Probable Claws: A Theda Krakow Mystery (Theda Krakow Series, 4) - Softcover

Simon, Clea

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1590588657 ISBN 13: 9781590588659

Verlag: Poisoned Pen Press, 2012

Inhaltsangabe

When cats start getting sick, feline-loving freelance writer Theda Krakow suspects an accident is to blame. But her shelter-owning rocker buddy Violet claims the contaminated kibble was poisoned.
When Theda starts looking at shelter politics, she finds a litter of suspects. The city shelter may be backing down from a healthy pet initiative, and a series of threatening letters suggests a darker motive. Old-fashioned jealousy may factor in as well. The pressure mounts as Theda's editor grabs onto the idea of a hot story―and dangles a prime job as bait. But how can Theda investigate when feelings, and felines, run so high?
As the music scene rallies to raise funds to save the cats, Theda finds herself on the outs with both her friends and her long-time boyfriend Bill. And when she's caught at a murder scene, bloody scalpel in hand and only her beloved cat Musetta as a witness to what really happened, Theda must scramble to find the real killer before she and Musetta become the next victims.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Clea Simon is the author of the Pru Marlowe, Dulcie Schwartz, and Theda Krakow mystery series, as well as three nonfiction books. A former journalist, she lives in Somerville, Massachusetts, with her husband Jon and their cat Musetta.

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Probable Claws

By Clea Simon

Poisoned Pen Press

Copyright © 2009 Clea Simon
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-59058-865-9

CHAPTER 1

Two days earlier

"Tuna breath!" I recoiled in disgust.

"Excuse me?" The voice on the phone was too refined to sound insulted. Still, I owed Patti an explanation.

"Sorry, Patti." I sat up and pulled my plump cat into my lap — and away from my face. "Musetta was giving me a morn- ing kiss."

"Oh, isn't that sweet!" It was, but my cat's bad breath woke me up more effectively than my neighbor's early morning call. "But anyway, Theda, I wanted to ask you about the whole cat food thing. I mean, Violet left me a message, and I've got some lovely chicken livers left over from my dinner date last night. I should tell you about him; he's a most interesting man. But anyway, we did a sauté with some sherry, and I just don't know. I mean, they say the alcohol burns off, but —"

"Hang on a minute." Who had been sautéed? I shook my head to clear it, sending Musetta, my black and white tuxedo cat, bounding to the floor. It was Tuesday, almost nine, but the regular work week meant little in my line of business. I'm a writer, a music critic who specializes in the club scene of this gritty little city, and I'd been out late the night before. A new British band, on its first US tour, had played the first of two gigs in the area. I'd interviewed them for the weekly column I write for Boston's Morning Mail, and although it wasn't necessarily part of the job, I had stayed up with them long after their midnight set, sharing beers and industry gossip. What's a job without perks?

"Patti, I don't mean to be rude." At this hour, with this head, that was the best I could do. "But what are you talking about?"

"Didn't you hear? I thought Violet would call you first." I looked over to my answering machine and saw that it was, in fact, blinking. "There's something wrong with some of the commercial cat food again. Violet's cats have been poisoned."

"What?" That news sent me bolt upright, and Musetta 's fluffy hindquarters cantering out of the room, but I focused my rapidly clearing mind on Patti. "Tell me what happened."

"I don't know the details, darling. I just got the call. But I was wondering if you think that livers, cooked with just a little —"

I couldn't listen any more. "Look, Patti, I'll call you back. I've got to talk to Vi."

"I understand, Theda. But if you can, ask her about —" I hung up and began dialing the shelter where Violet and her partner Caro cohabited with two dozen formerly healthy, happy felines. As the phone rang, I pressed the "play" button on the answering machine.

"Theda, it's Vi. Can you give me a call?" I half listened to the machine while waiting for my friend to pick up. "Something's up. I think I've got some bad cat food." The phone in my hand kept ringing. "Or just come by? And don't feed Musetta before —" I dropped the phone and ran into the kitchen. Musetta was already bending over her dish, lapping at last night's can. She looked up as I grabbed it away. The wet food had gone dry and crusty overnight, the half a can that was left.

"Musetta?" She sat and began washing her paws. "Are you okay?" She didn't respond and I hoisted her into my arms. God, she was getting heavy. "Kitty?" I turned her to look in her face. The round green eyes staring back into mine were clear and bright. Her nose, half pink, half black, was damp and cool. In response to my touch, her tongue darted out and I got another whiff of her breath. "Oh, kitty." She blinked. But halitosis aside, my cat seemed the picture of health. I put her down and refilled her water dish before running back to the phone. The line was dead; nobody had picked up.

Musetta pounced, grabbing my ankle, but there was no time for play. Violet was family, more than any remaining blood relatives. Pulling on sweats and galoshes, I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. It was April in New England. I wouldn't look any odder than most of my neighbors here in Cambridge, and I was making tracks to help a friend in need.

* * *

"Yo! Violet? Caro?" I'd driven over to Vi's, but by the time I tromped around the back of the sprawling green and gold Victorian known as Helmhold House, officially the Helmhold Home for Wayward Cats, the mud had managed to seep up to the ankles of my new yellow boots. Which were leaking already. "Hello?" At least it wasn't snow. But the lack of response was worrying me more than the creeping damp. "Vi?"

I hopped in the mud, trying to balance on my warmer foot while peeking through the back door. Nothing, despite my repeated knocking. If I reached up, I could just grab the top of the door frame and — yes — see into the enclosed porch. But before I could examine the living room beyond, I fell back, barely righting myself before I landed in the muddy yard.

Catching my breath, I looked around one more time. Patti lived beyond the hedge, her neat-as-a-pin split level a strange contrast to the colorful shelter. Would Violet have given her realtor neighbor a key? My punk rocker friend was as different from her prim neighbor as their properties, but I needed a way in. Unless ... yes, there was one large rock back here. If I could roll it over, I bet I could at least get a clear view into the house. I caught myself trying to dry my wet hands on my jacket before reaching for the muddy rock and shook my head. What was I thinking? Life before coffee wasn't sensible. But as I grabbed the stone and rolled it, I remembered. This was Violet's not- too-subtle hiding place. Sure enough, taped underneath the miniature boulder was her back door key.

"Hello?" I called softly as I let myself in. No sense giving anyone a fright. A marmalade short hair came running. Head butting me, he began to purr as I scooped him up and closed the door behind me. "Vi? Caro?"

I kicked off my boots and wiped my wet bare feet on the well-scratched sisal mat before proceeding into the living room. "Anybody home?"

Sprawled out on a sofa was my buddy. Her mouth was open, her purple hair matted, and her face pale, dead to the world.

* * *

"Violet!" I dropped the cat, who skedaddled with an annoyed mew.

"Wuh?" With a snort, my friend awoke and blinked. "Oh, man."

Seeing her put her head in her hands, I had to ask. "Hangover?" After years as a straight-edge no-booze, no-drugs, no-meat purist, Violet enjoyed the occasional beer and burger. Maybe, if there'd been a tragedy ...

"What? No, just no sleep. What time is it?" She squinted toward the sunny porch.

"Just after nine." Crack of dawn to folks like us, and Violet suddenly focused, taking in my odd attire in the morning light.

"And you? Oh, sorry. When I got your machine, I figured you were at Bill's, you'd get it when you got home."

"Not to worry. You didn't wake me. Patti did." I didn't want to get into why I had been at home. My long-term guy and I had been on the outs for weeks now, and I suspected that Violet secretly sided with him. "But she said something about your cats being poisoned? So then, when I heard your message and I couldn't reach you —"

"Oh, sorry." My diminutive friend stood and stretched, all five-foot-one of her. "I wanted to warn you. Didn't mean to cause a panic. Though, I'll tell you, last night things got hairy."

"Tell." The marmalade cat returned and flopped on the floor in front of me, his thick short fur warm against my bare feet. He was obviously healthy, and whatever crisis had occurred seemed to be under control. Breathing easier, I settled...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Poisoned Pen Press
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2012
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1590588657
• ISBN 13: 9781590588659
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 272
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar