Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
“Mrs. Farrol.” May cups her hands over the cat’s ears. “Please. She can hear you.”
Mrs. Farrol drains her glass with a loud gulp.
“Are there any other pets we can interview?” May asks.
“No. Just her.”
“What about the butler?” I ask.
“Dudley?” Mrs. Farrol hiccups. “He loves my baby boy. Everyone does. It’s impossible not to.” She beams at the pink-on-pink painting of the not-so-attractive cat. “He’s the cutest thing in the world. So sweet and kind.”
“Right.” I shift, hoping the cat will jump down. She simply shifts with me, her big green eyes looking almost … smug. But cats don’t have expressions. They don’t talk, either, I remind myself. “We’ll need to speak with Dudley and anyone else who was on the property the day the cat disappeared.”
May nods.
“Of course. You have free rein. Just find my baby and bring him back to me.” She lies back dramatically, one arm draped across her eyes. “I simply can’t do without him.”
May whispers something to the cat, which then jumps off my lap and trots to the door. May rises, and I follow her lead, hating the fact my hand isn’t on her any longer.
“I’ll do the questioning this time,” I tell her as I open the door for her.
“Thank you.” She looks up at me, her delectable mouth in a sweet smile.
My heart seems to beat at twice its usual speed, and I find my own lips twitching. It’s as if they want to … smile.
I’ve gone from investigating a missing person to searching for a lost cat with a woman who thinks she can talk to animals. What the hell is happening to me? And why do I seem to like it?
4
MAY
After not being able to locate the butler at the moment, Carson talks to the chef. I steal a green grape out of the bowl sitting on the giant island in the kitchen. Everything in this place is giant. Including Carson. Every space we enter together, the man dominates.
The chef pulls at his white uniform's collar, showing just how nervous he is. I'm not sure if it's because he has something to hide or because of the questions Carson fires at him one after another. I mean, I kinda feel for the guy. Carson is intimidating. He is also extremely hot.
I peek out the back door. There is a lot of land out there for a cat to get lost in. Well, ‘lost’ isn’t the right word. Cats don't lose their way unless they choose to. Plus, I can’t see anyone willingly wanting to give this all up. Sure, Mrs. Farrol can be a bit much, but I’ve been told I can be too. We all can be odd in our own ways. She doesn’t seem too horrible, at least not to Fitzy. Princess Mousey is another tale.
"Chef is good peeps," Mousey says as she places her furry booty next to me so we can both gaze out the window. "Makes a mean salmon. The taste is great for my stomach, but it's terrible for my hips." I hold in a laugh, not wanting to interrupt the interrogation Carson seems to be having right now. "The big guy is checking out your hips as we speak."
"What?" I peek over my shoulder to see that she’s right. Heat warms my cheeks. Before Carson catches me blushing, I quickly pretend to be staring outside again, a light snow flurry dancing on the wind. He didn't seem to be fazed that I'd caught him.
“See, I told you.” Her little voice brings my attention back to her. She looks so damn pleased with herself. “He can barely keep his eyes off you.”
“Shhh.” The second I release the sound, I realize how loud it came out. The room becomes eerily quiet.
I continue to gaze out the window, not daring to even turn around. My cheeks now feel like a burning inferno. The sound of Mousey’s laughter next to me does nothing to help my situation. I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to join her.
One of the main problems with hearing cats speak is that when I respond, I have to say it out loud for the world to hear. It’s not like the cats can hear my thoughts. That’d be weird. Convenient, but weird. But maybe there’s a human whisperer among them? Hm, I’ve never thought of that. I make a mental note to ask Mousey later. Back to the problem at hand: When I speak to my feline friends, it only makes me look that much more crazy. I should be used to it, but no one enjoys getting some of the looks people can shoot your way. Well, I suppose cats can. They don’t give a crap about what anyone thinks of them. They’re going to do what they’re going to do.