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Book: Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 14 - Murder in a Casbah of Cats by Kent Conwell
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Authors: Kent Conwell
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thirsty grass a much-needed drink.
Down below, Frank Creek waved. “Hot today,” he shouted.
“Too hot.”
He gestured to the rows of spray. With a hint of irony in his voice, he said, “Soak it good, and it’ll rain. Never fails.”
He disappeared around the corner into the pool area. I considered taking a dip, but decided instead to look in on the cats. Even though Skylar had made it clear I was to do nothing except be there, I felt some overt action on my part regarding the cats was, well, if nothing else considering the pay, appropriate.
By now, some of the cats had grown comfortable with me, especially the little Siamese, Princess. When I appeared in the door, she leaped lightly from the cat stairs on the wall and rubbed up against my ankle. I squatted and scratched behind her ears. She purred.
I scanned the room. No Hercules. When I rose to leave, Princess wound around one ankle, and then like all cats in an effort to confuse and frustrate humans, padded right between my feet as I walked from the room.
On the second floor, I spotted Hercules sitting on a banister rail grooming himself. I stopped a few feet from him. “So there you are.” I noticed his coat where he had not groomed was wet.
Normally, I would have touched a finger to any other cat’s coat, but I’d learned my lesson with Hercules. He had an itchy trigger finger and a deadly aim.
Gadrate came up behind me. “Won’t do you no good. Nobody makes friends with that one.”
I glanced around. “I just noticed his coat was wet.”
She snorted. “That one, he get hisself wet sometime. Me and Henry, we never figure out how except from the water bowls. That’s the only way that one, he can get wet.”
Water bowls? The image of a mackerel-colored cat dashing across the yard full of sprinklers was burned in my mind. “Probably,” I muttered. “Probably.”
Studying her back as she descended the steps, I wondered if she were the one responsible for the rock and the spiders. What would she have to gain?
I shrugged. Nothing as far as I knew. I turned back to Hercules, remembering him locked in the library. A jumble of unrelated thoughts tumbled through my head. After a few moments, the thoughts coalesced in my thick skull. Watkins was killed in the library. There were no exits except the doors and windows, all of which were locked. Double doors opened to the foyer. Double doors also joined the library and the spacious den where the Christmas party was being hosted.
Earlier that day, I had seen a cat like Hercules racing across the grounds, which this afternoon the gardener was watering. Hercules was wet. Was it from the water bowls, or had he discovered the secret exit in the library, if there were indeed one?
On impulse, I hurried up to the cats’ rooms. The floor around the water bowls was dry.
Downstairs, I inspected the library, studying each wall carefully before knocking on it, pushing and pulling every protuberance, and stomping on the floor in front of each wall.
Every window, I tried to slide up and down. I checked the heavy swinging latch at the top of each window, satisfied there was no way it could be locked or unlocked from outside. I even went so far as to look under the mounted game heads on the walls, having no idea what I expected to find.
I surveyed the fireplace, noting the large cast-iron fireback at the rear of the firebox carried the image of the mansion in relief, identical to the image on the fence columns surrounding the estate. I squatted at the hearth and studied the fireback, then the gas logs and decorative andirons.
Before I left, I picked up the poker and scrutinized it, then the tool stand. Two curved fingers of steel, the tips of which arced upward, formed the cradle holding the poker. I placed the tool back in its cradle and shook it. I couldn’t see how it could slip out. Yet, earlier today, I’d heard it fall and found it on its side.
Like Karla said earlier, “crazy.”
Back in my room, I
Down below, Frank Creek waved. “Hot today,” he shouted.
“Too hot.”
He gestured to the rows of spray. With a hint of irony in his voice, he said, “Soak it good, and it’ll rain. Never fails.”
He disappeared around the corner into the pool area. I considered taking a dip, but decided instead to look in on the cats. Even though Skylar had made it clear I was to do nothing except be there, I felt some overt action on my part regarding the cats was, well, if nothing else considering the pay, appropriate.
By now, some of the cats had grown comfortable with me, especially the little Siamese, Princess. When I appeared in the door, she leaped lightly from the cat stairs on the wall and rubbed up against my ankle. I squatted and scratched behind her ears. She purred.
I scanned the room. No Hercules. When I rose to leave, Princess wound around one ankle, and then like all cats in an effort to confuse and frustrate humans, padded right between my feet as I walked from the room.
On the second floor, I spotted Hercules sitting on a banister rail grooming himself. I stopped a few feet from him. “So there you are.” I noticed his coat where he had not groomed was wet.
Normally, I would have touched a finger to any other cat’s coat, but I’d learned my lesson with Hercules. He had an itchy trigger finger and a deadly aim.
Gadrate came up behind me. “Won’t do you no good. Nobody makes friends with that one.”
I glanced around. “I just noticed his coat was wet.”
She snorted. “That one, he get hisself wet sometime. Me and Henry, we never figure out how except from the water bowls. That’s the only way that one, he can get wet.”
Water bowls? The image of a mackerel-colored cat dashing across the yard full of sprinklers was burned in my mind. “Probably,” I muttered. “Probably.”
Studying her back as she descended the steps, I wondered if she were the one responsible for the rock and the spiders. What would she have to gain?
I shrugged. Nothing as far as I knew. I turned back to Hercules, remembering him locked in the library. A jumble of unrelated thoughts tumbled through my head. After a few moments, the thoughts coalesced in my thick skull. Watkins was killed in the library. There were no exits except the doors and windows, all of which were locked. Double doors opened to the foyer. Double doors also joined the library and the spacious den where the Christmas party was being hosted.
Earlier that day, I had seen a cat like Hercules racing across the grounds, which this afternoon the gardener was watering. Hercules was wet. Was it from the water bowls, or had he discovered the secret exit in the library, if there were indeed one?
On impulse, I hurried up to the cats’ rooms. The floor around the water bowls was dry.
Downstairs, I inspected the library, studying each wall carefully before knocking on it, pushing and pulling every protuberance, and stomping on the floor in front of each wall.
Every window, I tried to slide up and down. I checked the heavy swinging latch at the top of each window, satisfied there was no way it could be locked or unlocked from outside. I even went so far as to look under the mounted game heads on the walls, having no idea what I expected to find.
I surveyed the fireplace, noting the large cast-iron fireback at the rear of the firebox carried the image of the mansion in relief, identical to the image on the fence columns surrounding the estate. I squatted at the hearth and studied the fireback, then the gas logs and decorative andirons.
Before I left, I picked up the poker and scrutinized it, then the tool stand. Two curved fingers of steel, the tips of which arced upward, formed the cradle holding the poker. I placed the tool back in its cradle and shook it. I couldn’t see how it could slip out. Yet, earlier today, I’d heard it fall and found it on its side.
Like Karla said earlier, “crazy.”
Back in my room, I
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