Kat rushed to help, but Mrs Truesdale waved her away. Only when order was restored did she say, ‘Tiny is a great wanderer. Don’t be disappointed if you don’t see too much of him. He’s not a cuddly cat.’
If Kat had a pound for every time she’d been told a cat was aloof, mean or ‘not cuddly’, only to have that same cat become a soppy, floppy purr factory as soon as Kat laid a hand on it, she’d have been a millionaire. Kat spoke cat. But she smiled politely and followed Margo Truesdale on a tour of the cottage.
The living room was cosy and modern, with a real fireplace, oak floorboards and glimpses over the rooftops of the bay and biscuit-coloured beach. There was space for the Wolfes’ sofa and coffee table when they arrived.
Upstairs was a bathroom with an immense claw-footed tub that Kat decided she would fill with bubbles later. The master bedroom with the sea view would be her mum’s.
‘And this is yours,’ Mrs Truesdale announced grandly, ushering her into a room decorated with floral wallpaper.
But Kat had spotted the spiral staircase leading up to the attic. ‘What’s up there?’
The storekeeper stiffened. ‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ Kat thought of the shadow she’d seen from the road.
‘A grimy storeroom is what I mean. Not worth the effort. Besides, it’s dangerous. Loose floorboards and choking dust. Hideous. Unfortunately, Maria quit before she could tackle it. Can’t get the staff these days. Come away downstairs.’
Kat didn’t budge. ‘Why did Maria quit? She seemed upset. I heard something about a rabid tiger.’
Margo Truesdale’s turkey neck wobbled in agitation. ‘Rabid tiger . . . ? How hilarious. No, no – she was fretting about rapid spiders. Attic’s full of them. There’s talk of a ghost too – not that I want to scare you. All round, it’s a bad idea going up there. Come downstairs. I’ll—’
Her phone burst into song. ‘My daughter,’ she huffed when she clicked it off. ‘Forgotten her keys again. I’ll pop out to the street with them to save her time. Why don’t you wait in the kitchen? Help yourself to another scone.’
Kat followed dutifully, but as soon as the door shut, she ran upstairs. She didn’t believe a single one of Mrs Truesdale’s garbled excuses about the attic. Mountains of grime. Battalions of spiders. Poltergeists. The deli owner was hiding something – Kat was sure of it.
The spiral staircase was steep and narrow. Kat wasn’t nervous about who or what might be lurking in the attic. She’d learned only three Way of the Mongoose moves, but they’d boosted her confidence.
At the top of the steps, she paused and knocked. No answer. Pushing the door open, she found herself in a bedroom. Odd that Margo Truesdale had insisted the space was only used for storage. A Japanese futon was pushed against one pale blue wall, a duvet and fresh sheets folded at its foot. A wooden trunk served as a bedside table. On it sat a lamp decorated with sailing boats, gulls and waves.
Best of all were the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There was space enough for every novel Kat owned and hundreds more.
She perched on the window-seat and looked out to sea. The intense blue of the English Channel filled her vision. Framing the cove was the pastel-painted town.
Among the homes that clung to the higher slopes was the glass, wood and steel one she’d noticed as they drove in. A man stood on the deck, his eye pressed to a telescope.
A chilly gust gave Kat goosebumps. She was about to close the window when a paw print caught her eye. It was pressed into the dust on the sill. She stared at it, uncomprehending. It was lynx-sized.
A low growl made her jump. It came from the wardrobe. Kat straightened in a hurry, nerves jangling. Any sane person would have run first and asked questions later, but Kat was curious. The last time she’d heard a snarl like that was when her mum was treating a serval, a strikingly beautiful African wildcat. The sad creature had been brought to Britain by a breeder.
Cautiously she crept towards the wardrobe. The growl became an enraged hiss.
‘Tiny, if that’s you, my name is Kat. I’ve wanted to meet you for ages. Don’t be afraid. I know you’ve had a hard time with Dr Baker dying and lots of strangers coming and going, but I’m here now and I’ll take good care of you. We’ll be best friends, you’ll see.’
The wardrobe door was ajar. Leaning on it, she peered into the gloom. A split-second snapshot of vivid green eyes was all she got before a paw snaked out and claws raked her forearm, raising three bloody lines.
As she reeled back, the biggest cat she’d ever seen – a monster patterned like a leopard – flew past her and out of the high window. Kat recognized it instantly as a Savannah. Judging by its size and markings, it was an F1 or F2 hybrid, only a generation or two removed from its wild ancestor.
‘Kat!’ called Margo from the floor below. ‘What was that crash? Kat, are you up there?’ She clanked and panted up the iron steps. ‘Are you hurt?’
In the nick of time, Kat pressed shut the cupboard door and tugged her jumper sleeve over the bloody scratches on her arm. When the deli owner came in, she was over by the window, gazing serenely at the view. From what she could tell, Tiny had used the oak tree that overhung the thatched roof as an escape route down to the garden.
Margo Truesdale stared around suspiciously. ‘Is everything all right? I thought I heard . . . Oh, never mind. Why are you in here, anyway? I told you it wasn’t safe.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Truesdale, but you really don’t have to worry. I’ve never been afraid of spiders or ghosts, and the floorboards seem solid enough to me. This is the bedroom I want. It’s completely perfect.’
And it was. To share a room in the eaves with a small, sweet tabby would have made Kat extremely happy. To share it with a Savannah cat almost as large and wild as its serval parent or grandparent was more than she could have dreamed of.
The scratches on Kat’s arm stung horribly. Still, as she followed Margo Truesdale down the stairs, she couldn’t stop smiling.
All her life she’d been told she had a way with animals. Cat whispering, though, was her special gift. It might take a little longer than she’d hoped, but – Kat was confident – some day soon, she’d win Tiny over.
7
Charming Outlaw
The man on the telephone was desperate and made no attempt to hide it.
‘Please, ma’am, I’m counting on you to help. You’re my last, best hope.’
Kat had never been called ‘ma’am’ before, nor had she ever been anyone’s last, best hope and, though the waiting room at the Bluebell Bay Animal Clinic was crammed, she was intrigued.
She loosened her scarf. It was making her itch. The temperature had risen with the press of bodies and poorly pets, but she didn’t dare take it off. Her mum would have a stroke if she saw how close Tiny’s claws had come to Kat’s jugular vein that morning. He’d ambushed her from the top of the kitchen cabinet.
Kat didn’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault. He had kittenhood issues. According to Sheila, their purple-haired neighbour, he’d been abandoned in a cardboard box on Dr Baker’s doorstep at only a few weeks old.
‘He was a wee, drenched scrap. Skin and bones. Wild as anything, even then. It was touch and go whether he’d survive. Who knew he’d grow into a giant –’ she searched for the right word – ‘menace. My King Charles spaniel is afraid to leave the house.’
Kat felt for the spaniel, but not because of Tiny. More often than not, timid animals were made more fearful because their owners projected fearful vibes. Sheila’s anxiety about Tiny had probably caused the situation in the first place.
It wasn’t Kat’s place to say so, and she didn’t. The best thing she could do was keep trying to bond with her cat in the hope of persuading him to be kinder to small dogs and neighbours in the future.
It wouldn’t be a picnic. The previous evening, her mum had opened a kitchen drawer and discovered the wild-animal licence Lionel Baker had needed in order to keep an F1 Savannah. Dr Wolfe had raised an eyebrow. So far, a
ll she’d seen of Tiny was a blur of spots and stripes moving between the bushes in the garden.
‘So we’ve inherited an almost-serval? That could be a challenge. Many Savannahs have wonderful dog-like natures and are affectionate and loyal. Then there are those that are feral and kind of terrifying. Give Tiny time and space, Kat. Be patient and, most of all, be careful.’
Her gaze went to a new scratch on Kat’s hand. ‘Any problems, let me know.’
‘Absolutely.’ Kat crossed her fingers behind her back, relieved that the gouges on her arm were hidden by her clothing.
‘I mean it, hon. Don’t suffer in silence.’
‘What about Dr Baker?’ Kat had asked Sheila the next day. ‘Did Tiny love him?’
‘That feline horror? Wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. Tolerated him, is all. Yet Lionel doted on him. Wouldn’t hear a bad word.’ Sheila frowned. ‘Oh, Kat, I hope you and Dr Wolfe won’t leave like all the others. Margo’s sure you will.’
‘What others?’
‘The other vets. One barely lasted an hour. He came screeching out of number five with Tiny stuck to his head like a barnacle. Thought I’d be calling the fire brigade to prise the spotted devil off. Luckily my garden hose did the trick. The poor wee man ended up half drowned on top of looking as if he’d been set upon by lions. Probably still in therapy.’
Kat hoped Sheila wouldn’t feel the need to share that particular story with Dr Wolfe. ‘Mum and me are here to stay, I promise. We’re not bothered by a couple of scratches. All Tiny needs is some TLC and he’ll be a new cat. Anyway, we like Bluebell Bay. We feel at home already.’
It was true. With the aid of a local handyman, the Wolfes had spent much of the previous weekend painting the animal-clinic waiting room and fixing up the kennels and aviary for overnight emergencies. One week after opening, their noticeboard was plastered with cards from well-wishers such as Farmer Bernie, whose ewe had given birth to healthy twins.
The vast bunch of tulips was from Ruth Percy, whose schnauzer Lucky had been saved from meningitis. The flowers made seeing over the reception desk tricky for Kat. She was helping out after the third agency nurse in a row had let her mum down – this one with car trouble.
She stood as she took the call from the desperate American who considered her his last, best hope.
‘How can I help you, Mr, uh . . . ?’
‘Professor. Professor Theo Lamb. Let me ask you this. What kind of dad puts his own daughter in the hospital? If there’s a trophy for Worst Father of the Year, my name’s on it.’
Kat was startled. She wondered if she’d misheard. A mongrel was yapping at a spitting Persian and a yowling Siamese. The decibels in the waiting room were shooting up, along with the temperature.
‘I’ll tell you what kind,’ the American was saying. ‘A father so obsessed with Predator X that he forgets he’s living in the real world. If I hadn’t been preoccupied with finding my own Predator X here on the Jurassic Coast, Harper would have been spared a trip to the operating theatre.’
He paused for breath, and Kat jumped in. ‘Professor, I think you have the wrong number. We’re a veterinary practice.’
‘Why do you suppose I called? Who better to give me advice on the Pocket Rocket?’
‘The Pocket Rocket?’
‘You must have heard of him. Everyone around here has. His reputation stretches far and wide. Just not across the Atlantic, sadly. Not to Connecticut.’
‘Connecticut?’
‘Yes, ma’am. That’s why our landlady advertised in Academics Abroad. She was cunning enough to realize that if the advert went out in Dorset there’d be no takers. So she put it in a magazine that landed on my desk on a dull day in the Geology and Geophysics Department at Yale. You can see it now, can’t you?’
‘See what?’ Kat strained to catch his words above the din.
‘A photo of a redbrick country house in a sunlit English garden, with yellow roses round the door and Charming Outlaw—’
‘Charming Outlaw?’
‘Why do you keep repeating everything I say? That’s the beast’s poetic nom de guerre. In the picture, he’s charm personified. A chestnut thoroughbred leaning over a paddock fence, ears pricked, blaze as white as fresh-fallen snow, lipping at a rosy apple. For Harper, it was love at first sight. She adores horses.’
‘So do I,’ Kat said warmly. ‘Is Harper the daughter you put in hospital?’
‘You don’t pull any punches, do you? Yeah, Harper is my just-turned-thirteen-year-old . . . although, to be accurate, it was Charming Outlaw who sent her to the emergency room.’
‘I’m confused. You said Predator X had something to do with it. Is that a video game?’
‘Hardly. Pliosaurus funkei has been extinct for a hundred and forty-seven million years.’
Mr Newbolt leaned across the reception desk, pushing the tulips out of the way. Scrunched up in disapproval, his broad, flat, lilac-tinged face bore a strong resemblance to that of the lilac point Persian glowering at Kat from the cat basket beneath his arm. If it weren’t for his trilby hat and tartan blazer, they could have been related.
‘How much longer does Dr Wolfe intend to keep us waiting? Empress Swan Moon is not amused. She’s accustomed to tranquillity. Her nerves—’
‘Excuse me a moment, Professor Lamb.’
Kat put the call on hold. ‘I’m sorry for the wait, Mr Newbolt. Dr Wolfe will be with you as soon as possible.’
‘She’s been in with that old biddy and her obese retriever for the last fifteen minutes. How much time can one geriatric need?’
Kat had an overpowering urge to tip the tulips over his head, but she’d been well schooled by her mum to combat rudeness with courtesy. ‘Empress Swan Moon must be very special to you, Mr Newbolt. I’m sure you treat her like royalty.’
‘That I do. Empress is my whole world.’
She beamed at him. ‘Then you’ll appreciate it when my mum makes her feel special too and doesn’t pay any attention if people try to get her to hurry.’
He scowled. ‘S’pose I will.’
‘Why don’t you sit over there, Mr Newbolt, away from the dogs? It’ll be more tranquil for Empress.’
He moved off, muttering something about ‘amateur hour’. Empress Swan Moon gave Kat the evil eye through the basket’s metal grille. If looks could kill, she’d have been incinerated. Kat wondered if she was losing her touch with cats. So far, Tiny had proved immune to her usual methods.
‘Hello? Hello?’
Kat lifted the phone to her ear. ‘Apologies, Professor. I’m back.’
‘Look, can you help me out or not? I’m desperate to make amends. It’s not Harper’s fault her dad’s a muppet. What they don’t teach you at Yale is that a PhD is no insurance against idiocy. I’ve tried contacting the landlady who took a year’s rent in advance for the horse and house, but she’s gone to ground in Kyrgyzstan.’
‘I’m sorry you’ve had so much trouble, but I’m not sure what Dr Wolfe can do about it,’ said Kat. ‘She’s a vet, not a lawyer.’
‘I was hoping that someone there – a nurse or whoever – might offer a pet-minding service that would stretch to horses. Our housekeeper’s been attempting to groom him, but it’s taken its toll. I tried the local stables, but they hung up when I mentioned the Pocket Rocket. That’s another thing our esteemed landlady “forgot” to tell me: Charming Outlaw is an ex-racehorse. He’s small but, by gosh, he’s quick.’
At long last the penny dropped. Kat felt a flutter of excitement. ‘Are you saying you’re looking for someone to exercise him?’
She had a sudden, delicious vision of herself galloping along the beach on a chestnut racehorse, spray flying up around them.
The professor sounded peeved. ‘Haven’t I made that clear? Harper’s going to be out of action for months and she’s worried sick about the horse. As am I. It’s barely been ten days and he’s so restless and depressed – it’s sad to see. He’s a sweetie, really – just . . . keen.’
<
br /> The consulting-room door opened, and a golden retriever waddled out. Dr Wolfe followed, shepherding an elderly woman, bent and frail, through the door.
Kat made a split-second decision. ‘I’ll do it, Professor! I’ll ride Harper’s horse! I mean, I’ll need to check with my, uh, with Dr Wolfe, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. We’ll let you know by this evening at the latest.’
She ended the call before he could ask any awkward questions.
Her mum leaned on the desk. ‘Kat, Edith here has been battling to give Toby the exercise he needs. How would you feel about walking him a few times a week?’
‘This is outrageous,’ interrupted Mr Newbolt. ‘How can you justify twenty-five minutes on a single appointment? Anyone can tell there’s nothing wrong with that blob of a dog that a diet wouldn’t fix.’
The hurt on Edith’s face was awful to see.
Dr Wolfe stepped between them, her eyes darting to the appointment book. ‘Mr Newbolt, is it? A pleasure to make your acquaintance, although I must say it looks suspiciously as if your own precious angel has been at the cream puffs. We might need to have a little chat about that. It’s not good for her health, sir. Puts pressure on her heart.’
Mr Newbolt clutched at his trilby. ‘How dare you. I, umm . . . It’s only the occasional scoop of clotted cream. Empress has a weakness for it.’
Turning away, Dr Wolfe winked at Edith, who glowed.
Kat kept a straight face, but inwardly high-fived her mum. As Mr Newbolt followed Dr Wolfe into the consulting room, grumbling all the way, Kat introduced herself to Edith’s golden retriever and made a big fuss of him. He washed her face in return.
‘I’d be happy to walk your gorgeous dog, Edith. He can show me around Bluebell Bay. We could do some fossil-hunting together, if that’s all right with you.’
Edith nodded shyly. Leaning on Toby, she shuffled across the waiting room, her patient retriever wagging his tail beside her. Kat rushed to get the door for them.
Edith’s son was waiting outside in a BMW with the radio turned up too loud. He didn’t get out of the car. As Edith struggled into the passenger seat, Kat heard him snarl: ‘You call this five minutes? Next time, you’re taking a taxi.’
Kat Wolfe Investigates Page 4