Read Online Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin by Nancy Atherton - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy Atherton
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glanced at my watch and saw, to my amazement, that it was three o’clock—well past my usual lunch hour. My promise to Bill combined with rising protests from a pathetically hollow stomach clinched my decision to give the refrigerator a quick inspection and leave the cabinets and the pantry until after I’d had a bite to eat.
It was a sensible plan and I would have followed through on it if a bloodcurdling wail hadn’t stopped me in my tracks. Startled, I yelped in alarm, looked wildly around the room, and froze, petrified by the sight of two demonic yellow eyes peering at me through the kitchen window.
Six
The yellow eyes blinked and a sinuous form took shape in the gloom as the black cat stretched its mouth wide to emit another chilling yowl.
“You stupid creature,” I fumed, clapping a hand over my galloping heart. “You scared the spit out of me. Shoo. Go away. You don’t live here.”
The cat bumped its head against the windowpane, and it suddenly occurred to me that the foolish animal was sitting on a rain-slicked windowsill four stories above the ground.
“How on earth did you get up here?” I demanded.
The cat tapped the window with its claws, then reared up on its hind legs and pressed its front paws against the slippery pane.
“Are you crazy? ” I cried, rushing to the sink. “Sit still or you’ll break your neck!”
The cat began to prowl back and forth along the sill, flicking its long black tail and yowling.
I gripped the sink and watched in consternation, terrified that the stupid beast would miss its footing and plunge headlong to the parking space reserved for Miss Beacham’s nonexistent car. I told myself resolutely that I couldn’t let a strange animal into an apartment that didn’t belong to me, especially a stray cat that would no doubt sharpen its claws on Miss Beacham’s irreplaceable upholstery and distribute hair balls liberally across the priceless Persian rugs.
But I couldn’t let it fall, could I?
A dozen stoplights flashed crimson in my brain but I ignored each and every one of them as I darted over to close the kitchen door and raced back to open the window. The cat slipped inside, shook droplets from its fur, and sat on the counter beside the sink, regarding me expectantly.
He was a neutered male and he seemed to be well cared for. He had no visible scars or injuries and he wasn’t alarmingly thin. He was, in my opinion, quite handsome. His wide-set eyes were as yellow as dandelions, his whiskers were wonderfully long, and his black coat gleamed like satin. He appeared to be a well-fed, healthy house pet whose curiosity had led him into danger.
“You know what killed the cat, don’t you?” I said darkly. “If I wasn’t such a softy, you’d be down to eight lives by now. Cats don’t always land on their feet. I suppose you expect me to go door to door, searching for your owner?”
The cat gazed pointedly at the cabinet above his head, stood on his hind legs, and patted the door with one damp paw, mewing plaintively.
“Filled with mice, is it?” I shook my head, opened the cabinet door, and let out a soft cry of surprise.
The cabinet was filled with cans of cat food—expensive, gourmet cat food. Two blue willow-patterned china bowls sat toward the front of the bottom shelf. Between them lay a silver teaspoon. Its handle took the form of an elongated cat.
“Meow,” said the cat.
I continued to stare at the cat food while the light of understanding slowly dawned. Miss Beacham had told me that she’d never owned a cat, but that didn’t mean she’d never loved one. The bowls, the spoon, and the food supply bore mute witness to her fondness for the creatures. Did she feed every stray that showed up on her windowsill, I asked myself, or was the black cat a special friend?
“Hamish?” I said, reaching out to the cat. “Are you Hamish?”
The cat swatted my proffered hand peremptorily and let out another nerve-shattering yowl.
“Sorry,” I said,
It was a sensible plan and I would have followed through on it if a bloodcurdling wail hadn’t stopped me in my tracks. Startled, I yelped in alarm, looked wildly around the room, and froze, petrified by the sight of two demonic yellow eyes peering at me through the kitchen window.
Six
The yellow eyes blinked and a sinuous form took shape in the gloom as the black cat stretched its mouth wide to emit another chilling yowl.
“You stupid creature,” I fumed, clapping a hand over my galloping heart. “You scared the spit out of me. Shoo. Go away. You don’t live here.”
The cat bumped its head against the windowpane, and it suddenly occurred to me that the foolish animal was sitting on a rain-slicked windowsill four stories above the ground.
“How on earth did you get up here?” I demanded.
The cat tapped the window with its claws, then reared up on its hind legs and pressed its front paws against the slippery pane.
“Are you crazy? ” I cried, rushing to the sink. “Sit still or you’ll break your neck!”
The cat began to prowl back and forth along the sill, flicking its long black tail and yowling.
I gripped the sink and watched in consternation, terrified that the stupid beast would miss its footing and plunge headlong to the parking space reserved for Miss Beacham’s nonexistent car. I told myself resolutely that I couldn’t let a strange animal into an apartment that didn’t belong to me, especially a stray cat that would no doubt sharpen its claws on Miss Beacham’s irreplaceable upholstery and distribute hair balls liberally across the priceless Persian rugs.
But I couldn’t let it fall, could I?
A dozen stoplights flashed crimson in my brain but I ignored each and every one of them as I darted over to close the kitchen door and raced back to open the window. The cat slipped inside, shook droplets from its fur, and sat on the counter beside the sink, regarding me expectantly.
He was a neutered male and he seemed to be well cared for. He had no visible scars or injuries and he wasn’t alarmingly thin. He was, in my opinion, quite handsome. His wide-set eyes were as yellow as dandelions, his whiskers were wonderfully long, and his black coat gleamed like satin. He appeared to be a well-fed, healthy house pet whose curiosity had led him into danger.
“You know what killed the cat, don’t you?” I said darkly. “If I wasn’t such a softy, you’d be down to eight lives by now. Cats don’t always land on their feet. I suppose you expect me to go door to door, searching for your owner?”
The cat gazed pointedly at the cabinet above his head, stood on his hind legs, and patted the door with one damp paw, mewing plaintively.
“Filled with mice, is it?” I shook my head, opened the cabinet door, and let out a soft cry of surprise.
The cabinet was filled with cans of cat food—expensive, gourmet cat food. Two blue willow-patterned china bowls sat toward the front of the bottom shelf. Between them lay a silver teaspoon. Its handle took the form of an elongated cat.
“Meow,” said the cat.
I continued to stare at the cat food while the light of understanding slowly dawned. Miss Beacham had told me that she’d never owned a cat, but that didn’t mean she’d never loved one. The bowls, the spoon, and the food supply bore mute witness to her fondness for the creatures. Did she feed every stray that showed up on her windowsill, I asked myself, or was the black cat a special friend?
“Hamish?” I said, reaching out to the cat. “Are you Hamish?”
The cat swatted my proffered hand peremptorily and let out another nerve-shattering yowl.
“Sorry,” I said,
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