Purrfect Heat (The Mysteries of Max Book 4)

by Nic Saint

  “Too bad. You’re pretty. Oh, well. I guess I’ll just stick to men. There must be someone out there who’s not a killer or about to die on me.” And she stalked off, the death of her husband clearly not affecting her very powerfully.

  “I never liked that woman,” said Stacie.

  “Me neither,” Odelia confessed.

  “I guess she’ll inherit all of Niklaus’s fortune.”

  Odelia smiled. “Didn’t anybody tell you? Shortly before he died, Niklaus changed his will. Apparently he hated Cybil so much he didn’t want to take any chances. So he left everything to Puck.”

  Stacie goggled at her. “Puck? But he didn’t even like him.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t. And I’m sure he was going to change his will again as soon as the divorce came through. But since he was killed before that happened…” She shrugged. “Puck is a very rich dog now.” She eyed Stacie seriously. “You did take the necessary steps to transfer ownership of Puck to you, right?”

  “Yes, I did. Everything was arranged through the notary yesterday.”

  “Good. Because I think Cybil might contest the will—and your claim.”

  Niklaus Skad’s lawyer had revealed as much to Chief Alec when her uncle had interviewed him. Cybil still had no idea, and Odelia thought it was better it stayed that way until the will was officially read.

  She watched as Stacie settled down at the edge of the pool and hugged a very wet Puck. At least something good had come out of this, she thought.

  Then Puck shook himself, spraying water all over the place. Stacie laughed, and so did Odelia and most of the other guests. Except…

  “Hey! Watch that stupid mutt!” Cybil screamed. “He’ll ruin my tan!”

  Yep. Sometimes people got exactly what they deserved.

  Epilogue

  We were all enjoying a leisurely time in Marge and Tex’s backyard. There was good food on the menu, apparently, at least if I went by the cries of delight from Odelia and the grunts of appreciation from Uncle Alec and Chase. Us cats had gotten actual meat for a change, and Dooley had even gotten the chicken wings he’d been craving for. The murder case had been solved, Ziv Riding would spend a nice long stretch in prison, Odelia had postponed our yearly visit to the vet, and everybody was happy.

  Well, almost everybody. Diego probably wasn’t happy. There was no way of knowing for sure, of course, as he hadn’t shown his face around these parts since his unfortunate run-in with Clarice. And Gran wasn’t too happy, either, as her beau Leo was still strutting his stuff with Jackie Canolli. But I wasn’t going to let her spoil the fun.

  “So what about that Leo, huh?” Dooley asked, tucking into another bit of chicken. “Left my human broken-hearted. Maybe we should do something about him?”

  “Like what? Put a horse’s head in his bed? Break his legs? Rough him up? We’re cats, Dooley. We don’t mess with humans.”

  “Unless they mess with our humans,” said Dooley. “Like this guy Leo.”

  We were out on the porch, tucking into our bowls. I darted a quick look at Harriet and Brutus, who were out near the tree next to the hedge, smooching.

  “When are they ever going to get enough of each other?” I asked.

  Dooley followed my gaze and shrugged. “It’s love, Max. It’s beautiful.”

  I slowly turned to him. “It’s love, it’s beautiful? What happened to ‘Brutus is a monster for stealing Harriet away from me?’ I thought you loved Harriet.”

  “I do love Harriet, but I’ve come to realize that if you truly love a cat, you need to be happy when they’re happy. You have to set them free to follow their hearts. And if Harriet’s heart leads her to Brutus, well, then that’s fine by me.”

  I stared at him. “Who are you and what have you done to my friend?”

  Dooley grinned. “I’m growing up, Max, what about that? Maybe one of these days I might even have a shot with Norma.”

  “Oh, so that’s the deal. You like Norma now.”

  “Well, she is pretty.”

  “She sure is. She’s also high-maintenance.”

  He frowned. “What’s high-maintenance, Max?”

  “When a cat wants you to fetch her Swiss chocolates or else.”

  “I’ll fetch her Swiss chocolates. I’ll fetch her all the Swiss chocolates she needs,” he said.

  He had that dumb look in his eyes that goes along with being in love. Yeah, Dooley had it bad, I saw. So that’s why he was cool with Harriet and Brutus. He’d transferred his affections to another queen. Well, maybe it was for the best. At least he wouldn’t bother me with his endless moaning about Harriet.

  “Don’t you think she has the most beautiful eyes, Max? Like rays of sunshine? Or, better yet, golden orbs that reflect the world’s early dawn?”

  Oh, crap. This was even worse.

  Harriet and Brutus walked up. Apparently you can’t live on love alone, for Brutus barked, “Where’s my meat? I thought we were getting meat? You two morons didn’t eat my meat, did you? Cause if you did, there’ll be hell to pay!”

  “Here’s your meat,” I said, indicating Brutus’s bowl.

  “Good,” he muttered. “I need meat. I’m a meat-eating cat.”

  “I think we’ve established that,” I said.

  He glanced up, a piece of raw liver between his teeth. “Giving me lip, Maxie? Better don’t give me any lip. I’m the one that got us this meat. Without me, there would be kibble on the menu. So better pay me some respect.”

  I blinked. “Um, are you feeling all right, Brutus?”

  “Course I’m feeling all right.” He grinned at Harriet, his bloodied teeth an awful sight. “I’m feeling on top of the world, ain’t that right, snuggle puss?”

  “That’s right, my cuddle man.”

  Then he dug in again.

  I directed a worried look at Dooley, but he was still dreaming about Norma, his face displaying a moronic look. Well, even more moronic than usual.

  I sidled up to Harriet. “Is Brutus all right? He seems… aggressive.”

  “He’s just fine,” said Harriet, darting loved-up looks at her cat. “I told him that the reason I was so attracted to Diego was because he acted like a real cat. A butch cat, if you know what I mean. Not like you and Dooley, who are just a tad too sweet for my taste.” She sighed. “I love a cat who’s tough and strong. A catly cat. And I think Brutus got the message loud and clear.”

  I groaned. “You turned him back into a bully?”

  “Not a bully,” she said with a look of reproach. “A catly cat.”

  “What does that even mean?!”

  Brutus looked up. “Hey! Don’t talk to my lady like that, Max. Show some respect.”

  “Brutus, my friend,” I began.

  He gave me the evil eye. “Don’t go getting all soft on me again, Max. We’re all catly cats together. There’s no reason to get mushy.” He directed a grin at Harriet. “Isn’t that right, sugar lips?”

  “That’s absolutely right, my stud muffin,” she cooed.

  Brutus took me aside, and whispered, “Just play along, Max! She likes me all butch and macho so butch and macho is what she gets. Capisce?”

  “But I liked you better when you were, you know, normal!”

  Brutus rolled his eyes. “Haven’t you ever been in love, Max?”

  “Um, no?”

  He punched my chest. “Fall in love, and then we’ll talk again. And now don’t cramp my style, buddy. I’m warning you. Don’t ruin this for me.”

  “What are you two whispering about, Brutus?” Harriet asked.

  “Just telling this chump what’s what, my queen.” Quieter, he hissed, “I like you, Max. I like you a lot, and I wanna thank you for what you did for me. But this is how it’s gonna be from now on, got me?” Then, louder again, “You little weasel! If you talk to me like that again, I’m kicking your big, hairy, orange butt!”

  And then he stalked off, leaving me staring after him, floored.

  Oh, great. Instead of a real b
ully, now I got the Actors Studio version.

  Dooley wandered over. “Don’t you think Norma’s fur is the color of—”

  “No, I don’t!” I interrupted him brutally. “And please don’t talk to me about that cat again. Ever!”

  Dooley stared at me, rudely awakened from his roseate dream. And as I sat there, moping, suddenly Harriet stole over to me. She gave me a gentle shove. “Maxie,” she said in a sultry voice. “I never saw this side of you before. When did you become all dominant and butch?”

  I stared at her. “Huh?”

  She giggled, a low and seductive sound. “I like this new Max a lot better than the old one. How about we share a piece of chicken?”

  This was just too much. After all this nonsense with Diego, and now Brutus, she wanted to steal my chicken? No way! “You’ve got your own damn piece of chicken,” I snapped. “I’m not sharing mine.”

  “Ooh, Maxie,” she cooed. “My butchy Maxie!”

  And then she threw herself into my paws and kissed me!

  THE END

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  Excerpt from A Tale of Two Harrys (Ghosts of London 4)

  Prologue

  “And… Action!”

  Harry Potter sat at the casino bar and nursed his whiskey—shaken, not stirred—while trying to look casual and debonair. In his tux with the crisply ironed white shirt and black slacks he was doing a pretty good job. This Monte Carlo casino was way swanky, and the baccarat table a buzz of activity as players dressed to impress crowded around the croupier.

  One of the players was Hermione, and he watched her intently as she gave him the secret signal. He narrowed his eyes as he caught sight of Le Miffre at the poker table, the most dangerous criminal ever to walk the face of the earth. The dark-haired master evildoer was casually letting his chips fall where they might, and gave no sign he knew he was being watched.

  Jacques Le Miffre had recently gone into business with Frank Riddle, the evil twin of Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, and this was Harry, Hermione and Ron’s attempt to catch the evil genius, who was building himself an army of followers to rival that of his twin brother.

  Just then, Ron walked over, dressed in a frilly pink tux that looked absolutely ridiculous. Harry casually brought his hand to his mouth and muttered into his wrist mic, “Did Liberace have a garage sale, Ron?”

  “It was the only bloody thing the Ministry of Espionage had left. It was either this or a lime-green one that used to belong to Kermit the Frog.”

  Ron joined Harry at the bar, and they both watched Le Miffre carefully. The criminal mastermind was tapping his chin, which was his tell, Harry knew. He shared a look of understanding with Hermione. Le Miffre was going to go all in now. Time to up their game and get in on the action. He casually got up and crossed the casino floor to the poker table.

  “Mind if I join you?” he asked Le Miffre.

  The evil genius gave him an appraising glance, then nodded. Harry sat down. Time to show Le Miffre who he was dealing with. It was do or die.

  “Oh, Harry, do be careful,” Hermione’s voice trumpeted in his ear.

  He locked eyes with the fair-haired beauty and nodded. “Always.”

  Just then, the ghost of a fat man came bursting through the table, upending the entire game and sending chips and cards flying everywhere.

  “What the…” Harry cried, and even Le Miffre seemed miffed.

  The ghost howled a startled cry, apparently as surprised as they were, and howled, “He killed me! The Dark Lord killed me! Killed me dead!”

  “Cut!” the director yelled. “Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut!”

  Myron Catling heaved a weary sigh and got up from his seat to stretch his limbs. The young actor, chosen to follow in the footsteps of Daniel Radcliffe and play the legendary Harry Potter, was frankly getting sick and tired of this nonsense. This was the third time already that this poltergeist had interrupted his key scene, and he was losing his patience.

  Devin Design, the actor who played Ron, walked over. “What’s all this nonsense?! Why can’t they get rid of this bloody nuisance?”

  “It’s not a nuisance, Devin,” he said. “It’s a poltergeist.”

  Devin laughed his trademark whinnying laugh, very different from the character he was playing, and a lot more annoying. “That’s impossible! Ghosts don’t exist!”

  “Ghosts do exist, Devin,” Christy Gyp said prissily. Christy had been selected from thousands of actors to step into Emma Watson’s shoes as Hermione Granger, and was doing a good job of imitating the part she was supposed to play. “Can’t you see? This poor soul probably died in this studio and now he’s trapped here.” She looked properly concerned as they all watched the poltergeist dive back into the table and disappear from sight, leaving a large glob of green goo on the poker table and on everyone who was so unfortunate to stand too close.

  “Well, bloody hell!” Sam Carr cried. He played Le Miffre and was now covered from head to toe in the green slimy substance. “He slimed me!”

  “It’s ectoplasm,” Christy said knowingly. “It’s supposed to be great for your complexion.” She dipped a finger into the slime and rubbed it across the back of her hand. “Has both exfoliating and hydrating qualities.”

  The director stalked up to them. He was a rail-thin man in his mid-fifties and was famous for having directed more than a few James Bond movies. In fact most of the people working on the new Harry Potter movie—Harry Potter and the Dark Lord’s Return—were veterans of the James Bond franchise. They’d even rehashed an old James Bond script.

  “This is the third time today that horrible beast has done this!” the director fumed. He stared at the table, which was now a mess. “We’re going to have to get the set decorators in here and redo the entire set. Again!”

  There were groans of exasperation from the extras who played the other casino guests and players. They’d been on their feet for hours, trying to get this scene right. Myron wasn’t too well pleased either. He was starting to lose his focus, and since this was a breakout part for him, he couldn’t exactly afford to drop the ball. He was, after all, playing the lead.

  “Can’t we film this scene another time?” he asked. “Maybe move on to the next scene on the schedule for now?”

  “No way,” said the director, upsetting his tousled head of gray hair. “The next scene requires even more preparation. It’s the scene where Le Miffre tortures you in the casino basement and Hermione and Ron save your life by knocking him out with the Hellfire curse.”

  Yep. The script wasn’t exactly adapted from a JK Rowling book.

  Just then, Myron’s eyes were drawn to the ceiling, where a crimson spot had appeared. He pointed at it. “Has that always been there?”

  The others’ eyes also rose to check out the spot.

  “I think it’s more of that slime,” Devin said.

  “Ectoplasm,” Christy corrected him.

  “Whatever. I just think this whole thing is a joke. Something cooked up by the marketing department to drum up interest for the movie.”

  “Yeah, because a new Harry Potter movie needs all the interest it can get,” Christy said with an eyeroll.

  In the movie, Ron and Hermione might be an item now, but their actors didn’t exactly get along. Not that Myron blamed Devin. Christy could be a pain in the butt sometimes. She was a method actress, and liked to stay in character between scenes. And Hermione might be lovely in the movies—or the books—but in real life her know-it-all act could be grating.

  The table moved again, and the ghost popped back out. “He killed me!” he was yelling. “The Dark Lord killed me! He killed me dead!”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Devin said. “You said that already. Your stupid little party trick is getting old, buddy.”

  The ghost hover
ed over the poker table for a moment, taking in Devin, Myron and Christy, then said, “Save me, Harry Potter. Save me!”

  But instead of sticking around to be saved, he streaked into the ceiling, spraying them all with more goo. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he slammed into the ceiling so hard it burst open and something big and heavy dropped out! It landed smack dab in the middle of the table and, finally giving up the fight, the table collapsed and smashed to the floor.

  “What the hell…” Myron said as he stared down at whatever had dropped out of the ceiling. And then Christy started to scream, and he saw what it was: the body of a very large, very dead man. A man who was the spitting image of the ghost.

  Chapter One

  I picked up my phone and saw I had three missed messages from Darian. I was hurrying after Jarrett as we walked past the guard station and into the studio. Pinewood Studios is famous for the James Bond movies, just like Leavesden Studios is famous for the Harry Potter movies. Why they were filming the ninth Potter movie here, I didn’t know, nor did I care.

  We’d been called here to do a job. Ever since Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton and I—Jarrett is my best friend and associate—launched the Wraith Wranglers, our brand of ghost hunting had been in high demand, but this was by far our highest-profile job ever. We’d never been called in to drive away a ghost on the set of a major motion picture before.

  “Do you think Harry Potter will be there?” Jarrett asked excitedly as we were led through a maze of corridors and sets to the main soundstage.

  “I’m sure they’ll all be there,” I said. I was more concerned with Darian and why he’d left those messages right now. I hadn’t seen the Scotland Yard inspector in a couple of days, nor had I heard from him, and I was starting to wonder what was going on. Ever since we started dating, not a day had gone by when we hadn’t spoken on the phone or met either at his place or mine. I was starting to think he’d met someone new.

  “I can’t wait to meet Hermione Granger,” Jarrett said. “She’s the bomb.”