They could see, down in the village, Joe's own street, Clyde's dark roof that always needed shingles, and, across Ocean past the courthouse tower, Wilma's pale new shake roof and a glimpse of her stone chimney. They could see the red tile roofs of Beckwhite's Automotive Agency and Clyde's repair shop, marking the spot where the cats had tracked their first killer- and where they'd had to dodge bullets. They'd been mighty glad to be alive when that party ended. A lot had happened since they saw Samuel Beckwhite struck down in the alley behind Jolly's Deli.

Below Harper's home lay the old Spanish mansion with its little cemetery, and farther to the north the old folks' home. Beyond these, nearer the village, they could see where painter Janet Jeannot had died, where her studio had burned, and had been rebuilt long after Janet's killer was prosecuted.

Swift movement pulled them back to Harper's pasture. The two deer were running full out, as if something had startled them.

But they moved strangely, for deer. Too low to the ground, and no leaping.

"The pups," Charlie said. "They've broken out of their stall."

The cats pictured solid wood walls shredded, perhaps a door latch broken. Running, the pups vanished in a valley. It was only a moment until they came flying up over the rise below Hellhag Hill. Perhaps they were drawn by the music and by the human voices and laughter.

Racing up the hill, they made straight for the reception, crashing in among the tables, overturning empty champagne bottles, snatching food from the buffet. Clyde and Harper moved fast to corral them.

"What a mess they are," Charlie said, looking at Dulcie and Joe. "What made them attack Fulman like that? Confusion? Selig was terribly confused by that man-he wanted to be friends, then he growled and barked at him."

Charlie smiled. "Hestig just growled and barked. But they're good pups. They'll settle down. They'll grow up to be good dogs."

As good as a dog can be, Joe Grey thought, cutting Dulcie a glance.

"Well," Charlie said, "the pups helped save the day for Lucinda." She grinned at Joe Grey. "You cats did fine work. All those letters from Fulman's trailer. The letters, the ledger, and the shirt. And, with the pups, I know you saved Lucinda's life."

The cats did not reply. They were still shy with Charlie. No need to tell Charlie that it was the kit who had found the two crucial pieces of evidence, or that it was the kit who had identified Fulman as Newlon's killer.

Charlie might learn, one day, the talents of the tortoiseshell kit; Charlie was so open-minded for a human, so eager to understand. But she didn't need to know right away.

And the kit? Dulcie had the feeling that this bright-eyed, ragtag, bushy-tailed kitten might have huge wonders to show them all. To show her and Joe, and show those humans like Charlie-show the innocent and uncorrupted of the world, who had the courage and heart to believe.

About the Author

SHIRLEY ROUSSEAU MURPHY has received seven national Cat Writers’ Association Awards for best novel of the year, two Cat Writers’ President’s Awards, the “World’s Best Cat Litter-ary Award” in 2006 for the Joe Grey Books, and five Council of Authors and Journalists Awards for previous books. She and her husband live in Carmel, California, where they serve as full-time household help for two demanding feline ladies.

www.joegrey.com

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