The feral cat slowly turned, eyed them with a touch of menace in her gaze, then, when she had ascertained that she had been hailed not by a foe but by a friend, she turned and came ambling in their direction. Her expression hadn’t changed, and it was hard to make out what she was thinking at that moment. Was she happy to see them? Annoyed? With Clarice one simply never knew!
“Harriet, Brutus,” she said once she had reached them. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re looking for Shanille, actually,” said Harriet. “She hasn’t turned up for cat choir a couple of nights in a row, and we’re starting to get worried about her.”
“She left,” said Clarice as her slitted eyes took in her surroundings, flitting here and there and missing nothing. “Left with that human of hers. Father Reilly. Left in his car never to return, I imagine.”
“Never to return!” said Brutus. “But why?”
“Yeah, we figured they’d gone on holiday,” said Harriet.
Clarice produced a sound that reminded Harriet of Odelia’s car starting. It sounded halfway between a raspy cough and a metallic rattle. It took her a while to realize Clarice was laughing. “Nice holiday,” said the battle-scarred street cat. “Shacked up in the middle of the woods with no one but each other for company? Not my idea of a holiday, I can tell you that!”
“Father Reilly is in the woods?”
“Yeah, in one of those derelict shacks out there. I bumped into him last night, doing his business against a tree, the filthy animal. And I can tell you he didn’t look like a happy camper!”
“But… but why? What is he doing out there? I don’t understand.”
“He didn’t tell me why, and frankly I don’t care. Humans are a weird and dangerous species, so the moment I clocked him I took a big detour. By the same token he would have caught me and strung me up and roasted me over a slow fire.” She raised her upper lip in an expression of contempt. “Humans. Give me a break.”
“Oh, dear,” said Harriet. “Poor Shanille. Having to sleep rough like that.”
Clarice directed a look of such venom in her direction she involuntarily took a step back.“Rough! You don’t know what rough means, princess! They’ve got a roof over their heads, don’t they? They’ve got food and plenty of it, don’t they? Well then. Spoiled brats, the lot of them.”
Harriet wasn’t sure if Clarice was referring to the human race in general, or Father Reilly in particular, but she decided not to ask. Clearly she wasn’t in a good mood. “Did you see Shanille at all? Is she all right out there?” she asked instead.
But Clarice must have lost interest in the conversation, for she darted a suspicious glance at the sky, then mumbled,“Might have rain later. And lots of it.” And then, without another word, or even a glance back, she simply walked away.
“Someone should teach that cat some manners,” said Harriet once Clarice was safely out of earshot.
“I like her,” said Brutus, much to Harriet’s surprise. “She’s feisty, isn’t she?”
That, she most certainly was. And at least she’d given them the missing clue: Father Reilly, for whatever reason, was living in some derelict shack in the woods!
CHAPTER 18
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Dooley and I had been granted the rare privilege of being present in a meeting that took place in Uncle Alec’s office. Odelia’s police chief uncle liked to organize these meetings to get an update on the ongoing investigation, and give his own input when appropriate. Odelia was present, and so was Chase of course, and Dooley and myself, but only after we had promised to be quiet and not interfere.
“So let’s hear it, people,” said the voluminous chief of police as he sat forward in his chair, his beefy arms on his desk blotter. “Tell me what’s going on here.”
In a few words Chase told his boss about the murder-suicide of Cipriana Cilke and Jeff Felfan.“Though there is some doubt about the murder-suicide theory,” he said now. “The toxicology report for Cipriana shows a high level of GBH in her blood, and it’s more than likely she wasn’t conscious when she was shot. Also there was no gunpowder residue on her hands, so she couldn’t havefired the shot. And what’s more, analysis of the gun and the bullets provided a hit in the database with a gun used in a gangland killing in New York a couple of months ago.”
“Organized crime?” asked the Chief as he listened intently. “What is a local prostitute doing with a gun like that?”
“Most likely it wasn’t her gun,” said Odelia, picking up the tale. “One of the neighbors saw a man entering Cipriana’s apartment shortly before two. We showed her a picture of Jeff but she said it was a different man.”
“Description?”
“Male. Tall.”
“Very helpful,” the Chief growled.