"Be okay, I guess," Joe said noncommittally. He didn't dare glance at Dulcie for fear he'd lose his cool. He wanted to do back flips, to yowl with happiness. "With, say, one of those cupola things on top of the new bedroom, a sort of cat tower? Could she do that?"
"She could do that," Clyde said. "But of course we'd have to live with a restaurant next door, with all the traffic, and people going in and out."
"We would," Joe said carefully, keeping the conversation low-key. He looked hard at Clyde. "Let's give it some thought. Think about our options." And for the first time, the idea of moving didn't seem like the end of the world. If he had options, and if Clyde was including him in on the decision making, then it wasn't like being thrown out homeless, back into the alleys. For the first time, the various possibilities held such interest for the tomcat that he couldn't help but purr.
Amazing what a difference it made when Clyde softened up a little and asked his advice. Joe felt like he'd fallen right back into his secure and comfortable life, as cozy as his own easy chair. Smiling up at Clyde, and then at Dulcie, he was caught in a warm froth of family sentimentality. "After all," he told Clyde, "if we did decide to move, we have the whole village to choose from."
Clyde grinned and picked Joe up, setting him on his shoulder, then tucked Dulcie under his arm. "You two did all right with the Traynor case. That phone call to Adele McElroy was, I have to say, a stroke of genius."
He looked down at Joe. "I don't want to know how you knew about her, or how you two softened Max Harper up to the point of allowing you in the station. The dispatchers seem quite taken with Dulcie.
"And Harper doesn't want to know, ever," Clyde said, "why there were gray and white cat hairs in the window of the Pumpkin Coach, among the broken glass." And he headed back for the party, dropping the cats on the couch beside Charlie. Harper, sitting close to her, turned to look at the cats, his expression stern and withdrawn-but there was, deep in the captain's eyes, something uneasy, something questioning.
Joe looked back at Harper as blankly as he could manage, and kneaded Charlie's knee, keeping his claws in. Charlie looked down at him, her eyes filled with amusement, and reached over him to hold Max's hand. And Joe thought, no matter how many thieves and deadbeats there were in the world, there were far more good folks. No matter how many tarty little murderers like Vivi Traynor, with her frozen cherries and her giggles, there were many more humans who were totally okay, folks a cat could count on.
All a cat had to do was right a few wrongs when he could, ignore the human transgressions he couldn't change, love his true friends, and always, always have the last laugh.
About the Author
SHIRLEY ROUSSEAU MURPHY has received seven national Cat Writers’ Association Awards for best novel of the year, two Cat Writers’ President’s Awards, the “World’s Best Cat Litter-ary Award” in 2006 for the Joe Grey Books, and five Council of Authors and Journalists Awards for previous books. She and her husband live in Carmel, California, where they serve as full-time household help for two demanding feline ladies.
www.joegrey.com
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