Pouncing on Murder (30 page)

“It’s your fault.”

I turned. Trock Farrand was standing there, glowering at me. “What is?”

“This.” He flung his arms out at the people, the books, the fairyland of lights, the general air of cheerfulness and goodwill. “I am charmed, Miss Hamilton, simply charmed by this entire event. I am inclined to write
another book so I can attend next year, and writing a cookbook is a tremendous amount of work, and, therefore, my upcoming busy schedule is completely your fault.”

I didn’t believe a word of it, but I had the perfect response. “It was my boss’s idea.”

“And who did all the work?” Trock asked, raising one bushy eyebrow. “Yes, I thought so. Ideas are cheap, my sweet bookmobile librarian. Turning them into reality is the key. Now. Here is a gift for you.” He handed over a copy of his cookbook.

I blinked at him. “For me?”

“My dear,” he said sorrowfully, “I know you think cooking is for other people, but surely even you could think of a use for this.”

“Oh. Thanks.” It was a big book. Maybe it would work as an industrial-sized paperweight. “But you don’t have to give me a copy. I’m happy to buy one.” Sort of.

“No, no.” He took the book out of my hands and flipped through the pages. “Here,” he said, handing the open book back to me. “Since I’m certain you would never even glance through the outstanding recipes for months, I have to present this to you personally.” He patted me on the head—something I wouldn’t stand from anyone else in the world—and steamed back to his adoring fans.

I looked down at the cookbook and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because right there in front of me was a recipe titled “Eddie’s Salmon Snacks: Treats for Cats of a Discerning Nature.”

•   •   •

“Hey, Eddie!” I poked my head inside the houseboat’s
door. Most days, Eddie was there, waiting for me. Early on in our relationship I’d thought he was waiting for me, anxious about my absence and worried that I’d never return, but I eventually realized he was waiting for me to open the door so he could get outside.

This time, however, he wasn’t at the ready. Sleeping, no doubt.

I came all the way inside and slid my backpack off my shoulder. “Wake up, Eddie. I have something to show you.” Because not only had Trock named his cat treat recipe after Eddie, but he’d also included a photo of said feline and signed the page with his name and “Thanks for the inspiration, Mr. Edward. You are a king among cats.”

While I wasn’t sure I wanted to read the inscription to Eddie, I had to do it at least once, and I might as well get it over with.

“Eddie? Where are you?”

Even on a houseboat smaller than any apartment in which I’d ever lived, it was possible for a cat to find hiding places that took me ages to find.

I checked in the closet.

No Eddie.

Looked in the bathroom cupboards.

No cat.

Stretched high to see the top of the kitchen cabinets.

Nothing but dust.

I even got down on my hands and knees and looked underneath everything there was to look under, but still didn’t find him.

“Well.” I got to my feet and put my hands on my hips.
Where the heck was he? He’d been sleeping when I left that morning, so he couldn’t have slipped outside. Then again . . .

I tried to remember if the door had been locked when I came home. Surely I’d locked it when I left, but the morning had been rushed and anxious and I couldn’t remember, one way or another.

“Eddie? Game’s over, okay? You win. I lose. Let’s get some dinner.”

But there was no pad-pad-pad of Eddie feet coming my way and I was starting to feel a flutter of panic. Maybe I’d left the door unlocked. Maybe I’d left it unlatched. Maybe he’d pushed the door open with his little Eddie nose and slid outside. He wasn’t the most graceful cat in the world; maybe he’d fallen in the water and—

No. I wouldn’t think that. He was here somewhere. Or outside somewhere. Maybe Eric had seen him. Maybe Eric had adopted him and was cooking Salmon Snacks for him. Maybe Eddie would never want to come home and—

My cell phone rang, making the noise it made when a new number was calling.

I scrabbled through my backpack and looked at the phone. Unknown caller with a downstate area code. Odd. “This is Minnie Hamilton.”

“And this is Cole Duvall.”

“Oh.” I blinked, not having any idea what to say to a man I’d told police might be a killer. “Um, hello.”

“I have your cat,” he said in a low voice.

My eyes flew open wide and I turned around, looking
frantically for a trace of the best feline friend anyone could have. “There’s no way. You can’t. There’s—”

“If you want him back, meet me at my cottage in an hour.”

I protested, I shouted, and I yelled, but he was gone.

Chapter 20

“E
ddie!” I tore around the houseboat, looking everywhere I’d already looked. “Eddie?” After all, maybe Duvall was just messing with me. Maybe he really hadn’t taken Eddie, maybe he was just trying to get me out to his cottage and—

The beep of my phone interrupted my anxious thoughts. Since the thing was still in my hand, it was a relatively loud beep and, reflexively, I glanced at the screen. There was an incoming text message and there was a photo attached. I opened the image and immediately sat down. Hard.

It was a picture of Eddie. An Eddie crouched in the far corner of a cardboard box, his mouth frozen open in what I could see was a loud “Mrr!”

“I am so sorry,” I whispered to his picture. Eddie hated being shut up in dark boxes. My early attempts at using a picnic basket for a cat carrier had not ended well. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of there.”

Only . . . how?

Ash had given me his cell number that morning, which seemed long ago and far away now, but when I called the number, I was instructed to leave a voice mail. I stumbled over what to say—was catnapping a crime?—
and ended up just asking him to call me as soon as he could.

I started to call 911, then stopped as I imagined the conversation. “Yes, ma’am, let me get this straight. Your . . . cat has been . . . kidnapped?”

Duvall had given me an hour. No way would I be able to explain everything and get a police presence out to Duvall’s cottage in less than . . . well, I didn’t know how long it might take, but it was bound to be more than an hour. Maybe Duvall would make good on his time limit and maybe he wouldn’t. I wasn’t about to take any kind of a chance, not with Eddie.

A sob came up out of my throat. From where I was sitting, on the narrow stairs down to the bedroom, the noise sounded a lot like a whimper.

“Stop that,” I said out loud.

That made me feel a little better, so I stood and tried it again. “Stop that. You need to figure out what to do.”

But what?

I paced around the kitchen, trying to come up with a plan, but all I did was get dizzy. Time ticked away and I knew I had to get going if I was going to meet Duvall’s deadline. There was no choice about that—he had Eddie and I had to get Eddie back, no matter what the risk might be.

And, after all, maybe Duvall just wanted to talk. Maybe he’d only taken Eddie to make sure I’d take him seriously. There was no way Duvall could know that I suspected him of killing Henry and trying to kill Adam, so how could I be at risk? Well, okay, his wife could have told him what I’d said about knowing his whereabouts
the first weekend of April, but when Larabeth stopped by the library, it hadn’t sounded as if she was about to have any long conversations with him. And though it was extremely unlikely, it was possible that he’d been following his wife and had overheard our conversation.

So actually, there were lots of ways I could be at risk. I pushed them all out of my head. What mattered was Eddie.

I slid my phone into my backpack, grabbed my car keys, scrawled a quick message on the kitchen whiteboard, and hurried to rescue my cat.

•   •   •

It was almost dark by the time I reached the road where Henry had lived. Halfway there, I had called 911, and though the conversation had started out much as I’d anticipated, once I’d explained the whole story, the dispatcher had assured me that deputies would arrive on the scene within half an hour. She’d told me sternly to stay away from the scene, saying that the officers would do everything they could to ensure my cat’s safety.

The dispatcher talked, and I listened; then I talked, and talked some more. Eventually I was transferred to someone else, but I kept glancing at the clock on my car’s dashboard, wondering whether I’d make it in time, wondering what Cole Duvall would do if I was two minutes late, hoping that the few moments I’d taken in the car to breathe deep, think ahead, and plan a little hadn’t jeopardized my . . . hadn’t made Duvall . . . wouldn’t end . . .

“Stop that,” I said.

“Excuse me?” said the voice on the other end of the phone.

My car’s headlights caught the reflective flash of the numbers on Duvall’s mailbox. I reached out and turned the headlights off. While I wasn’t sure sneaking up on him would help, knowing that I had the ability to control at least this little thing gave me half an ounce of confidence.

“Time for me to go,” I said, turning off the phone in the middle of an instruction to stay away from Mr. Duvall.

Coasting through the trees, I eased down the slope toward the cottage. Toward the water. Closer in, I could see that the only lights on at the house were exterior ones, small shin-high lights that would undoubtedly lead me around to the dock.

A hundred yards away, I did a three-point turn and parked off the side of the driveway and behind a cluster of shrubs, putting the car’s front bumper in the heading-out direction, just in case we needed to make a fast exit.

I slipped out of the car, shutting the door so quietly I barely heard it myself. Soundlessly I made my way to the front door and peeked inside through the tall, narrow side windows. Nothing in there but darkness and vague furniture shapes. I tried to open the door, but it was locked.

My faint hopes of finding Eddie alone inside a closet or a bathroom, grabbing him under my arm, and running off to freedom faded almost before they’d had a chance to grow.

Now what, smarty-pants?

I slid my cell phone out of my pocket and checked the time. Nine o’clock straight up. My hour was over. I couldn’t wait any longer.

Pulling in a deep breath for courage, I walked around the side of the house. The horizon on the west side of Rock Lake was still pale with the sunset’s afterglow, and I could see the silhouette of a man sitting on a bench at the end of a long dock.

Cole Duvall.

Still moving quietly, I walked down the stone steps, keeping an eye on Duvall. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I could see that he was sitting casually, one arm laid across the back of the bench, one ankle over the opposite knee. He was also lifting his other arm, every so often, in a motion that could only mean he was drinking something.

Around and about me, the spring flowers were blooming and the summer ones were starting to poke out of the ground, but it was still too early for the summer lawn games to be out and available. No sense in putting out a croquet set when there was still a chance of snow. I looked hard for a set of lawn darts, but since I’d never played that game as a kid, it was probably just as well that the Duvalls didn’t have any around. I’d be just as likely to stab myself in the leg as to do any real damage to my enemy.

Because Duvall was my enemy. I couldn’t let myself forget that. Getting Eddie back, safe and sound, was the priority of the night, but taking care of Duvall was a close second.

I made sure my cell phone was secure in my pocket and stepped onto the dock.

The moment my foot hit the wooden boards, Duvall turned. “You’re here,” he said. “Took you long enough.”

I told myself not to antagonize the man. What I wanted was my cat. That was what mattered right now. Sticking up for myself against a bully could wait another day. Not two, because that would grind in my stomach like bad beets, but I could stand twenty-four hours.

“Where’s Eddie?” I moved up the dock slowly. Duvall didn’t seem to have any weapons, but since he was more than a foot taller than I was, and, at a guess, more than a hundred pounds heavier, he didn’t really need anything more than his own bulk. The self-defense classes I’d taken last year had been useful, but they were designed to help me escape a man’s grip, not to walk right up into the mouth of the lion and demand things that would anger him.

“Right here.” Duvall’s foot bumped what I could now see was a cardboard box.

From inside I heard a “Mrr,” and that faint bleat pushed red into my thoughts and emotions and actions. I took one fast, hot step forward, then pulled back.

No. Rushing headlong into a physical confrontation with Duvall would not help anything.
Keep calm, keep him talking, and keep thinking.

So instead of the classic “What do you want?” question that I so desperately wanted to ask, I said, “Nice spot you have here.”

Duvall stared at me. “What?”

I kept on with my slow walk toward the end of the dock and said, “How long have you had this place?”

“None of your business,” Duvall said.

So much for opening pleasantries. I tried to widen my focus to include the empty boat lift that was on my left and anything it might offer me. The bench where Duvall was sitting was on an assemblage of dock sections that made up an L-shaped area. I searched for a weapon—a boat hook, an anchor, a rope, anything—but the only things I saw were the bench, Duvall, and Eddie’s box.

“Mrr,” the box said, and scarlet rage fell down upon me like a net.

“What do you want?” I asked, my teeth tight together.

“I want you to undo what you did.” Duvall snorted an unattractive laugh.

An Undo button for life. Now, that would be useful. I stopped about fifteen feet away from Duvall, well out of his reach. “It would help if you told me what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” he snapped. “You know perfectly well.”

Well, no, I didn’t. Not for sure. But I could guess. “Larabeth came to her conclusions on her own,” I said. “All she wanted from me were confirmations.”