’d opted to spend the night at Odelia’s and not next door, was moping on the windowsill, catching those last few rays of the day before the sun called it a night and went to bed.

  We had yet to mention ‘the incident’ and though I was keen to do so, I’d refrained from broaching the subject until Harriet was good and ready. I’m not much of a psychologist but even I know that women, and definitely female felines, can’t stay quiet for long, especially when it concerns such a life-altering drama as the breakup of a relationship.

  Harriet had already been darting anxious glances in my and Dooley’s direction but I’d ignored them all, pretending to doze off. The television was on, switched to Nickelodeon, where an episode of PAW Patrol, of all things, was playing. Normally I hate PAW Patrol. I mean, who wants to watch a kids show about talking dogs? But today I didn’t mind one bit. Even though I’m not fond of dogs, I know for a fact that these dogs are all fictitious. Why else would they be so nice? Real dogs are never nice. They’re
all smelly, nasty and possessed by a distinct anti-cat bias. In other words, not my kind of pets.

  Dooley, taking a break from licking his tail, now looked up at me. “Max?”

  “Mh?” I said, still pretending to be dozing. I didn’t have to work hard at it. I was, in fact, pretty beat, after the emotions of the day, and could have used a long nap.

  “Why is it that dogs are always depicted as assisting the police in their investigations but cats never are? While it’s obvious that we’re better equipped to be police pets than dogs?”

  “Beats me, buddy. I guess the dog lobby holds more sway in Hollywood than the cat lobby.”

  This seemed to surprise Dooley, judging from the way his eyes went wide. “The dog lobby,” he said reverently.

  “Yeah, dogs have powerful representation in Hollywood. Has to be. Why else do they get so many shows and movies made? While cats get few opportunities to shine, if any.”

  “You know what, Max? I think you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right.”

  “Look at all those dog shows. Lassie, Benji, PAW Patrol. And hardly any shows about cats being man’s best friend. Even Richard Gere had a dog movie. Hitachi.”

  “I think it was Hachi.”

  “Obviously dogs have infiltrated Hollywood, and pushed cats out of the picture.”

  “Even Disney is guilty in that department,” I said, darting a quick glance at Harriet. She was still moping, but I could tell she was dying to have a little chat about the topic that was near to her heart—and it wasn’t the underrepresentation of cats in the entertainment industry. “Name me a cat movie Disney made that depicts cats in a favorable light. I doubt you’ll find one.”