masterpiece. So whaddaya say?”
The owner of the store had been right; after the sun set, traffic in the bookstore picked up. Ben had the pleasure of fielding a wide variety of comments and remarks:
“So, do you think you might ever write a serious book?”
“What’s next, the Great American Novel?”
“My six-year-old here is also a writer.”
“I’ve got a great idea for a book, but I’m just too damn busy to sit around typing all day long. Tell you what. I’ll give you my idea, you do the writing, and we’ll split the profits fifty-fifty.”
“So, is this fiction? Or is it a novel?”
“I’m sorry, your name doesn’t ring a bell. Have you done anything I should know about?”
“I don’t mean to pry, but how much do you writers make? You don’t have to give me any details. Just in round numbers. Six digits? Or seven?”
“Where do you get your ideas?”
Ben leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Cleveland.”
When closing time finally rolled around, Fred reappeared, cat still in his arms. “Well, Mr. Kincaid, I want to thank you for coming out tonight to sign.”
“It was my, um, pleasure.”
“I’m going to give Margery here a can of Feline’s Fancy. That’s her favorite, you know.”
Ben tickled the cat. “What a sweetie. Mind if I hold her?”
“Of course not.” Fred transferred possession of the tabby to Ben’s arms.
Ben stroked the cat’s neck and back. She squirmed and rolled under his touch, loving every minute of it, purring loudly. “What a nice cat.”
Fred grinned. “Actually, she’s a monster.”
“Excuse me?”
“She’s horrible. I can’t sit still for a moment but that she starts rubbing her wet slimy nose all over me.”
“That’s what cats do.”
“She gets cat hair all over the store.”
“It’s shedding season.”
“She’s always whining for attention or food or to be let in or out. Just drives me crazy.”
Ben held the cat tightly in his hands. “I’m surprised you ever took her into your home.”
“She was a gift from a friend. At least I thought she was a friend. And she’s never been in my home. She stays at the store.”
“Even at night? When no one’s here?”
“I’ve tried to get friends to take her on, but no one’s that stupid. Pound won’t have her. Frankly, I’m out of ideas.”
Ben held the cat close to his chest. “Well, in time, I’m sure the two of you will grow close and-”
“So tomorrow I’m taking her to the vet for the Big Needle.”
Ben’s muscles clenched up. “For
“I’m having her put to sleep.”
“But she’s still young. She’s in perfectly good health.”
“She’s driving me insane.”
“Let me try to find someone!”
“I’ve been down that road before, and I know she’ll be back in my lap again by lunch time.”
“But you can’t just kill her!”
Fred put a hand on his hip. “Hey, back off, chump. She’s my cat and I can do anything I damn well please with her. Including putting her to sleep.”
“I don’t think the vet will-”
“I’ve already made the arrangements. Appointment’s at ten in the morning. So I’ll feed kitty her last meal, let her get a good night’s sleep, and then …” He pantomimed pushing the plunger on a syringe, then acted as if he’d just received an electric shock. “
Ben’s lips moved wordlessly.
“Anyway, Kincaid, thanks again for coming to the store.” He took the cat from Ben. “It’s been great.”
Ben stared blank-faced at the man. “Yeah. Great.”
Even as ben crept down the alleyway, he couldn’t believe he was doing it. This was the kind of escapade Christina would concoct; she would spend hours trying to talk him into it, until finally he relented. But now here he was out by himself, doing it on his own.
Damn. Whatever she had, it must be catching.
But how on earth could he face Clayton Langdell and the rest of the gang at the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Our Other-Than-Human Neighbors if he allowed this act of barbaric cruelty and species snobbery to take place? More to the point, how could he face Giselle? He had argued and argued with Fred, but nothing he had said had changed the man’s mind. There was no other alternative. Ben normally wasn’t one to meddle in other people’s business, but some things were just wrong, and this was one of them. He had to do something.
Didn’t he?
Navigating the town had been easy, even for a stranger, even in the dead of night. Magic Valley was a small northwest Washington town nestled at the foot of Mount Crescent. It had fewer than ten thousand residents, and the cabdriver had given Ben a thorough tour on his way in. Downtown was laid out on five streets: Main Street, which coursed through the center of the town, and the four cross streets, Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy-one for each assassinated president. Most of the residences were to the north, between Main and the Magic Valley National Forest, site of the logging operation that supported most of the town.
Ben tiptoed past a pawnshop, a drugstore, a dry goods store, and a grocery. Almost all the businesses had yellow ribbons tied to the door or a lamppost. What was that all about? he wondered. Well, that was something he could ask about tomorrow, after this
He crept down the steps that led to the basement entrance of the bookstore. He had checked the lock on his way out; it wasn’t the worst he’d ever seen, but he didn’t think he’d have much trouble getting past it. Long ago his friend Mike Morelli, Tulsa homicide cop, had made him an expert on lockpicking. And there was no sign of a security system.
He scanned the street above him in all directions. He saw two men standing on a streetcorner two blocks away. Even from this distance, he could see one of the men was huge, with muscles rippling out of his tank top and shoulder-length jet-black hair. The two were having an intense discussion about something. Ben couldn’t imagine what anyone could want to talk about at this hour of the morning. After a few more minutes, both men disappeared down a side street.
Ben waited until everything was quiet. He whipped out the simple two-piece metal lockpick he had acquired at the pawnshop not far from his hotel. He pushed the thin metal brace up, holding the trigger piece out of the action. Then he probed the interior of the lock with the longer ridged piece, trying to trip the tumbler that would open the lock.
He heard a distinct popping noise, then tried the doorknob. It moved.
Ben drew in his breath. This was the critical moment. If he took the next step, he would be committed to this course of action. This absolutely positively illegal course of action.
Slowly he pushed the door open. There was no alarm-or none that he could hear, anyway. That at least was a relief.
He shuffled inside, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline. He had taken the decisive step now; best to just get it over with.
He pulled his flashlight out of his coat pocket and swept it across the bookstore. The card table at which he had sat before was gone, and the largely unsold stock of his book had already been loaded into a cardboard box, ready to be shipped back to the publisher for credit.
He tiptoed down the nearest corridor, passing Agatha Christie’s entire life’s work, the Sue Grafton alphabet books, and the endless array of lawyer books, all of which appeared to have exactly the same cover.
In the far corner, he found his prey.
“Hello, Margery,” Ben whispered, crouching down to the cat’s level. “We’re going to do a road-show
