I did as he said, stepping on the little foot pedal to raise the lid so we could both peer inside.
“Nothing,” I told him with a shake of my head. “It’s starting to look like she wasn’t murdered, after all.”
“Or that the culprit was smart enough to take the evidence with him. Besides, we have proof from the sink. It’s not my fault your weak human nose refuses to smell what’s right there in front of it.”
I hated to admit it, but he was right. “Fine. Where else can we look for clues?”
He shook his head haughtily and flicked his tail to match. “First tell me you believe me about the murder.”
“What? Why is that important?” I fixed him with my most domineering stare. I didn’t think cats had alphas the way dogs do, but I needed some way to gain leverage here.
He growled, breaking my concentration. “If we’re going to be working together, I need to know you believe in what we’re doing. I need to know you’ll do what it takes to get justice for Ethel.”
I rolled my eyes and muttered, “Fine, I believe you.”
“Next time, try a little harder to sound convincing.” He sneered at me then jumped off the counter, shaking his little kitty booty as he strode away. “Seeing as you’re the best option I’ve got, I’m just going to have to put up with you. C’mon, let me show you our bedroom.”
While following him back to the entryway and up the grand staircase, I asked myself whether I did believe that Ethel had been murdered. I hadn’t been able to see or smell any proof for myself just yet, but I also knew Octo-Cat well enough to know he wouldn’t waste his time on false claims.
Whether or not it made much sense, he was convinced Ethel had met an unnatural end—and even though it made me more than a little crazy, I believed him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It felt strange standing in a room where someone had died less than forty-eight hours earlier. Even the air in Ethel Fulton’s bedroom felt less oxygenated somehow, as if she’d tried to suck in every last breath she could before taking her last. At that lovely thought, I shuddered and wrapped my arms around myself.
Octo-Cat hopped up on the bed and pawed at the comforter. “This is where she died. I slept on this pillow here, and she slept on the side closest to the bathroom. Usually she got up a couple times per night to pollute her water bowl. You humans are a disgusting bunch, by the way, but I loved Ethel and was able to overlook her flaws.”
“Your point?” I asked with a sigh.
He raised a lip at me but kept his hiss to himself. “That night she didn’t wake up at all. It was the first sign I knew something was definitely wrong.”
I hovered awkwardly near the bed, unwilling to sit down or even to touch it. “I thought the funny smelling food was the first sign something was wrong.”
My companion sniffed around the bed as if in search of something specific. “That’s when I first suspected, but when she didn’t get up at night, I knew for sure.”
I gave Octo-Cat a few uninterrupted moments to finish his investigation of the bed. When he settled back on his pillow, I said, “Okay, so even though this is where she died, I don’t think it has anything to do with the murder. Downstairs there were six dinner plates. Assuming one was for Ethel, can you remember who any of the other five guests were?”
“I might be able to identify them if I saw them again, and more likely by smell than sight.”
I contemplated this. Octo-Cat’s heightened sense of smell was of no use to me. The only other person I’d ever be able to identify by scent would be Bethany from work—and that was only because of her essential oils obsession. At that, an encouraging thought struck me. “Were any of them at the will reading this morning?”
He yawned and stretched his paws in front of himself in some kind of sleek yoga pose. “Yes, all of them were there,” he revealed.
Suddenly, solving this thing seemed not only possible, but likely. Trying not to startle Octo-Cat with my sudden burst of eagerness, I said, “But you don’t know which one killed Ethel?”
“No, none of them had the funny smell from the dinner party when I saw them this morning,” he confided with a frown.
“And you don’t remember their names?”
Octo-Cat shook his head.
Forgetting my earlier disgust, I sighed and sunk down onto the mattress beside him, feeling all the wind leave my newly raised sails. “Seeing as there were at least twenty people at the reading, we have quite a few suspects.”
He sighed, too. “Yes, it would seem we do.”
I shivered upon realizing that I was sitting in the exact same spot where old lady Fulton had died not even two full days earlier. “Maybe if we try to—”
“Hush!” Octo-Cat yelled, leaping to attention. His ears twitched like tiny satellite dishes trying to find the best reception. “Someone just came in the house.”
My stomach dropped past my feet and straight through the floor boards. “What?”
He listened a little bit longer. “Yes, someone is definitely inside.”
Knowing my luck, it would be the killer, coming to scrub the scene clean of any lingering evidence—evidence I’d been too stupid to actually locate. Now it would be gone forever, and poor Ethel Fulton would have to go into the afterlife unavenged. Not to mention if the killer found us, he just might strike again—and, of course, we stood right in his path.
“We need to get out of here,” I mouthed, hoping Octo-Cat could read lips.
He jumped onto the floor and trotted out through the bedroom door which I’d foolishly left wide open.
I listened for what felt like an eternity, waiting for someone to cross paths with my hapless sidekick. Would Octo-Cat recognize the danger? And, if so, would he find a way to alert me to it?
Several minutes passed without any sign of Octo-Cat or anyone else. Taking a deep breath, I tiptoed out into the hallway and toward the grand staircase. I just had to make it down these steps and out the door, then I never had to set sight on this place again.
Although I did a great job of descending quietly, I did it at the expense of a speedy getaway.
About halfway down, a shadowy figure appeared in the foyer and paused upon noticing me.
Of all the things I could have done then, I chose the worst possible one. I froze in place.
“Who’s there?” the figure asked. The voice clearly belonged to a woman, which eased my fears a bit. I’d have a hard time defending myself against a full-grown man, but at five foot eight and a size twelve, I could probably fight off most other women… unless she had a weapon.
“I… I’m…” How could I possibly explain my trespassing? The truth about the talking cat and our murder investigation would be worse than pretty much any lie, but I was far too frightened to think up a good lie on the spot.
Luckily, Octo-Cat chose that exact moment to come in through his electronic cat door and race up the stairs to join me. “Tell her you’re looking for my food and bed and other supplies,” he commanded.
Oh, that was a great idea. It was also at least partially true.
“I’m watching the cat for a few days and came over to pick up his things. Wh-who are you?” I asked boldly, standing tall as if I had every right to be here.
She stepped back and flicked a switch that illuminated the overhead chandelier, casting light over us both. “Obviously you’re not close with the family or you wouldn’t have to ask that. So why don’t you start by telling me who you are?”
“She’s bluffing,” Octo-Cat whispered at my side. “She’s just as scared as you are. She’s throwing out human stress hormones like crazy.”
“I work for Mr. Fulton.” I descended a few steps, keeping my eyes trained on the other woman. “Should I tell him you stopped by?”