Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1 - Slant Flying
Chapter 2 - Carry Tiger to Mountain
Chapter 3 - Grasp Bird’s Tail
Chapter 4 - Repulse Monkey
Chapter 5 - White Crane Spreads Wings
Chapter 6 - Single Whip
Chapter 7 - High Pat on Horse
Chapter 8 - Step Back, Seven Stars
Chapter 9 - Slant Brush Knee
Chapter 10 - Play Guitar
Chapter 11 - Wild Horse Separate Mane
Chapter 12 - Fair Lady Works at Shuttle
Chapter 13 - Wave Hands Like a Cloud
Chapter 14 - Snake Creeps Down
Chapter 15 - Slant Flying
Chapter 16 - Needle at Sea Bottom
Chapter 17 - Wave Arms Like a Fan
Chapter 18 - Slap Face with Palm
Chapter 19 - Single Lotus Kick
Chapter 20 - Step Back Ride the Tiger
Chapter 21 - Shoot the Tiger
Chapter 22 - Step Forward and Punch
Chapter 23 - Push Forward
Chapter 24 - Cross Hands
Chapter 25 - Conclusion
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CAT TRICKS?
“Hercules,” I called. “C’mon, puss. Where are you?”
There was silence and then a faint “meow” from the other side of the closed door.
He was in there. Somehow he was in there. I grabbed the doorknob. Locked. I twisted the knob in frustration. Of course it was locked. The room was part of a murder investigation. And I’d just been trying to get inside. I yanked my hand away from the door like it was suddenly on fire.
Now my fingerprints were all over the door. I used the hem of my T-shirt to rub the doorknob. Then I dropped to my knees and polished the bottom section of the door where I’d looked for some kind of hidden access panel.
I caught a bit of my reflection in the brass kick panel and realized what I was doing. “You’re nuts,” I said aloud, sitting back on my heels.
I shouldn’t have touched the door at all. I took a couple of deep breaths. I should call the police, I realized. How else was I going to get Hercules out? Then I thought, Oh, sure, call Detective Gordon and tell him my cat just walked through the door into the room. No, that wouldn’t make me look like a nutcase.
Was that what was wrong? Was I crazy? I remembered a psych prof in first year telling the class that if you could ask the question, then you weren’t. Of course, three-quarters of the time he came to class in his pajama bottoms.
Then I remembered how Owen had seemed to just materialize on Gregor Easton’s head, just the way he’d suddenly seemed to appear in midleap, chasing that bird in the backyard.
I couldn’t breathe. Was it possible? Did my cats have some kind of magical ability?
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, February 2011
eISBN : 978-1-101-47705-2
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are many people who have helped take the Magical Cats from an idea to a completed book, and I owe them all my thanks. Thank you to my agent, Kim Lionetti, for answering endless questions and never losing her patience, and to Jacky Sach for making everything happen. Thank you to my editor, Jessica Wade, whose editorial skills make me look good.
Thanks also go to Lorraine Bartlett, who urged me to write this story, and to Judy Gorham, Susan Evans, and Janet Koch, who have always been terrific cheerleaders.
A special thank-you to the Guppies; a more supportive group of writers doesn’t exist.
And a big thank-you to Dr. Jennifer Brown, veterinarian, who answered all my questions about cats. Any errors or out-of-character cat behavior in these pages is due to my playing with the facts.
And last, thanks to Patrick and Lauren, who make it all worthwhile. Always.
1
Slant Flying
The body was smack in the middle of my freshly scrubbed kitchen floor. Fred the Funky Chicken, minus his head.
“Owen!” I said, sharply.
Nothing.
“Owen, you little fur ball, I know you did this. Where are you?”
There was a muffled “meow” from the back door. I leaned around the cupboards. Owen was sprawled on his back in front of the screen door, a neon yellow feather sticking out of his mouth. He rolled over onto his side and looked at me with the same goofy expression I used to get from stoned students coming into the BU library.
I crouched down next to the gray-and-white tabby. “Owen, you killed Fred,” I said. “That’s the third chicken this week.”
The cat sat up slowly and stretched. He padded over to me and put one paw on my knee. Tipping his head to one side he looked up at me with his golden eyes. I sat back against the end of the cupboard. Owen climbed onto my lap and put his two front paws on my chest. The feather was still sticking out of his mouth.
I held out my right hand. “Give me Fred’s head,” I said. The cat looked at me unblinkingly. “C’mon, Owen. Spit it out.”
He turned his head sideways and dropped what was left of Fred the Funky Chicken’s head into my hand. It was a soggy lump of cotton with that lone yellow feather stuck on the end.