Fat Cat At Large

TWENTY-FOUR

Mike walked around the car to open the door for Chase. She climbed out of the big truck, studiously avoiding a glance at Shaun’s car. His silhouette showed in the driver’s seat. The exhaust sent a plume of ghostly vapor into the frigid night air. For a fleeting moment, Chase hoped something could plug the tailpipe so Shaun would asphyxiate. She scolded herself mentally for such an awful thought. She disliked Shaun Everly immensely, but couldn’t go so far as to wish him dead.

She sensed his eyes on her as she led Mike to the rear door that served both the restaurant kitchen and the stairs to her apartment. With any luck, Shaun would assume that Mike was staying for a while and would leave.

As they mounted the stairs, Chase remembered that she’d left dishes soaking in the sink. And where had she thrown her underwear last night, or rather, early this morning after she’d left the jail?

“The place might be a mess. I had a rough night.”

They reached the landing outside her door. “What happened?” Mike asked.

Chase fumbled with her key.

“You’re shaking. Here, let me.” It was a relief to let him take the key. Somehow, it didn’t fit into the lock while she held it.

After Mike slid the door open, Chase stood where she was, sudden tears streaming down her face.

“It was awful,” she whimpered. Yes, she was breaking down, just like she knew she would. And she was only thinking of being in the pokey.

Mike herded her through the doorway, kicked it shut with his foot, and put those nice, strong arms around her. She sobbed on his shoulder for a moment, then, mortified and embarrassed, pulled away from him and ran into her bathroom.

Dabbing at her splotchy face, she frowned at herself in the mirror.

What’s wrong with you? Take hold of yourself, dummy.

She had been in his arms, right where she wanted to be. However, she hadn’t wanted to be blubbering at the same time. She heard Mike talking to Quincy in her kitchen and Quincy meowing loudly, complaining that his din din was late.

When she finally considered herself presentable, she poked her head out the doorway. Mike was going through her cupboards! She cleared her throat and he turned around with a big grin.

“He thinks it’s long past dinnertime. Where’s his food?”

The cat and the vet, both looking at her for the important answer, made her laugh. It felt so good to loosen up like that. She opened the cupboard where a bag of Quincy’s food was stowed—not the cupboard Mike had been searching—and scooped out his diet cat food. Her hands were holding steady now. She got her homemade treat from the refrigerator and mixed it in before she set his dish on the floor.

“That’s impressive,” Mike said, watching Quincy wolf down his food. “Maybe you should print up the recipe for that stuff and I can give it out to my clients with overweight, picky cats.”

“Do you have a lot of them?”

“Do I ever. It looks like you’ve hit on something great.”

Quincy continued eating, though his ears pointed at them, telling them he understood they were talking about something to do with him.

“Would you care for a cup of coffee? I have decaf.” Mike was being so sweet, not mentioning her breakdown.

He was looking through to the living room and the balcony. “Sounds good. You have a nice place to drink it, too.”

“The living room?” Chase started the process, measuring out the beans and pressing the button to start the noisy grinder.

“No,” he shouted over the din, “your balcony.”

“Isn’t it too cold?”

“Do you have blankets?”

Great, thought Chase. He’s a hardy outdoorsman. It didn’t sound like fun to her, since it was probably in the twenties by now, but after the beans were ground and she started the coffee brewing, she got two eiderdown quilts from her linen closet. They were the warmest ones she had.

What Chase had failed to consider, was the need to snuggle in the cold. When she had filled two mugs with fresh brew, Mike settled himself on the chaise and beckoned her hither. Tingling a little inside, she nestled beside him and they tucked the quilts around themselves.

“Now,” he said after a big sip, “tell me what’s the matter.”

Holding her lips stiff so she wouldn’t cry again, she hoped, she told him she’d been questioned again last night. “Detective Olson wanted me to say I killed him.”

“Killed Torvald?”

“No, just Gabe, for the moment. Do you think the police will think I killed Iversen, too? Julie and her friend Jay got me out in the wee hours this morning. I had to spend ages in a suffocating, empty room. I didn’t know if I was going to be arrested, or thrown in jail, or what. First, I was questioned for hours. Then they left me alone there for hours. Detective Olson was trying to make me say I killed Gabe. I almost wanted to say it, too. I got so worn down.” Her chin was crumpling, but she didn’t let the tears fall. Her face got so ugly and red when she cried. She was not going to cry in front of Mike again.

“You poor thing.” Mike put his mug down, cupped his warm hand on her shoulder, and caressed her upper arm through her sweater.

Chase wished she could stay like this forever.

“Why would he suspect you for Iversen’s murder? You weren’t around there when he was found.”

Chase had no idea how it might happen, but somehow, the way things were going, she thought she would be a suspect.