Read Online Scratch the Surface by Susan Conant - Free Book Online

indulged her by following. In each of the five unoccupied bedrooms, he silently « lowered himself to the floor and, raising the bed skirts in which Thelma had dressed the beds, searched in vain for the cat. It was only when Ronald had stuck his head under Felicity’s king-size bed that he tapped a finger against his lips and mimed the instruction to her to close all the doors in the room. He raised the blue-and-white bed skirt, eased the feather-and-bell toy under the bed, and moved it slowly back and forth, in and out. Just as Felicity was on the verge of ordering him to crawl under the damn bed and grab the cat, a large paw shot out. And shot in again. It took Ronald a full five minutes of coaxing and luring to persuade the cat to emerge. Once Ronald was sitting on the floor holding it firmly his arms, Felicity’s impatience and irritation turned to satisfaction: Exactly as she had told Ronald, the cat had been under a bed, and not just any bed, either, but her bed. She felt proud and flattered that it had moved to her room. She also felt resentful that it was Ronald who was holding the cat.
    “This is a magnificent cat,” Ronald said. “I wonder what she is. We’ll have to look her up. Russian Blue?”
    “Oh, I think she’s a beautiful gray alley cat,” said Felicity with an effort to place no emphasis on the she.
    “She is a she.” Ronald now had the cat on her back and was stroking her chest. “Mature but still young. Clean teeth. No fleas. On the heavy side but not obese. She’s in good condition. Did you notice her eyes?”
    “Of course! They look like pieces of amber. How could I not notice them? They’re incredible.”
    “The pupils are dilated.”
    “Oh, I think that’s how they’re supposed to be.”
    “Dilated? I wonder if she’s been drugged. She’s awfully calm. Mellow.”
    “Drugged by the murderer! He drugged the cat and slaughtered the man. Maybe he drugged the man, too. Before he killed him. And left them both for me.”
    “The whole business might have nothing to do with you, Felicity. You haven’t been here long. Maybe it has to do with your uncle and aunt.”
    “Nonsense. Why would anyone leave a body and a cat for them?”
    “Why would anyone leave them for you?”
    “Because of my books!”
    Ronald smiled and shook his head. “Authors,” he said. “Well, I’d better be going. Could you get the carrier? It’s in the kitchen.”
    “What for?”
    “To carry the cat.”
    “Where?”
    “Home.”
    “Oh, no! Ronald, that cat is staying with me. He... she is evidence in a murder. She was left for me. She is staying here. We’re going to get her settled in one of my guest rooms with her litter box and lots of food, and she’s going to learn that she is perfectly safe now.” Reaching down, she tentatively stroked the top of the cat’s head. The cat silently watched her.
    Acting on her plan, Felicity left Ronald and the cat in her room and transferred the litter box, cat food, and water í bowl to the largest of the unoccupied bedrooms, which were not, properly speaking, guest rooms, since Felicity hated having houseguests and never invited anyone to stay with ; her. Aspiring mystery writers on do-it-yourself book tours were always eager to avoid the cost of hotels by staying with fellow mystery writers, many of whom were happy to accommodate the out-of-towners, who, in turn, were happy * to reciprocate when their hosts traveled. Felicity had always managed to weasel out of offering hospitality to these visitors and had no desire to camp out in other people’s houses in strange cities. The cat, however, wouldn’t expect her to cook breakfast or recommend it to her literary agent and could be counted on never to expect her to sleep on a foldout couch or on some makeshift bed in a messy sewing room or office.
    When Ronald had carried the cat to its new room, he and Felicity returned to the kitchen, where Ronald finished his glass of wine and, as an obvious afterthought,