Chapter 1
For a second, I wasn't sure I was seeing what I seemed
to be seeing, which was a small, round, sesame water
cracker topped with half a sardine in Louisiana hot sauce
and a slice of black olive making its way across Marcus
Gordon's table seemingly under its own steam. I was tired.
Was I just hallucinating? I pushed my bangs off my
forehead, rubbed the space between my eyes with the heel of
my hand and looked again. No, it was definitely moving,
sliding across the speckled Formica tabletop like a slap
shot from a hockey stick.
Or a swat from a cat's paw. An invisible cat's paw.
I leaned forward, snatching the cracker off the table as
Marcus turned from the counter. It was too late to pretend
I was just brushing away a few crumbs.
"I didn't think you'd like those," he said. There was a
cute little furrow on the bridge of his nose, and a lock of
dark, wavy hair had fallen onto his forehead. I shook my
head. This wasn't a good time to get distracted by how
Detective Marcus Gordon looked when he frowned . . . or
smiled . . . or walked across a room. I'd stopped by so he
could check out a chair I'd gotten from my neighbor
Rebecca—Marcus was certain he could fix it—and
accepted his offer of a glass of lemonade and what was
looking like a rather unique take on crackers and cheese.
"They, uh, just looked so good I thought I'd try one," I
said. Okay, that wasn't exactly the truth. I liked the
sesame crackers and the black olives, but I wasn't that
crazy about the sardines in hot sauce. On the other hand, I
couldn't put the cracker back on the plate and let Marcus
eat it after it had been batted all over the table by a
small, gray tabby cat, invisible or otherwise.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
I nodded, trying not to inhale the combination of fish,
spices and olives. "Cheers," I said, raising the cracker in
a kind of toast. Then I stuffed the entire thing in my
mouth, chewed rapidly and swallowed. And immediately began
coughing.
Marcus started over to me, and I waved a hand to let him
know I was all right. "I'm okay," I rasped. "It was
just . . . spicier than I expected."
"Kinda sneaks up on you," he agreed. There was a hint of
a smile in his blue eyes. "Would you rather have cheese?"
He'd been about to slice a block of mozzarella.
"Please," I said, tucking a strand of hair that had come
loose from my ponytail behind one ear. He turned back to
the counter, and I reached for my glass of lemonade to
rinse away some of the heat in my mouth. I glared in the
general direction of where I figured my cat Owen was. I
knew he was the culprit. He loved sardines. And he was the
only cat I knew that could become, well, invisible. That
cracker hadn't hopped down from the plate and gone sliding
across the table under its own steam.
I pulled the plate closer in case he got the idea to try
for another treat. And since Marcus had his back turned, I
leaned forward and felt around, hoping that even though I
couldn't see Owen, I could maybe get lucky and be able to
grab him.
Not a chance. I couldn't see the cat, but he could see
me, and all he had to do was jump out of the way of my
sweeping hand. That was the problem with having a cat that
could disappear at will. He did, generally when he wanted
to do the opposite of whatever it was I wanted him to
do—like horn in on my visit with Marcus instead of
staying home. And how the heck was I going to get Owen back
to the house again? He'd obviously snuck into my truck and
then hopped out when I'd gotten here. Could I trust him to
follow me when I was ready to leave? I needed some
incentive.
I took another drink and palmed one of the
sardine–topped crackers, hoping Marcus hadn't counted
exactly how many he'd put on the plate. Then I pushed my
chair back and stood up, brushing a few stray cracker
crumbs off my jeans. "I think I might have left my phone in
the truck," I said. "I'm just going to check. I'll be right
back." I kept the hand holding the cracker down by my leg,
hoping it would be enough to entice Owen. I knew he'd be
tempted to just sit on the table and eat all the sardines
from the plate. I was hoping he was smart enough not to try
it.
"Owen," I stage–whispered, as soon as I was
outside and around the side of the house. I looked around
but I couldn't see him, of course. "You better be out here."
I opened the driver's door of the truck, set the cracker
in the middle of the seat and waited. After a long moment,
Owen appeared, gray head down, sniffing the food. I'm tall
enough that when I leaned across the bench seat my face was
inches from his. "You are in so much trouble," I hissed. He
looked up at me, all innocent, golden eyes. "How would I
have explained things if Marcus had seen that cracker
moving across the table all byitself, like it had little
wheels on the bottom?"
The cat looked intently at me and it almost seemed as
though he shrugged. Then he nosed the olive ring off the
top of the sardine, bent down and ate it. I waited for him
to spit it back out or at least make a face. All he did was
lick his whiskers.
"Don't tell me you like olives, too?" I said. "You know
what Roma will say." Roma Davidson was one of my closest
friends in Mayville Heights and she was also the town
veterinarian.
Owen made a face and shook his furry tabby head at the
sound of Roma's name. She wasn't one of his favorite
people, although in the last several months it had seemed
like he might be warming up to her. At least a little.
Roma had been very insistent that I was feeding Owen and
his brother, Hercules, way too much people food. And I
probably would have agreed that she was right, if they'd
really been just everyday house cats, which they clearly
weren't. Along with Owen's invisibility, Hercules had the
ability to walk through walls . . . and doors and pretty
much any other solid object that got in his way.
Of course, Roma didn't know about the cats' unique
skills. No one did. It wasn't the kind of thing I could
casually drop into a conversation without seeming more than
a little . . . well . . . crazy.
Owen used his paw to nudge the chunk of sardine onto the
seat. Then he sniffed it. He sniffed everything he ate. If
I gave him four identical kitty treats, he'd sniff each one
before it went in his mouth.
"You're not going to like that," I said, pointing at the
bit of fish. "It's Louisiana hot sauce. Hot. Sauce." I
emphasized the last two words. Owen being Owen, he
immediately gobbled up the fish. I waited for him to yowl
and spit it back out again.
He didn't so much as gasp. His kitty eyes didn't water.
He licked the last of the hot sauce from the top of the
cracker and then pushed it at me.
"Thank you, but I don't think so," I said. "I'm going to
go back inside now, and you're going to stay here."
He blinked and vanished.
"Okay," I said, straightening up. "I guess that means
I'll have to stop at Harry Taylor's on the way home and
give that bag of sardine crackers in the glove compartment
to Boris. I can't give them to you if I can't see you, and
I don't want them to get stale."
I knew Owen's tail had to be twitching in annoyance,
even if I couldn't see it. Boris was Harry Taylor Junior's
dog, a big, gentle German shepherd, and Owen's mortal
enemy—if a cat can have a mortal enemy. When all else
failed, the threat of Boris getting the cats' treats was
usually enough to convince them to see things my way.
I waited for Owen to reappear. He didn't. Was he trying
to see if I was bluffing? Maybe I'd used Boris as a
negotiating tool one time too many. Maybe I was giving the
cat way too much credit. Maybe he hadn't understood a word
I'd said. I was on the fence about how well Owen, and his
brother Hercules, could follow a conversation. On the other
hand . . . I leaned along the seat again, opened the glove
compartment, and pulled out a small, plastic ziplock bag
about half–full of my homemade sardine and cheese cat
treats. "I'll keep them with me so I don't forget to stop
at Harry's," I said.
That did it. Owen yowled his objections. Maybe he did
understand what I was saying. Silently, I counted to three
and he appeared on the seat again.
I held up the bag. "You can have the whole bag, if you
stay here."
He glared at me, eyes narrowed.
"Your choice," I said.
I started to back out of the truck and Marcus spoke
behind me. "Did you find it?" He was wearing his usual
citrus–scented aftershave, much nicer than Owen's
sardine breath.
I shot the cat a look and make a small motion with one
hand, both of which meant, disappear, now.
One thing all cats know—whether or not they have
superpowers—is when they have the upper hand. Owen
sat up straighter, looked around me and gave a pitiful meow.
"Kathleen, is that Owen?" Marcus asked.
I sucked in a deep breath, blew it out slowly and
twisted to look at him over my shoulder. "I guess he hid in
the truck," I said. "He does that sometimes. I was just
going to give him a few crackers and then hopefully he'll
take a nap." I turned back to look at the cat. He'd closed
his eyes and hung his head. His shoulders were slumped. If
they gave Academy Awards for cat acting, Owen would have
won. He looked pathetic.
"You can't leave him out here," Marcus said. "Bring him
inside."
I could see the gleam of one golden eye as Owen watched
to see what I'd do. "I don't think that's a good idea," I
started.
"He can't hurt anything in the house."
I gave Marcus a half smile because I already knew I'd
lost. I'd been bested by a small gray cat. And not for the
first time.