“I imagine nobody would be thrilled to learn that.”

“True.” Samantha strolled to the front door, seeming to be in no hurry to get to her baking bread. “I guess I must believe it, too, then.”

“I think you’ll believe whatever you want,” I said as she stepped outside. As soon as I closed the door, I went down to the girl-cave to take some notes. What Samantha said made a lot of sense. At least, the part about the untied cable and the notion that Michelle might have known her killer.

At this point, I was ninety-nine percent sure Michelle Stewart had been murdered. I made a list of suspects. It was short. Very short. And I had serious doubts about all of the people on it. There was Jon, whom I couldn’t remove yet because of that inconsistency in his story versus Samantha’s. But I was pretty sure it wasn’t him. Samantha was on there, too. And Lindsay. Erica was the last name on the list. Because Lindsay, Erica, and Samantha were pushing me so hard to investigate, I was having a difficult time believing any of them were the killer. Jon had an alibi.

That left ... who else?

I needed to find out who else might have been close enough to Michelle to be invited inside the house. I was missing something. Something big. The puzzle pieces just weren’t fitting. Who would kill Michelle Stewart? And why?

The more I learned, the more I needed to know.

CHAPTER 7

There was a dead cat on the front porch. Make that, a mangled dead cat. Creepy eyes wide open. Mouth agape in an eternal hiss, teeth bared. It was dead for sure. I’d nudged it with a toe. It was stiff.

I slammed the door and locked it.

Jon, why aren’t you home yet?

I checked the clock. It was after midnight. I’d been so sure the sound I’d heard outside was him, I hadn’t thought twice about throwing the door open to greet him. But instead of getting a nice, warm hug, I’d received the shock of the night.

This whole dead animal thing was getting much too common.

Inching open the door, I checked to see if it was still there.

Yep.

Damn.

I went to the girl-cave and retrieved the shoe box that had originally been intended for Skippy. Then I collected a pair of thick rubber gloves and a set of salad tongs. There was no way in hell I was touching that ... thing. Out I went, back onto the porch, yellow gloves gleaming, metal tongs reflecting the overhead porch light. I gingerly grabbed a leg with the tongs, lifted. The foot slipped loose, and the animal hit the porch with a stomach-turning smack. Swallowing bile, I made a second attempt, this time grabbing the base of the tail.

Success. I slammed the box top on and, leaving my tool on the porch, hurried the makeshift coffin into the attached garage, trying hard not to inhale through my nose. As disgusting as the animal had looked, I was sure it smelled even worse. Into a black trash bag it went. And the bag—tied, knotted, triple-knotted—went into a trash can. Lid on. Hopefully the garage wouldn’t stink like dead cat by tomorrow.

That unpleasant task completed, I spun around.

“Gak!” I screamed as I smacked right into a man’s wide chest. I jerked my head back and let out an audible exhale. “Ohmygod, you scared me. I didn’t hear you.”

Jon was holding the tongs. He gave my rubber-covered hands a pointed look. “What are you doing?”

“Um.” I snatched the tongs out of his hand and threw them into the nearest garbage can. “We can’t use those anymore. They’re dirty.”

“We can wash them.”

A very reasonable suggestion. Unfortunately, in this case, it wouldn’t work. Those tongs could be sterilized, sanitized, boiled in bleach, and I wasn’t going to touch them. “Sure. But they have dead cat germs on them.”

His eyebrows scrunched together. “Huh?”

“There was a dead cat on our porch. I didn’t want to touch it.”

“I see. Where’d you put the cat?”

I pointed at the can. “It’s boxed, bagged, and tied.” I snapped off the rubber gloves and they joined the tongs. “It’s not going anywhere.”

“Hmmm. I guess I’ll dispose of it tomorrow.” He looped an arm around my waist, leading me back into the house. “Anything else exciting happen today?”

“Well, let’s see,” I said, walking arm-in-arm with Jon up the stairs. “This morning, Lindsay forced me to take her ex-boyfriend’s stuff because she’s mad at him. And Mrs. Wahlen is suing me for killing her dog, Skippy. By the way, I’m still unclear whether I need to go get a rabies shot since she wouldn’t tell me if Skippy was up-to-date on his shots. Oh, and Skippy was eaten by some big animal last night. At least, I think he was. I saw something. Some eyes. Big, glowing eyes. And then Samantha came over to talk about ... to visit. And Josh had a half day at school. He took off with his friends for a few hours then came home and went straight to his room. Didn’t say a word to me. And finally, well, I already told you about the dead cat.”

“Sounds like you had an interesting day.”

“A strange, bizarre day is more like it. And here I thought living in the ’burbs would be boring.”

He stripped off his shirt and gave me a hungry man leer, and I knew my day was going to end on a much higher note. He pulled down his pants, and all thoughts of dead cats and ex-boyfriends flew from my mind. “Come here.” He took my hands and led me to the bed. “Let me show you why living in the ’burbs will never be boring.”

“Hmmm,” I said, as I slid between the sheets and into his arms. “I like the sound of that.”

“I’m having a dinner party and you’re invited. Six o’clock. Tonight.”

That was the greeting I received when I answered the front door the next morning. The party holder was Erica. She was dressed for work, knotted up in a chic black suit and a killer pair of Manolos. Someday I would just love to raid her closet. “Thanks for the invite. Shall I bring something?”

“Maybe a notebook. Something small that you can conceal easily.”

“Wouldn’t a casserole be more appropriate?”

“Not in this case. I’ve invited everyone I could think of who knew Michelle.” Her purse started buzzing. She dug inside, checked her phone, then hit a button, ending the noise. “I’d like you to come over at five. I’ve asked Lindsay and Samantha to come early, too, so we can make plans.”

“Plans for what?”

She shrugged. I’ve never seen a more elegant shrug in my life. “Our interrogations.”

“Interesting.”

Erica’s purse buzzed again. Scowling, she checked her phone. “Dammit.” Hit the button. “Gotta go. See you at five.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and if you happen to see a cat running around, please let me know. Ramzes got out last night and he hasn’t come back. The kids are a mess.”

“Cat?” I echoed.

“Yes, he’s rare breed, Ural Rex. It was a nightmare getting him into the States. We bought him from a breeder in Russia during a family vacation. I’d hate to think I might have to go to all that trouble again. At any rate. He’s brown with a wavy coat and a mostly black head.”

And he’s now an occupant of our garbage can. I forced a smile. “I’ll let you know if I see him.”

“Great. Thanks.” When her purse buzzed yet again, she sighed and hurried toward the door, throwing a wave over her shoulder. “Work calls. See you at five.”

“See you then.”

Ural Rex. From Russia. Great.

I closed the door and headed upstairs to wake Josh. He didn’t have a lot of time to get ready for school. Only about twenty minutes. His door was open. I could see some hair poking out from under the covers. I flipped on the light. “Rise and shine. The bus’ll be here in twenty.” Stepmotherly duty done, I trotted back downstairs to start the coffee. Josh came dragging down just as the first drops were hitting the carafe. His eyes were bloodshot, deep black smudges staining the skin under them. His clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them—he probably had. And his unzipped, bulging-with-books backpack was dragging on the floor behind him. But more importantly, he was sporting the worst bed head I’d ever seen. He substituted an empty mug for the glass coffeepot for a few seconds, replacing it when his cup was full.

“I’ve heard caffeine stunts your growth,” I told him.

“Uhn,” was his response. He blinked slowly.

I pointed at his head. “Hair.”

He grabbed a baseball cap off a nearby table and smacked it on his head. After downing a few gulps of coffee, he lumbered toward the front door.

“Have a nice day,” I called, exaggerating the cheerfulness in my voice. Smiling at his back, I said to myself, “I think I could get used to this. If the whole dead animal thing would just stop.”

I headed into the shower, spying a sleeping Jon as I tiptoed through our bedroom and into the attached bath. I was tempted to crawl back under the covers and snuggle up to him, but I resisted the temptation and went for a shower instead. When I came back out, he was gone. And I was home alone, again.