Yes, I’m a girl, and yes, I’m a cat. The big black one with the white “skunk” stripe down my flank, courtesy of a swordcane that wasn’t quite swift enough to rob me of more than one of my nine lives. Of which I’ve used up seven, thanks for asking.
Oh, and I’m the brains of this outfit, too. Most humans have figured out by now that cats and dogs can see ghosts, but what they don’t know is that all cats can see all ghosts, most of the time; most dogs and most humans can’t see them at all or, like Steve, can see them only too late, when they’re showing themselves off to lure him into danger-or materializing enough to do him real harm. Dogs and humans can smell ghosts, but if you don’t know what you’re smelling, it doesn’t do you much good.
That’s one of the reasons that a big city like this one has so many “accidental” deaths. Humans run afoul of ghosts, and big cities have lots of both. When they meet, it’s seldom pretty.
Not all ghosts set out to murder, and those who do generally have one particular victim-or sort of victim, like rapists or cooks or men on bicycles-in mind. But in heavy traffic or in places where a fall can be fatal, being startled by a ghost can kill just as effectively as a murderous ghost’s dark deeds, and dogs and humans can easily be startled by ghosts. They tend to be able to smell a spook only when it shows itself, whereas cats know a ghost is around long before it becomes visible. So we can track ghosts and deal with them.
Cats born these days are pretty little creatures, most of them, and kin-but that’s all they are. We royalty (that is, cats old enough to have known pharaohs and who have managed to keep at least a few of their lives since then) can shapechange and speak in the minds of anyone we touch, not just long-time friendly humans, dogs, and other cats.
Yet if I ever let the wrong human see me shapechanging, I’ll probably be throwing away the last few of my lives, right there. Which is why I need Steve. He requires clothes and watches and cash to live in the world of humans: that’s why we do this work instead of just letting the passing parade of ghosts be just that, a passing parade. Oh, and he sees to my wants, too. A bit of fish, often, and chocolates every once in a long while.
Steve always sees to my wants. Which is why I’m no longer the lapcat of a certain lady known to much of the city (the seamier side) as “Cinammon Nipples,” for reasons that are probably obvious but are another digression and so best left undiscussed for now.
Back to the case at hand. The headless human was the only ghost we’d seen so far in this building, but that wasn’t surprising. Old buildings tend to host a lot of murders, violent deaths, and strong emotions-and therefore a lot of hauntings-and new buildings, unless they stand on the site of a thoroughly haunted older building, tend to have fewer.
We were here to investigate a “cat haunting.” Or rather, to get rid of a “ghost cat” that had taken to appearing and clawing anyone who so much as sat on a couch or chair, or lounged or lay down on a bed, anywhere in the place. “Here” was an incredibly valuable downtown house (on a trendy corner; “location, location, location”) that had just been remodelled into three luxury condominiums. The lady owner was living in the uppermost and was facing ruin if she couldn’t soon sell the lower two-and the ghost cat had already scared off a dwindling stream of possible buyers.
Those who looked at the place were either a far more discreet lot than usual, or these prospective buyers were all looking to install grow ops or operate escort services out of the place, because not one whiskery whisper of a ghostly cat had reached the papers.
Jethana Throneshuld had, however, sounded rich, haughty, and darned desperate on Steve’s answering machine. That desperation was real, because she hadn’t hesitated a second upon hearing his rates, and she wanted him on the job as soon as he could get from his end of the phone to hers.
Which is why we were now climbing the palatial stairs and ornate hallways of The Coachlight, heading for our client’s door. There was an elevator, but we both hated elevators, and it was only two flights of stairs. Stairs, moreover, that weren’t the usual filthy, chewing-gum and cigarette-littered, urine-reeking and otherwise spartan stairwell, but a soft-carpeted, gilt-trimmed pleasure to ascend.
I could shape human lips and throat to talk to Steve, but I made it a rule to do that only behind closed doors, on our premises. So I trotted along beside him looking like a feline domestic as he did the trenchcoat thing.
Hand in pocket as if resting on a gun, fedora pulled low. Right up to Ms. Jethana Throneshuld’s door, whose bell awakened distant grandfather clock chiming noises and then opened by itself, gliding inward with the ponderous velvet silence of something no mere mortal could ever afford.
No wonder she was facing financial ruin. The floor was deep white fur wherever it wasn’t glossy marble or set-into-the-floor bathing pools (kidney-shaped, of course, and she had three of them) and stretched away from us for what seemed the better part of a mile before being interrupted by a wall. A wall of glossy polished wood that wasn’t just panelled; it was carved, in a huge and complicated relief scene of stags chasing each other over rail fences in a deep wood. Thankfully the usual human hunters on horses-and their torrent of hounds-were absent.
Steve came to a stop, peeled off his rubber overshoes (and don’t ask what troubles he goes through to get such things, these days) and dropped them carefully into the zip-up pocket of his overcoat, to reveal spotless black dress shoes. Our client beamed at that, as she came gliding into view through an archway, festooned in some sort of designer negligée and what looked like a small waterfall of matching white diamonds.
“Ah, Mr. Abernathy!” Her face fell, as she added with considerably less enthusiasm, “Oh, and I see you’ve brought your pet.”
“My partner,” Steve said, firmly but pleasantly. “A live cat to sniff out a ghost cat. Should we set to work in here, or does your little problem appear only on the lower floors?”
“Ah, you do get to work immediately,” Ms. Throneshuld said approvingly, patting his arm in a my-but-I’ll-be-enjoying-this -soon rich Rosedale cougar sort of way as she passed him, to see to the door. Evidently it didn’t close by itself.
After the door clicked closed, she did things to a complicated alarm panel set behind a sliding miniature-an oval painting on porcelain, that is-beside it and came back to him.
I didn’t much like the look of her or want to approach her, and the feeling seemed to be mutual, but professional necessities are professional necessities, so I contrived to wander close to those shapely and overly spa-treated legs as she pranced past.
And contrived not to recoil, too. I’d been expecting her to smell of expensive perfumes, with an underlying reek of exfoliants and exotic tree oils, ylang ylang and all the other drek they put in shampoos and lotions these days. Instead, she smelt of death. Not murder or kitchen butchery, but old, dry, dusty death.
When death won’t go away, that means trouble. But then, the look in her eyes-not just the “I’ll see to you” look she gave me, but the very different sort of look she was giving Steve, was stronger trouble, and more immediate, too. It was the look a hungry cat gives to a witless canary that perches obligingly right in front of it.
“It’s probably best,” she purred, stopping against his chest and posing so that one bare leg could peek through the thigh-high slits in her designer come-hither-and-tear-this-little-frippery-off-me silks and press against him, “if we start in the bedroom. It’s been worst in there.”
I’ll just bet it has, dearie.
Yes, that was a catty thought, but then, I think everything catt-oh, never mind.
“Sam,” Steve said a little dreamily, “will you go in and ah, check things out, first?”