Purrfectly Dead by Dixie Lyle

Author:Dixie Lyle [Lyle, Dixie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

* * *

By the time lunch ended, Oscar had persuaded at least one guest—Hironobu Masuda—to look at his proposal, though nobody had pledged any funds. Considering that this was a far higher level of success than Oscar’s business ventures usually received, he was practically ebullient.

Me, I made it through by gritting my teeth and pretending everything was fine, even though it wasn’t. Only ZZ noticed—she’s hard to fool—but she didn’t say anything, only gave me the occasional concerned glance.

Afterward, I decided to take Whiskey for a walk. I wasn’t in a good mood, and from the ominous gray clouds hanging around overhead, I could tell Ben wasn’t, either. “Stupid Thunderbird weather powers,” I muttered, jamming my hands in the pockets of my jacket. “If it starts raining, I’m going back and shooting him in the face with a Super Soaker.”

The rain held off though, and I was so lost in my own thoughts that it took Whiskey two tries to get my attention telepathically. [Foxtrot. Foxtrot!]

“Hmmm? What is it, Whiskey?”

[The Welsh terrier and her owner. I believe they’ve struck a third time—and they’re still here.]

I grinned, feeling a little like all three bears at once; I finally had Goldilocks where I wanted her. Or whatever color her hair was.

I headed straight for the spot where she’d struck before. I was not in a good mood. In fact, if I were a Thunderbird, I’m pretty sure lightning would be crackling around my head and little icicle daggers would be shooting from my eyes. Okay, that sounds a little more like a 1940s cartoon than a mystical animal spirit, but I was also in no mood to keep my metaphorical imagery on point. I was, in a word, pissed.

The terrain of the graveyard was dotted with low hills, and as I crested one, I spotted her down at the base. White leather jacket, short matching skirt, oversize sunglasses, lots of wavy, red hair. The Welsh terrier, a medium-size, black-and-tan dog with short, curly fur, was sniffing at a gravestone with a cremains urn mounted on top of it; it meant that where the pet was interred, the pet’s owner had elected to store their cremated remains as well.

I stalked down the hill to where she stood and stopped a few feet away. Whiskey and the Welsh terrier immediately opened canine diplomatic relations: slow, careful circling, heads lowered, and then the sniffing of butts. The woman looked at me coolly, as if I were a server she’d ordered a drink from and hadn’t received it yet.

“Excuse me,” I said, pointing to the still-steaming evidence. “Is that yours?”

She glanced down then back again. “No, it’s hers. I’m just a bystander.”

I’m not going to say my skin turned red and my blood boiled; I’m just going to mention that any plant within ten feet of me wilted. “Bystanders in this graveyard are expected to clean up after their pets.”

“I’m afraid I forgot to bring a plastic bag with me.”

“You must be suffering from dementia, then. This is the third time.

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