Free Cat Telling Tales by Shirley Rousseau Murphy Page B

then carry in the five old Styrofoam coolers that Billy used for cat beds. Turned on their sides, with the lids taped on and new doors cut near one corner, they made cozy little houses, shutting out the chill. Clyde lined them up along one wall, while Ryan washed Billy’s chipped crockery and filled a bowl with fresh water. It was nearly two hours before Billy and Charlie returned with their little patients, and Charlie backed the Blazer down to the stable door.
    Getting out, Billy stood looking into the stall, then looked shyly at the three adults, his cheeks coloring with pleasure. Then he went to fetch his cats. Setting the carriers in the stall, he left them closed while he headed out to the hay barn.
    â€œWhat?” Charlie said.
    Billy turned back. “Getting straw for my own bed. If—”
    â€œYou’ll be sleeping upstairs,” Charlie said, “over the stable. There are two bedrooms, you don’t need to sleep in a stall.”
    Billy looked at her quietly. “I’d rather, if it’s all right. The cats’ll be easier if I’m with them. And . . .” He grinned at her. “More like home, maybe. And I like the smell of the horses, I’ll like hearing them around me at night.”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    He nodded. “I can park my bike in here, too, out of the way of the horses, to keep it dry.”
    â€œAll right, then,” Charlie said. But as Billy turned to head for the hay barn, Clyde stopped him.
    â€œWe have a folding cot down at the house, and some camping blankets. Leave the straw until you try that.” There was even a half bath up by the tack room, a convenience that saved Charlie and Max and their boarders from tracking mud and hay into the house. The tomcat could just imagine what kind of bathroom had been in the burned shack; even a litter box would be more luxurious.
    Sure as hell, he thought, that old shack had been ripe for the smallest spark to break into flames. But why not the other two? Why hadn’t they burned? And why hadn’t the old woman gotten out of there? Or, the tomcat thought again, was she dead before the blaze started?
    Padding out the big door into the stable yard, he watched Ryan, Charlie, and Billy start off across the south pasture to bring the horses back. Clyde headed for the pickup to go fetch the cot, then turned to look at Joe. “You coming?”
    â€œThink I’ll hang out here for a while,” he said innocently, as Max’s truck turned in from the highway.
    On the narrow lane the two trucks paused, driver to driver. Clyde said, “Billy’s moved in. The kid . . . What’s wrong? What have you got?”
    â€œCoroner’s preliminary,” Max said. Joe eased closer, along the pasture fence, as Max glanced toward the stable. “Where’s Billy?”
    Clyde nodded toward the south pasture. “Bringing the horses in.”
    Max nodded. “Looks like Hesmerra was poisoned.”
    â€œWhat, spoiled food? Billy wasn’t sick.”
    Max was silent.
    â€œYou mean deliberately poisoned? With what? Why the hell would anyone poison that old woman?”
    â€œCoroner hasn’t done the autopsy yet, but he’s thinking wood alcohol. There’s isopropanol in the blood. He’ll work on her tonight. Alcohol could have been easily added to her booze. Heavy drinker like that, she probably never noticed the difference.”
    Easing deeper into the bushes, Joe wondered if the old woman might have been so hard up for booze, she’d purposely drink rubbing alcohol? But that didn’t make sense, she had all the whiskey she wanted, Erik Kraft bought it for her.
    Would Erik give that old woman poison? But why? Who else was there? She lived practically as a hermit, only her grandson around most of the time, and Billy sure hadn’t poisoned his gran. He wondered about the neighbor who had moved out, Emmylou Warren, the woman who had come to