Free Cat to the Dogs by Shirley Rousseau Murphy Page B

out on the cold tile, he gave the captain his usual sour scowl.
    Harper returned his frown in spades. The two of them got along just fine with an occasional hiss from Joe, and Harper grousing about cat germs; anything less would spoil the relationship.

6
    T WO NIGHTS later, as Clyde fetched the cards and poker chips and began to lay out a cholesterol-rich array of party food, Joe was all set for an evening of imbibing the fatty diet necessary to his psychological well-being and picking up interesting bits of intelligence courtesy of the Molena Point PD, when Clyde dropped the bombshell.
    â€œYou are not invited, Joe. You are not wanted in this house when my friends are here playing poker. No more snooping. You’re done listening to private police business.”
    â€œYou have to be kidding.”
    â€œNot kidding. No cats on or near the poker table. No cats in the house tonight.”
    â€œYou’re making crab-and-olive sandwiches, you know that’s my all-time favorite. And I’m not invited to the party?”
    â€œYou can take a sandwich with you. Brown-bag it.”
    Joe looked at Clyde intently. “You’re serious. You are turning me out of my own home.”
    â€œVery serious. No more eavesdropping.” Turning his back, Clyde resumed spreading crab and green olives.
    â€œI see what’s wrong. You have your nose out of joint because I was right about that wreck in Hellhag Canyon.”
    â€œDon’t be silly. And even if there was something strange about that wreck, whatever Max Harper might, in the presence of his officers and closest friend, find fit to discuss in this house, will be restricted to those human listeners, and to no other. No tomcats. No lady cats. No snooping. Comprende? ”
    Joe drew himself up to his full, bold, muscular height, his growl rumbling, his yellow eyes blazing. “For your information, if that wreck turns out to be a murder, I’m the one who put Harper onto it. Me. The tomcat you’re booting out of his own home for no conscionable reason. Without yours truly, without the information that I tipped to Max Harper, the killer would go scot-free.”
    Clyde turned from the counter to glare at him. “You don’t have much respect for the abilities of our local law enforcement. You don’t seem to think that Harper is capable of—”
    â€œI think Harper is very capable. Why should I expect one of your limited reasoning to understand that if the brake line was switched, and the billfold was removed before the police got to the scene of the accident that morning, and if the wreck looked in every other way like an accident, and Harper had no information to the contrary, he would have no reason to search for evidence.
    â€œThat is a dangerous curve,” Joe explained patiently. “There has been more than one wreck there. The morning was foggy. Thick as canned cream. Without my help, Harper would have no reason to think the wreck was any more than an accident.”
    â€œI’ve had enough, Joe. I don’t intend to argue with you. You are out of the house. Don’t come home until Harper leaves. Go now. Go hunt. Go hang out on Lucinda’s fence with Dulcie. Get out of here.”
    Joe leaped down, so incensed that, stalking through the living room, he paused long enough to deliberately, maliciously rake his claws down the arm of Clyde’s new leather chair, leaving long, deep indentations just short of actual tears.
    And, shouldering out through his cat door in a mood black and hateful, within three minutes—never reentering Clyde Damen’s pokey little cottage—he was set up to listen to every smallest whisper from Clyde’s sacrosanct poker game.
    He, Joe Grey, would miss nothing.
    Â 
    Dulcie discovered Joe’s hideaway when she came along the fence from Lucinda’s. The night had turned chill, and Dirken had closed the windows. Annoyed at being shut out, she had left the