A Taste Fur Murder Read online

  I almost tripped over the cat.

  I stopped myself just in time, teetering on my heels on the top step while the cat gazed up at me calmly from the step’s edge. It was a long-haired black-and-white, an elegant visitor in a fur tuxedo.

  “Oh! Geez, kitty, you startled me. But at least you’re not glowing.” I bent down and offered my hand for her to sniff, which she did before butting her head against it and starting to purr.

  “Well, aren’t you friendly?” I forgot how freaked out I’d been just a minute ago—cats had a naturally soothing effect on most people, and I was definitely one of them.

  But this cat was more than friendly—it was familiar. Tuxedo cats are pretty common, but each one tends to be a little different; this one was virtually identical to a cat I had as a child, right down to the little white almost-question-mark on her forehead. Of, course, my cat was a bit odd, with six toes on both her hind feet—

  I moved my hand from her back to her hind legs, first one, then the other. She didn’t try to stop me.

  Yep. Six toes. Twice.

  “That’s—impossible,” I whispered. “Tango’s been dead for ten years. You can’t be—”

  And then I heard the raspy, weary voice inside my head.

 

  * * *

  So that’s what we did.

  I didn’t scream, or faint, or run away. I’m a practical girl, and I do well under pressure. Okay, so my whole worldview was just turned upside down; what that meant to me was that now that everything was all jumbled up it was going to take a lot of work to get it straightened out, so I better get moving. You can’t get anything accomplished in a state of panic.

  I unlocked the door and Tango zipped inside, down the hall and straight to the kitchen, where she waited patiently while I got a can of tuna, opened it, and dumped it in a bowl. I got her some water, too, then watched as she wolfed the food down. On closer inspection, she did seem a little worse for wear: Her coat was dusty, with a few mats and tangles in it that she never would have tolerated when I knew her.

  When she was done, she glanced at me and licked her lips clean.

  You might be wondering why, after seeing and talking to a long-dead pet, I wasn’t reacting a little more … emotionally. Didn’t I care? Didn’t I wonder if I was losing my mind? Well, yes. To both. I’d loved Tango very much, and losing her hurt like nothing else I’d ever felt. But at the moment, I was in full-on crisis mode, where I went into this almost Zen-like state of super-efficiency and nothing could make me lose my cool. I’d had three-hundred-pound roadies high on amphetamines scream into my face from six inches away and never stopped smiling—it’s what I did, it’s what I was good at. I just mentally scheduled a breakdown for later, and added five minutes of sobbing or breaking things for every thirty seconds of hell I happened to be currently enduring.

  “So. Tango. Been a while. How’s that whole dead thing working out for you?”

  She cleaned a little grit from her front paw with her teeth.

  “Sure. Super. Let’s go.”

  So she padded out of the kitchen and down the hall and into the living room, me following right along behind. Part of me wondered if this was a dream or an extremely vivid hallucination, but I didn’t feel like I was asleep or under the influence of a drug. Maybe late-onset schizophrenia?

  Tango jumped up on my leather sofa, but—struck by the sudden realization that I wasn’t quite ready for my dead cat to curl up in my lap—I detoured to the high-backed chair across from it.

  And almost sat on the dog.

  [Ahem,] rumbled a deep voice.

  I froze, halfway to sitting down, straightened up, and slowly turned around. Lying on the chair was a tiny, big-eyed, very cute dog—I wasn’t sure of the breed, but it looked like a dirty dust mop with floppy ears and an underbite.

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  I could practically hear Tango rolling her eyes.

  “Hi,” I continued. “And you are?”

  [Just as reluctant to be here as you two. But let’s try to make the best of it, shall we?]

  I heard the voice in my head, just as I did Tango’s—but where her feline rasp sounded like a chain-smoking ex-chorus-girl, the dog’s voice was that of a barrel-chested but refined gentleman, a butler who used to box in the heavyweight division.

  Tango eyed him with obvious skepticism.

  The dog drew himself up and directed what was obviously supposed to be a withering glare in Tango’s direction. [I assure you, madam, that looks can be deceiving. And I do not—under any circumstances—piddle.]

  “I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. So what do I call you?”

  The dog sighed. [My given name is Mr. Tiny. But I—]

  It was a day for firsts, and another one suddenly arrived: I heard a cat laugh.

 

  [It wasn’t up to me.]

 

  [It surprises me that someone of your persuasion would harbor such an attitude toward size.] Tiny didn’t sound offended; if anything, his voice was drily amused.

 

  [That even if I were the size of a moose, you’d still be trying to get my goat. Unsuccessfully.]

  There was a pause. Tango gave her head an annoyed little shake, just like she used to when I was ten and that butterfly she was chasing had gotten away, again.

  Back when she was alive.

  Ten years ago.

  I blinked. I turned around. I walked to the bathroom. I could feel both animals watching me as I left.

 

  [Don’t blame me, I just go where I’m told.]

 

  [Oh, and I suppose you don’t have superiors? Nobody tells a cat what to do?]

 

  No I can’t, I thought to myself. Nope. No magic talking animal voices in my head, nosirree. I opened the medicine cabinet, found the tranquilizers, and took three of them. Appetizer, main course, and dessert. Check, please.

  I left the bathroom and went upstairs. Tango followed me, but I studiously ignored her.

 

  I opened my bedroom door just wide enough to step through, and quickly closed it before she could follow me. Unless, of course, she could walk through walls—hey, that seemed to be a skill most regular cats had, so why not dead ones?

  I waited, but she didn’t appear. She did, however, keep talking—and weirdly enough, even though I still heard her voice in my head, now it sounded like she was talking from the other side of a closed door.

  I didn’t answer. I undressed and got into bed, instead. Then I lay there, eyes wide open, trying very hard to not think about anything. After a minute or so, I sighed, then said loudly, “Attention, four-legged possibly imaginary guests! If you need to go to the bathroom, do not whine or yowl outside my door at three AM! If you can learn how to speak English, you can figure out how to use a flush toilet!”

  I paused. “Non-piddling entities can ignore the preceding announcement!”

  Then the tranquilizers hi
t my empty-stomached, overloaded nervous system, and I passed out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The tranquilizers did their job, well and truly knocking me out for a good ten hours. I woke up muzzy-headed and disoriented, with the ghosts of dreams chasing their own tails around my head. Something about my deceased childhood pet and a talking dog—

  [Ahem.]

 

  I sat bolt upright, blinking groggily. They’re still here.

  I had a brief moment of panic as I tried to figure out what I should do next. Sneak out the window? Ignore them and hope they fade away? Neither was my style—I preferred to meet my challenges head-on, though I was usually a little better prepared.

  The panic passed, replaced by the realization that I was so hungry I was a little nauseous. Okay, first things first.

  “I’m going to shower and get dressed,” I announced. “Then all three of us will discuss this like civilized … beings … over breakfast. All right?”

  [Certainly.]

 

  I have heard a dog sigh before—but not with a British accent.

  Jumped in shower. Did my best to furiously scrub my brain into some kind of working order. Got dressed in a hurry, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  Two pairs of eyes looked up at me. Tango sat regally upright, tail curled around her front paws. Mr. Tiny was on his feet, little pink tongue protruding over his underbite, tiny brown eyes peering at me through a tangle of fur.

  I gave them a quick, formal nod, marched past them and down the stairs to the kitchen. They followed, of course.

  I made eggs and poured myself a glass of orange juice. Tango accepted some more tuna, but Mr. Tiny said all he wanted was a bowl of water.

  I sat down and attacked my breakfast. Apparently not needing her mouth for speech, Tango talked while she ate her own.

 

  I made an inquisitive noise around my eggs.

 

  Right. Cats have more than one life, check. So animal afterlife—sorry, afterlives, plural—equals all dogs go to Heaven? I swallowed and said, “So what are you, Mr. Tiny? A canine angel?”

  Tango snorted. Tiny said, [Not precisely. A better description would be animal spirit—]

 

  [—or astral manifestation, perhaps—]

 

  [—even an ectoplasmic—]

 

  [—being, if you like.]

  “Ghost and kitty 7.0, got it. What’s the deal with the graveyard?”

  Tango admitted.

  “How do you know? Who sent you? And what do I have to do with all this?”

  [I’m afraid we can’t disclose too many details about our superiors.] Tiny’s deep voice was apologetic. [And our information is mystic in nature, which means it’s neither precise nor detailed. That’s just how things work.]

 

  I got up from the table and put the kettle on for some tea. “Simple. Sure. I have to stop something without knowing what it is or who’s responsible, you can’t tell me who I’m doing this for, and I’m supposed to take everything you’re telling me at face value. The faces, I might add, of two species that I never expected to have a conversation with in the first place.”

 

  “I meant have a conversation where I could ask a question and expect a response.” I pulled a mug from the cupboard and stuck a tea bag in it. “I’m sorry, but this just isn’t holding up. There’s no independent way to verify any of what you’re telling me, which means it could all just be a product of my own brain. You might not even be here, let alone talking—”

  Tango jumped up on the table. Hey, Toots—I’m here, okay? I’m real. What do you want me to do, sing? She broke into an earsplitting yowl.

  [I have a better idea. Go find a dictionary, drag it in here, and turn to the definition of caterwaul. You’ve not only woken the dead, you’ve given them a headache.]

  The water began boiling, and I filled my mug gratefully. “No, sorry, that’s not going to cut it. The more I think about it, the less I believe this is actually happening. What I need to do is book the day off from work, call a shrink, and Google antipsychotic medication—”

  [That won’t be necessary. I can provide you with the proof you require.]

  “Oh? How?”

  [As an ectoplasmic being, I have certain paranormal abilities. I haven’t displayed them until now because I didn’t want to alarm you—you must already be feeling overwhelmed by what we’ve revealed thus far.]

  I felt a little prickle of annoyance at that. Overwhelmed was not a word I was friends with, and the fact that it seemed to have snuck into my house when I wasn’t looking was all the more irritating. “Look, whatever magic powers you’re about dazzle me with, it doesn’t matter. It’s still me and my malfunctioning brain, alone in my kitchen.”

  [Then, by all means, let’s go out.]

  I paused halfway through adding sugar to my tea. “Out? But—you mean other people can see you?”

  [Indeed they can.]

  I finished adding the sugar and took a sip. “So what are you going to do? Demonstrate to people that I now have a small dog? That’s not exactly the kind of indisputable supernatural evidence I was thinking of.”

  [Find me something that approximates a leash, and I’ll prove you wrong.]

  * * *

  I used a length of rope, tied loosely on Tiny’s instructions. He felt and smelled just like a real dog, which made me worry all the more: If my hallucinations were this detailed, how could I trust any of my senses?

  Tango watched the whole process with something approaching pity.

  [Cats—abandoning the very concept of dignity since the discovery of catnip. Shall we go?]

  “I guess.” I paused with one hand on the doorknob. “Tango? Are you—”

  She was studiously licking one paw.

  “Uh—yeah, I suppose.” I hadn’t even thought of that, which for me was way out of character. I was all about the ramifications and consequences, and I suddenly realized just how many had been dumped in my lap. What was I going to do with them while I was at work, for instance?

  I opened the door, and we stepped out into early-morning sunshine. I still had half an hour before I had to be at the estate, which meant no more than fifteen minutes walking my new dog.

  [Deidre?]

  “Call me Foxtrot,” I answered automatically. “Everyone does. What?”

  [Observe, but try to keep your reaction to a minimum.]

  “Observe what?”

  We had left my yard and turned right onto the sidewalk. There was no one else in sight.

  Mr. Tiny changed.

  One second he was a little, tousled wig of a dog, and the next he was a dalmatian. Taller, sleeker, much spottier. He glanced back at me and cocked a canine eyebrow. [Ectoplasm is much more malleable than flesh and blood. I can take on the appearance of any breed, with an accomp
anying change in size and weight. However, to ensure discretion, I can’t transform if anyone—other than you—is watching.]

  “So how are you going to prove—”

  [Like this.]

  An elderly woman in a worn purple sweater and long gray skirt was shuffling toward us. Tiny trotted up to her, wagging his tail, and gave her a friendly, panting look. She stopped, smiled, and patted him on the head. “Well, hello,” she said. “Aren’t you friendly?”

  [Ask her what breed I am.]

  “Uh—yes, he’s very friendly. I’m walking him for a friend. He’s one of those, you know, what are they called again…”

  “A dalmatian?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s it. Thank you.”

  We continued on our way. Once she was no longer in sight, Tiny changed again—this time into a short, waddling English bulldog. The next people we ran into were a young girl and her mother, heading off to day care or kindergarten. The girl ran up, knelt down, and let Mr. Tiny sniff her fingers. “Oh, he’s so ugly,” she said, grinning.

  “Now, Madison,” her mother said. “That’s not nice.”

  “No, I mean he’s so ugly he’s cute,” the girl said. Mr. Tiny licked her fingers and she giggled. “What’s his name?”

  “Um. What do you think his name is?”

  “Grumpy McBurger,” she said immediately, in that utterly self-assured way small children have.

  “That’s a great name,” I answered. “Do you know what kind of dog he is?”

  “No. What kind?”

  “Ask your mommy.”

  Her mother smiled. “That’s called a bulldog, sweetie. Now, come on, we’re going to be late.”

  “Okay. Bye, Grumpy McBurger!”

  Mr. Tiny turned to me, his tongue lolling out. [Are you convinced, yet?]

  “Can we do a few more?”

  So we did. We talked to a guy in a suit heading off to work, a boy delivering newspapers, and a woman in her front yard watering her plants. Tiny became a sheepdog, a Great Dane, and a Chihuahua even smaller than his original form—which, I realized, probably wasn’t original at all. “Okay, I’m convinced,” I admitted after he’d demonstrated his impression of a wiener dog. “Unless I’m so far gone that I’m imagining everyone’s responses, too, you’re no ordinary dog. And I just realized something else: You’re the stray that’s been hanging around the estate, aren’t you?”