Shaking her head, she said, “I can’t imagine—”
An eardrum-thumping clap trailed by an ominous vibrating rumble had us both ducking in surprise.
“What in the world?” Sylvie’s gaze darted around the room looking for the origin, but she wouldn’t find it here.
I knew that sound. Something nearby had exploded.
It looked like my gut might be more clever than my head. I’d bet those fantastic cookies on my kitchen table that the target of the explosion was the house kitty-corner to my own.
7
The good news: it wasn’t the house kitty-corner to mine. The bad news: it was the shed in the backyard of the house kitty-corner to mine.
Sylvie was understandably upset. Her shed had been blown to pieces about the same time that I’d been suggesting there just might be a small possibility that someone wished her harm . . . according to her dead ex-husband.
But beyond “upset,” I hadn’t a clue how she was handling the explosion or the news of her haunting. She’d emerged from my home to the sight of smoke in her backyard and several helpful neighbors already on the phone with 911. The crowd included a few neighbors I’d met: Mrs. Gonzalez, Mr. and Mrs. Patterson, and Vela George. But there were quite a few new-to-me faces: a tall black man with dark shades who took one look at me and spun on his heel to leave, a group of teenage kids who looked intermittently shocked and fascinated, and a young man who spoke to Mrs. Gonzalez before leaving, possibly her nephew.
Mrs. Gonzalez had embraced Sylvie as she stood in the middle of the street and watched the rising smoke. With one suspicious glance in my direction, Mrs. Gonzalez hustled Sylvie away from me. They quickly disappeared into Mrs. Gonzalez’s home, four houses down from my own. From what little I knew of Mrs. G, Sylvie was either being plied with sweet tea or she was drowning her loss in tequila.
I stayed long enough to watch the authorities arrive, both firemen and police, then retreated indoors.
Clarence followed on my heels, watching as I poured whiskey into a coffee mug and started a pot of coffee. In my experience, Irish coffee was the only reasonable way to drink booze before noon.
“No way you could have known her house was going to get exploded,” Clarence said while I waited for the coffee to brew.
His words bordered on considerate, sympathetic even. I eyed him with suspicion.
“What? A cat can’t have a little empathy? I mean, I know you want some of that—who wouldn’t?—and now it’s gonna be hard, what with her crying over her house. Although you could comfort her—”
“Stop while you’re still ahead.”
“Right.” He flicked the back of his ear with his hind foot. “So how about we go for gold here, and I also mention that I’m sorry for leaving the front door open. I was bird-watching earlier and then got distracted.”
“The childproofing is on there for a reason.” Clarence, out in the world, wreaking whatever havoc popped into his feline brain, was not a scenario I liked to dwell on. But he hadn’t left the house, just created another bird-squirrel-neighbor viewing spot, so I relented. “It wasn’t your fault I got caught spouting—what did Sylvie say?”
Clarence chuckled. “Excited, inappropriate utterances. She’s cute. And just about your speed, except, you know, with really nice ta-t—”
My throat-clearing efforts produced the desired effect, and Clarence firmly sealed his lips. For about three seconds.
“I’m just saying, I think you’re a nice”—he spat, like something nasty had crawled into his mouth—“couple. There. I said it. That’s my requisite nice for the day.”
“Appreciated. Now, any thoughts about this explosion?”
“Ha!” If Clarence still had a knee, he’d be slapping it. As it was, he bounced in a very un-catlike way. “I knew you couldn’t ignore a damsel in distress.” He pogoed a few more times. “We’re gonna do right by Bobby and his old lady. That’s my upstanding, do-gooder boss man.”
Apparently, Clarence truly had been lonely if he’d developed such an affinity for our ghostly visitor in such a short time. I felt a twinge of guilt for the limited contact he had with the outside world, but he wasn’t trustworthy and he was my responsibility.
In a moment of weakness, I reached down and patted him. “We’re going to do our best to sort this mess out, I promise.”
Clarence purred, and I snatched my hand away.
He blinked his big green eyes at me. “Is this one of those ‘never to be spoken of’ moments, boss?”
Not answering seemed the best method to discourage him, so I changed the subject. “I’ll get you a good scratching post, and you can rub your chin to your heart’s content.”
Clarence had only called me “boss” when we’d discussed Bobby’s situation. Maybe it was an indication of just how important it was to Clarence to help his new friend. Yet another reason to involve myself. Not only was it the right thing to do, but my feline ward was showing some signs of emotional growth. I wanted to encourage any improvement . . . and it was also likely he would make my life miserable if I didn’t take the case. So it looked like I was diving in, even if it would drop me into the deep end of humanity much sooner than I’d anticipated.
“Or you could invite that tight piece of—”
I cleared my throat. So much for Clarence’s big heart and good intentions. “Don’t start.”
He ignored my warning. “As I was saying, you could invite the lovely Sylvie over, and she can scratch that itch for me.”
“Clarence, get your mind out of the gutter. Besides, I’m not sure Sylvie will have much time for us, what with our recent disclosure and her shed blowing up. Most people don’t look favorably on the
