Curiosity Thrilled the Cat by Sofie Kelly Page B

sounds in his throat and moved back in front of the TV.
    Maggie shifted position on the couch. “Kath,” she said, “Gregor Easton wasn’t a young man. He probably had a heart attack. There’s no way anyone would seriously believe you had anything to do with his death. And as for the blood at the library—assuming it is blood and not paint—it’s more likely one of the workmen cut himself.” She gestured at Owen, sprawled on his side now in front of the television, intently watching a talking dog sell baked beans. “And no one is going to believe you set your attack cat on Easton or that you two were . . .” She paused, looking for the right word. “. . . Getting funky with each other. C’mon!”
    I thought about the gash on the side of Easton’s head. Of course, just because he’d hit his head didn’t mean that was what had killed him. He still could have had a heart attack. I leaned into the sofa cushions and stretched out my legs onto the footstool. “Why are you always so sensible and logical?” I asked.
    “You forgot my winning personality and stunning good looks,” Maggie said with a grin. The grin faded to a smile. “Seriously, Kath, this will be over in another day or two. Don’t worry about it.”
    The opening music for Gotta Dance began and Maggie turned to the TV. In the recap of the previous episodes there was a shot of rocker Pat Benatar with a gash on one side of her forehead from a fall when a lift went wrong. I pictured the wound I’d seen on the side of Gregor Easton’s head. There had been no blood around the injury or in his hair. Had someone cleaned it? And what had Detective Gordon picked up off the library floor as he’d moved me out of the way? And why had a police car driven by my house at least three times in the last few hours? It was hard to concentrate on the TV.
    I wanted to believe Maggie was right. I wanted to believe that this would all be over in a day or two. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that things were just getting started.

5
    White Crane Spreads Wings
    H ercules woke me up. Unlike Owen, who just lurked and breathed on me, Herc preferred a more direct approach. He’d stand on his back legs by the side of the bed and swat my face with a paw, no claws. If that didn’t work he’d lean over and meow loudly in my ear. He’d never needed to do anything beyond that.
    I got up, made coffee and fed Hercules. There was no sign of Owen. I took my coffee cup and stood by the front door, looking down the hill.
    The sun, climbing in the sky, sparkled on the river. It was so quiet, so peaceful. It was another one of the things—to my surprise—that I’d discovered I liked about being in Mayville Heights. Hercules came to sit at my feet and started washing his face. A glass and a half of Ruby’s wine—which was a lot more potent than its light, sweet taste suggested—had had me yawning by the time Gotta Dance ended. Matt Lauer and his partner were still, inexplicably, in first place, but the talented Kevin Sorbo and his partner were safe in second.
    “Would it be wrong to get a couple hundred different e-mail addresses so I could vote more than once?” I asked Hercules. He meowed loudly once, and went back to washing behind an ear without even looking up.
    A glass and a half of wine had also made Maggie’s belief that Detective Gordon’s suggestion that I’d been involved with Gregor Easton was just a routine question seem perfectly logical. It didn’t seem so logical now.
    Owen yowled from the kitchen. “Your brother’s up,” I said to Hercules, who continued to wash his face.
    In the kitchen I found the tabby sitting by his dish. The fur on the top of his head was standing on end, and there were a couple of dust bunnies stuck to his tail. I filled his dish and gave him fresh water. After yesterday it was pretty clear Owen had parts of more than one Fred the Funky Chicken hidden somewhere. Which made sense. The cat knew every inch of the little farmhouse.