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“Three kids are cute; three cats is the beginning of madness.”
The man sneezed. He strode away from the hissing felines and turned his hat over in his hands, removing a long strand of tawny fur with a look of displeasure. “Miss Davins,” he began, struggling to shake the fur from his hand, “contrary to whatever thoughts have railroaded your housemate's one-track mind, my next request is strictly business. I’d like to address you away from the residence. Could your cats stand to be locked in a room for an hour or so?”
I set my hand on my hip. “They’re cats, sheriff. Close the door and they’ll make it their life’s goal to reach the other side. What’s so wrong with my living room, anyway?”
He frowned. “Thing is, I’m allergic and my people will be barging in shortly to ask us both various questions concerning the tragedy on your front porch. However noble and well-intentioned those distractions may be, for ease of conversation I’m fixin’ to ask you for coffee, if you’d humor me.”
“And Samson and Igor?” They wouldn’t appreciate the intrusion.
“As to your cats, while I do believe theirs and your intestines would be decorating the banisters had the perp I’m after come knocking, we need to clear your home. Reckon your hellions won’t take kindly to strangers, and you’ll be with me, unable to wrangle them off my spring chicken of a deputy.” He offered the kind of small, hopeful smile that was difficult to turn down. “So, we house them in a room of your choosing that I’ve personally cleared. What do you say, Miss Davins?”
“Can I clean up?”
He gestured to a checkered lump at the base of the stairs. The throw. I must’ve knocked it in my rush downstairs this morning. “Yourself or the house?”
“Sunday’s vacuum day,” I explained primly, as if there wasn’t three weeks’ worth of cat fur and cobwebs glittering in the sunlit entry. “And the hall plant you’ll notice languishing in the corner they uprooted sometime between my falling asleep over a charcoal sketchpad and Lisa screaming.”
“Explains your resemblance to an extra on a coalmine set. How long’ll you be?”
“Thirty minutes.”
He checked the time on a dinged brass pocket watch. “Make it twenty, sole witness. I’ll wait.” With another sneeze, he headed for the kitchen.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I grabbed his forearm, taut, muscled, firm . . . And let that go before I got myself in trouble.
“The table.” He observed me with what felt a more genuine interest than last night’s assessment and maybe a touch of surprise. I’d surprised myself, too, because he had to prompt me with, “Go on.”
“Right,” I said, straightening. “I don’t care if you’re the president. You're a stranger in my home not two hours after a psycho artfully arranged someone or something’s murdered pelt on my porch. I'm not gonna shower in a bathroom where the door doesn't lock while your ilk is wandering. Wait outside. Please.”
“Yes’m,” he said with a no-regrets grin and headed for the door.
I called after him, “Yes, Miss!”
But when his hand found the doorknob and my feet the stairs, we both turned.
“Shouldn’t you check upstairs, make sure you aren’t leaving me in danger?”
“I’ll put on the dog and pony show if I must, but as I said, Miss Davins.” He moved his hand in a small circle. “Intestines around and around the banisters.”
Twenty minutes later, clad in black skinny jeans and a silk blouse reserved for exhibit openings, I joined the sheriff on the porch. He helped me over the rail while his peers photographed the scene.
“Strictly business,” he reminded me with an eye to my heels.
“My day’s twenty-four hours long,” I replied, shaking out my towel-dried locks. “You’re eating up one hour, maybe two. This particular business has me freaked, but I’ve still got bills to pay, errands to run, pet-friendly hotels to research before dark and cat food to buy. Think they’re monsters now? Try missing dinner by five minutes.”
Grinning, he hopped the rail. “Promise I won’t keep you a minute longer than necessary.”
Together we walked to the passenger’s side door of his truck, at least, we’d started together. At some point between the dismembered tail and my driveway, I’d fallen behind to gawk at the surreal parade of crime scene investigators and yellow tape. The first monster I’d seen last night, human—I corrected myself before the panic set in—had been running ahead of the rest. And now a blood-soaked pelt adorned my porch.
Had I witnessed the moments leading up to a monster’s murder?
A whistle broke my concentration.
I glanced up.
The sheriff stood waiting beside his truck, head tilted, foot tapping. When we made eye contact, he opened the door with an exaggerated flourish. “Giddy on up, Miss Davins.”
“Neigh, neigh,” I replied, hurrying past the mailbox to join him.
