“Perhaps?”
“He’s not certain. Death fugue and all that.”
It happened, usually when the deceased had died in an especially traumatic way. “Okay, so he doesn’t remember his death, probably because he was murdered. That doesn’t explain why he wants me to do the horizontal tango with his wife.”
Clarence snickered. “Watch it, Geoff. You’re dating yourself. Horizontal tango.” A snort and a chuckle later, he said, “Sylvie’s his ex. They’ve been divorced a few years, but she was his ‘one.’ You know, the one who steals your heart. The one you never get over. The one—”
“I understand, Clarence.”
“Right. Anyway, he’s worried that the people who killed him will come after her next.”
“That doesn’t explain the sex part.” I wasn’t risking another euphemism. Some parts of modern life were a piece of cake, but others . . . well, others came a little slower. But I was retired. I had time to fit in.
Who was I kidding? I hadn’t fit in back when I was human the first time. What were my chances now?
“Yeah, uh, you know, Bobby’s not quite all there.”
The singsong voice, the taunts, the childish behavior—no, he wasn’t. But Clarence was being shady, even for him, and my radar dinged and flashed neon signs of trouble. I sped up as we approached a speed bump.
Clarence lurched in his carrier as I hit it a hair too fast.
“Watch it,” Clarence called out.
“Hm. How about you get around to telling me the important parts, the ones you’re leaving out?” I glanced in the mirror and found him staring mulishly back. “Or I can take a few laps around the block and hit every bump at cat-puking speed. I’ve already got one mess to clean up . . .”
“For a straight and narrow guy, you sure do like your torture. Wait,” he said as we approached the turn to our house.
I slowed down.
“Okay, Bobby’s convinced if Sylvie rocks your world in the sack, you’ll be invested enough to make sure the bad guys don’t get her. So turn already. One upchuck session per ride is enough, thanks.”
“I wonder what gave him the idea that sex with his ex would guarantee my cooperation?” But I turned, foregoing the speed bumps. My back wouldn’t appreciate it any more than Clarence’s stomach.
One decidedly guilty-looking bobcat stared out the window the last few blocks, his nose occasionally twitching at some passing scent.
Finally, I prompted him, “Why?”
“Seriously? Can you blame me? You need to get laid. It’s unnatural going all that time without some warm p—”
“Eh-eh. No you don’t. Remember the house rules.”
A gravelly growl emerged from the backseat. “Only use the second best guest toilet, always flush, don’t scare the cleaning lady, and never talk about your sex life, especially in crass and unsavory terms.”
“That’s right. Do we need to have another discussion about what happens when you break those rules?”
More grumbling with an added hiss or two came from the backseat. “No.”
“So now that we’re clear on the rules, what exactly is Bobby expecting me to do in exchange for sexual favors with his ex-wife?”
“You know, it’s not all quid pro quo. His missus is lonely. It makes him sad to see her like that.”
“Right, and?” I pulled into the driveway.
Clarence huffed out a breath. “And he wants you to figure out who did him in and work your death magic on them so that his missus—his ex-missus—is safe.”
Good grief. “I don’t have any death magic.”
“Shh! We’re almost home. He’ll hear you.”
Not my problem. “He should hear me. You’ve been telling lies. If I remember correctly, Bobby’s not a big fan of falsehoods.” That liar, liar pants on fire chant of his had driven me bonkers since he’d shown up.
“It was more of a fib, a tiny white lie.” His voice turned whiny. “I was lonely. Bobby talks to me. And he watches TV with me. We’re even working on his corporeal form so he can rub my belly.”
“What?” I lowered my voice to a more reasonable decibel, and repeated, “What?” A kitty glare waited for me when I looked over my shoulder.
“You never rub my belly.”
There were simply no words. I was not rubbing any cat’s belly. Not a twenty-five-pound bobcat that could slice and dice my wrists, and especially not pornography-watching Clarence, who I was half convinced had been an aging letch before his death.
No.
5
Monday morning
“Just a little rub. That’s all I want. Come on,” Clarence pleaded.
Now that his secrets were out, both his predilection for British baking shows and the tummy rubs, he wouldn’t leave me alone.
At least he’d waited until after I cleaned up the backseat of the car before he started to nag. When I’d parked, he disappeared inside the house, leaving me alone in the garage with nothing but noxious odors for company.
But then he started in and hadn’t shut up until I’d locked him out of my bedroom last night. I was considering installing a key lock on my bedroom, because he could manage some surprising tasks with those oversized paws and lack of an opposable digit. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he could learn to pick the thumb lock.
First thing in the morning, he was at it again. Pet me. Scratch my chin. Rub my belly. He resembled a needy retriever more than any cat I’d met.
I had a few options. Ignore him, in which case I suspected he’d get louder. Placate him—belly rubs and paw massages? Unthinkable. Or distract him.
Bingo. But distract him with what? The only options that came to mind included messy human problems and all the complications they entailed. While I contemplated the problem, Clarence’s nagging continued.
“I promise not to bite you. I won’t even scratch—much. Come on.” He meandered back and forth in front of me as I walked to the fridge.
He’d almost tripped me three times now. I desperately needed to drink my coffee in peace, or I might overcome my distaste
