Chapter 7
7
CARSON
T he maids were no help to our investigation. Their knowledge of Mrs. Farrol’s cat’s movements was minimal at best, and they couldn’t remember seeing anything strange the day he disappeared.
“Mousey was right about Cece.” I walk with May toward the main area of the house.
“That she’s a slu–” May coughs. “I mean, a liar?”
“Definitely. And the other one was on some completely different plane of existence. I couldn’t get a single straight answer from her.”
“Too much catnip.” May shrugs as Mousey prowls along in front of us, her tail twitching slightly. “Where to next?”
“We need to speak with the butler, but barring that, we should check the grounds. Whoever took the cat had to enter and leave without being noticed. There’s no way they could’ve come down the front drive with all the security this place has.”
“Right.” May nods as we enter the foyer.
Mousey trots for the front door.
“Hang on.” I realize this might make me part of some delusion, but I have a question for the cat. “May?”
She looks up at me, her pink tongue darting out to wet her lips. God, does she have any clue what a stunner she is? Dressed so demurely, her messy bun, the way she walks, even the gentle way she handles the cat–she’s enticing beyond anything I can explain. It’s like … Well, it’s like she’s my catnip.
“Um, Carson?” she asks.
Shit, I’d gotten caught up in my thoughts about what I’d like to do to her lips. To all of her, really. “Could you have Mousey show us the ways she comes and goes to the outside? I have a feeling she doesn’t use the front door.”
“You don’t need me to ask. She heard.” May’s gaze follows Mousey as she disappears down the main hallway that leads toward the back of the house. “You know, cats always listen. They’re better than humans at being good listeners. They may pretend not to hear us, they may flat-out ignore their humans, too. But they always listen. I’m just lucky enough that I can hear them, too.”
I study her face and consider the openness of her words. “Do you need someone to listen, May?” I step closer to her, unable to stop myself from wanting to be near her.
She swallows hard, her lips parting. “I have cats. I have–” Her breath catches when I put my palm to her cheek. Gently, so fucking gently against her soft skin. “A person. Do you want a person who will listen?”
Her pupils expand, widening and eating up the pretty blue of her irises, and my heart seems to kick into higher gear. “I don’t … I don’t do well with people. Not like I do with cats.” Her voice is breathy, so fucking sexy.
“Maybe you haven’t tried the right person.” I focus on her lips, drawn inexorably toward them. The sweetness of a kiss from her–I can’t even imagine it.
Someone clears their throat. “Mr. Blair? I believe you were looking for me?”
May blinks and steps back.
I’m not a naturally violent man, but if I were, I’d wring the butler’s neck for interrupting. “Yes, I have some questions.”
May looks around. “Mousey’s gone. I should follow her.” She steps away, but I take her wrist.
“We stick together.”
She stops. “We do?” An adorable confusion flitters across her expression.
“From now on we do.” I nod and give her wrist a squeeze before letting go. Turning back to the butler, I say, “I’ll catch up with you next. Don’t go far.” With that, I take May’s hand. “Lead on.” Her skin is warm against mine, and she doesn’t pull away.
“Mr. Blair, I’m a busy man. I can’t dawdle while–”
I turn back to him. He’s making a sad effort to look down his nose at me despite the fact I’m almost a foot taller than he is. “I said stay put. I’ll be back shortly.”
At my tone, he snaps his mouth shut, though his eyes flash with indignation. He simply folds his hands behind his back like a soldier taking up an ‘at ease’ stance.
“Let’s go.”
May’s gaze bounces back and forth from the snooty butler to me, but she seems to like the chance of escape, so she moves toward the main hallway where Mousey disappeared.
Once we’re out of earshot, she says, “I wish I could be like that.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“You know. Like gruff and scary.”
Oh, shit. My heart sinks and I pull her to a stop. “I scared you?”
Her brows knit together. “What?”
“You just said I was scary.”
“Oh, no. Not to me.” She smiles, and an invisible weight lifts from my chest. “You’re not scary at all. You’re like a Maine Coon. You have resting grumpy face, but really you’re a total sweetheart inside. Fiercely loyal to the ones you love. You’ll defend your family, fight fang and claw to keep them safe.”
“A Maine Coon?” My lips twitch into a smile.
She nods decisively. “And they’re big. Like, the biggest.” Her cheeks go a little pink. “Not that I think you’re–” She turns her head quickly. “Mousey’s in there. She wants to show us a window. Come on.”
She pulls me into a room, this one done in shades of purple with paintings of some sort of sad, droopy flower decorating the walls over and over again. “Mrs. Farrol has an obsession with repetition.”
I follow May to a window where Mousey sits licking her paw. She looks up at May.
May starts, then looks around the room again. “Are you serious?”
Mousey goes back to licking her paw.
“Oh my God, she’s serious.” May rubs her forehead.
“What?” I examine the window. “Something to do with this?” I can tell it’s a cantilever mechanism along the top of the bottom frame. Easy to open from the inside, but almost impossible from the outside. No one could’ve come through here without help. I eye Mousey. Help or a cat who can open the window and possibly leave it open on accident.
“I think I might be sick.” May leans against me.
Concern rushes through me like a blaring alarm bell. “What is it?” I steady her. “Are you okay?”
She gestures weakly to the nearest drooping flower, this one with some sort of curling black foliage around it. “Mousey said they’re Mrs. Farrol.”
“What?” I look at the painting, not understanding. “Mrs. Farrol painted it?”
She closes her eyes. “No. They’re all Mrs. Farrol.”
Mousey stares at me, her expression–if a cat can have an expression–slyly amused. I look at the painting again. It takes about half a second before realization sets in. They aren’t droopy flowers at all. And the curly black foliage isn’t foliage at all. It’s hair. The paintings are Mrs. Farrol’s droopy flower. Over and over again. My stomach lurches.
First a missing cat investigation and now a roomful of vaginas. Goddamn, rich people are so fucking weird.