"Actually, rain makes for good rabbit hunting. If it floods their holes, the rabbits come right on out. Disorients them. I enjoyed, some time before midnight, an unusually fat young rabbit. If you ever-"

"Can it, Joe. You want to tell me how you just happened to be on Hellhag Hill when Pedric Greenlaw fell and Newlon Greenlaw died? I presume Dulcie was with you. Dare I ask if you were there before the cops arrived?"

"How could we have been?" Joe fixed a shocked yellow gaze on Clyde. "You can't think we had anything to do with the accident? Why in the world would we, two little cats…"

"Give it a rest, Joe. What were you doing on Hellhag Hill in the middle of the night, in the pouring rain? How did you know about the accident?" Clyde was pale with anger. Joe didn't want to be the cause of a coronary. With the way Clyde ate, his arteries were probably lined with gunk thicker than transmission oil.

"If you must know," he said softly, "if it's really any of your concern, Lucinda called Wilma from the hospital. I just happened to be there at Wilma's house, eating cookies, so of course she took Dulcie and me with her. Lucinda asked her to go out to Hellhag Hill and meet with the police, to find out what had happened."

"And Wilma took you with her? Why would… Why would she…?"

"She made us promise to stay in her car, out of the way."

"And of course you did that. Stayed in her car, warm and dry and minding your own business. Never touched a paw outside the car, never went near the body and the police."

"You really don't think we would get in the way of the police. The fact that…"

"Please, Joe. It's too early."

"Bacon's burning," Joe said helpfully.

Clyde leaped to rescue the charred slices. As he tried to scrape the black off-which worked better with toast than with bacon-Joe pawed through the paper, wondering if the Gazette had had a front-page piece on Clyde and the pups, before the accident replaced it. Such a humorous story was exactly the land of local interest that the Gazette loved for page one.

Clawing out Section B, Joe began to smile.

There it was, right on the front, where no one in Molena Point would miss it.

He read the article with quiet satisfaction. Reporter Danny McCoy had been able to get a photograph, too. The shot showed the two rookies impounding the Harley as Clyde tried to coral the pups. The picture was taken at some distance, so it was a bit blurred-but still effective. Joe wanted to roll over laughing. "First-class circus," he said, addressing Clyde's back.

Clyde turned to stare at him. "The death of a man and the injury of a second man is a circus?"

"Not what I meant. That was certainly a tragedy. But this-" He stared pointedly at the page with Clyde's picture. "Tell me, how did they treat you in jail? I expect everyone in town got to enjoy the event- except yours truly. I hate when I miss your really illustrious moments."

"You want eggs and bacon and toast this morning? Or do you want that cut-rate brand of cat food that you said tastes like secondhand snuff mixed with floor wax?"

Joe subsided. He said nothing more until he had finished his burnt bacon and scrambled eggs. Completing his meal, he sat comfortably on the table, washing his paws and whiskers, cutting only an occasional glance in Clyde's direction. Clyde had not offered any gourmet embellishments this morning, no smoked kippers or a little dab of Beluga caviar or even a slice of Tilsit, to create a memorable dining experience.

Clyde finished his eggs without speaking. You wouldn't think that a little friendly ribbing would make him this mad. But maybe he wasn't feeling well. Joe studied him, looking for some sign of illness.

He saw only a deep, dark fury.

Finished eating, Clyde laid down his fork and gave Joe his full attention. "I really appreciate your alerting Danny McCoy to this choice bit of news." He looked Joe over coldly. "With your thoughtfulness, you have treated the entire population of Molena Point to a long and sadistic laugh at my expense."

"I didn't call Danny McCoy! Hey, I might enjoy the joke, but I wouldn't have given it to a reporter. Don't lay this on me, Clyde. Everyone saw you-and heard you, shouting at those rookies on the street. Shouting at the pups. McCoy heard the story the way he gets all of his information, probably two dozen shopkeepers called the Gazette. Why do you always think I have something to do with your self-inflicted misfortunes! That is so tacky. If you-"

"Of course you had something to do with it. Look at the smart-assed grin on your face. You hardly took time to feel sympathy for those poor Greenlaw men. Talk about cold-hearted. You couldn't wait to paw through the rest of the paper, find McCoy's story. You were grinning wide enough to make the Cheshire cat look like a death-row inmate."

"How could you see if I was grinning. You had your back to me. And wouldn't you smile, if I got arrested accosting a police officer?"

"I was not accosting Officer McFarland. I was rescuing the pups-your pups, if I might remind you- from a cruel incarceration at the dog pound."

"My pups? I was the one who wanted to take those two to the pound. I wanted to let the pound feed them and find homes for them. But not you. Mr. DoGooder. No, you couldn't bear the thought. 'Look at the poor babies, Joe. Look how they're starving. How could you lock them in cages? Oh, just wook at the oootsy wootsy doggies.' And now look at them; you've already spoiled Selig rotten."

"Well, at least I… " Clyde stopped, looked again at the paper. Picked it up, jerking it from under Joe's paws. "What's this?"

"What's what?"

"The Letters-to-the-Editor column. You didn't read it?"

"How could I read it? You've been picking at me all morning. When did I have time to read it?" Leaping to Clyde's shoulder, he balanced heavily, scanning the three columns of letters.

SHOPLIFTING LOSSES TRIPLE IN RECENT WEEKS

What is Captain Harper doing to prevent the sudden increase in crime in our village? Molena Point relies heavily on the tourist trade, on its reputation for a slow, people-friendly, low-crime environment. We don't need shoplifters and petty thieves. The sudden outbreak of such crimes seems to have received no response from Police Captain Harper. Local businesses are losing money, our visitors have been approached by confidence artists, and the police are doing nothing to arrest and detain the lawbreakers.

Joe snorted. "Who wrote this? Some guy who doesn't like Harper. Probably some clown who lives on the wrong side of the law himself. Some cop-hater with an ax to grind." He dropped from Clyde's shoulder to the table and ripped his claws down the letters column. "The Gazette has no right to print such trash. If I paid for this paper, I'd cancel the damn subscription."

And he left the house, stopping to rake the living-room rug, then shouldering out through his cat door.

But, trotting quickly up the sunny street, he forgot the petty letter-writer, and fixed again on the tragedy of last night, on the dark, rainswept hill, on the swinging lights of the police torches.

Who else had been on Hellhag Hill last night, before the cops arrived? Who would want to kill Newlon Greenlaw and hurt Pedric? And Joe Grey wondered, would the little, wild tortoiseshell kit succeed in picking out the attacker?

But even if she did identify the man, still they needed proof. They couldn't drop a killer in Harper's lap without some hard facts, without enough solid physical evidence for Harper to take to the grand jury and for a prosecutor to take to court.

And Joe Grey moved on into the village, turning over in his sly feline mind every possible method he could think of for snaring the murderer.