Nina and I exchanged a look. She shrugged.

"I don't want to give him back."

With a creak, the door opened two inches. "Got him with you?"

"No."

"You wouldn't be lying, would you?" She swung the door open and eyed us with suspicion. A cloud of stale cigarette smoke enveloped us.

Ebony hair jutted from her head at odd angles and she'd applied a black eyebrow pencil with a heavy hand. A spandex-tight top and capri pants in a leopard print clung to her small frame. "That cat's nothing but trouble. Sold him twice, gave him away once, and everybody brought him back. Well, don't just stand there, doncha see I've got cats who'll run out the door?"

I wondered if she was confused and had another cat in mind. On the other hand, I wanted to keep my little Mochie and wasn't altogether unhappy that she didn't want him back.

We scooted in, taking care not to step on any of the inquisitive kitties. They were everywhere. Lounging in bookcases, sitting on top of the TV, milling around our legs. Chocolate, cinnamon, silver, and fawn and every one of them spotted, like an ocelot.

As was the furniture. Leopard print throws, pillows, chairs, even the slipcovers on the sofas sported spots.

"What are you going to do with him?" She took a long drag on a cigarette. "Take him to the pound?"

"I planned to keep him."

Mrs. Pulchinski couldn't hide her surprise but she recovered quickly. "Did Otis tell you he's a very valuable cat? Purebred ocicat."

I didn't think Nina was paying attention. She made no effort to hide her curiosity by taking in every detail of our surroundings. But she startled me by asking, "Then why doesn't he have spots like these cats?"

Mrs. Pulchinski motioned us to the sofas. She sat down and six cats immediately jumped on her, vying for her attention. "That's what makes him so expensive. He has the spots on his tummy but those stripes only appear once or twice in a dozen litters. The striped ones have"-she paused and considered her word choice-"outgoing personalities that make them very popular. I sell 'em for eight hundred dollars."

Mrs. Pulchinski watched our reaction with crafty eyes. Did she think we were complete dolts? I changed the subject before she could demand payment for Mochie.

"I'm very sorry for your loss. Were you and Otis married long?" I wanted to keep the conversation moving. The cops must have told her a woman found her husband's body. If she'd made the connection to me, she showed no sign of it.

"Spent fifteen years with the old coot." She dabbed at her nose with a tissue. "I don't know what I'm going to do for money. He had some big-shot clients and we were expecting the dough to roll in any day, but now all I have is my wonderful kittens. I hate to part with any of them but I have to live off something."

"I thought you were a breeder." I had expected to see photos of Otis, but all the framed pictures in the room featured spotted cats. Most of them professional photos of cats posed in front of becoming backdrops.

"I am. But it still breaks my heart to part with any of them. Especially that little sweetheart Otis gave you."

Did I have "idiot" written across my forehead? "I can't help wondering why he had the kitten with him the day he died," I said.

She searched the room as though she was looking for an answer. "Vet. Was taking him to the vet."

"Was he sick?" I asked. "Does he need medicine?"

This time she had a ready response. "Shots. Just needed his shots." She examined us carefully and her gaze locked on Nina's three-carat engagement ring. "You know, cats are much happier when they have a cat companion. You interested in buying a kitten?"

"No, thanks." I had a very bad feeling that I was about to write a check for Mochie.

"How about a PI? Either of you need to spy on your husbands? I'll give you a good price."

"You worked with your husband?" Nina asked.

Mrs. Pulchinski stabbed the b.u.t.t of her cigarette into a gla.s.s ashtray. "You know how it is, all wives work with their husbands."

We must have looked skeptical because she rambled on. "Dumb old Otis got himself killed just when his business was drawing big customers. Politicians' wives take over when their husbands kick the bucket. I don't see why I can't carry on."

Nina scooted forward on the sofa and bent toward Mrs. Pulchinski. "Of course, you can. You have all his files, know who his clients are. It's a natural transition."

"Stupid cops came in here looking for files. They took the computer with them but it won't help them none. He wasn't dumb enough to keep anything about his clients in writing. Otis understood privacy. That's why they liked him."

I took out my checkbook. "Mrs. Pulchinski, I can't afford an eight-hundred-dollar cat, but maybe I can make a little donation to help you buy kitty kibble."

"That's right neighborly of you." She lit another cigarette. "Pen's on the desk."

Dust marked the spot on the desk where the computer had been. A coaster bearing the logo of the Stag's Head Inn, a dive I'd walked by, lay on the desk. She'd dumped her mail and, even though she wasn't exactly a straight shooter, I felt sorry for her. Bills spilled from the heap of letters, and I didn't see many hand-addressed envelopes in the way of condolences. She might be very alone in the world, except for her cats.

I found a pen in the top drawer and was making out a check when Nina leaned over my shoulder and gave the pile of mail a little push. Her unpolished fingernail tapped madly on a robin's-egg blue envelope.

Natasha's signature color.

FOURTEEN.

From "Ask Natasha" : Dear Natasha, Due to my husband's job, we move every year. I hate to waste money on embossed stationery that I can't use up because it contains an old address. Is it totally horrible to make my own stationery on my computer?

-Computer Gal in Chilhowie

Dear Computer Gal,

Aren't computers wonderful? They offer us so many possibilities for sc.r.a.pbooking and card-making. It's always most gracious to craft a card or note with your own personal message. I spend days working out my Christmas cards each year.

For those very few times when it isn't possible to craft an original card, keep some paper stock and matching envelopes on hand in your signature color. Handwrite a heartfelt message and it will carry just as much panache as embossed stationery.

-Natasha I smacked her hand away. I wanted to know what was inside, too, but it was just plain wrong to read someone's mail. My glare didn't stop her.

I glanced over my shoulder at Mrs. Pulchinski. Oblivious to Nina's shenanigans, she watched smoke rise from her cigarette.

Manipulating the envelope on the desk with one hand, Nina deftly flicked open a folded sheet of matching stationery. I recognized Natasha's perfect script immediately. A check for one thousand dollars lay inside. As far as I knew, Natasha hadn't bought any kittens lately. I had to give her credit, though. I never knew what to write on a card of condolence, but Natasha had written a gracious note praising Otis.

Nina's hand waved under my nose and pointed to the memo line of the check.

Natasha had written, "payment in full."

I left my meager check under the coaster so the cats wouldn't dislodge it right away and relied on Nina to slip Natasha's letter back in the envelope. I needn't have worried about Mrs. Pulchinski observing us. She slumped on the couch, the only sign of life the hand that held a cigarette inches from her mouth.

"Have the police found your husband's killer yet?" asked Nina.

I nearly choked. She might as well have introduced me as the number one suspect. Mrs. Pulchinski would catch on for sure and throw us out of her home.

"They think it's some woman he was checking out, but I got my doubts. My Otis had smarts. Not many people ever fooled him. I think Otis come up against somebody as crafty as he was."

Certain she would make the connection between me and the police suspect, I hurried to wind up our visit by promising to take good care of Mochie.

Mrs. Pulchinski walked us to the door. "Thank you for coming by. I don't get many visitors. This meant a lot to me."

The door shut behind us and I felt terrible. The poor woman was distraught and we'd come to snoop.

Nina clutched my arm. "Can you believe it? Natasha's up to her neck in these murders. No wonder she was so quick to point her finger at you! We have to tell the police right away."

"If they have Otis's computer, don't you think they know already?"

We slid into the deep leather seats of her Jaguar and she started the engine. "You heard her. He didn't keep records on his clients."

Years of competing with Natasha left me with an instinct to malign her. I was hardly her best advocate. She was annoying; she thought she was always right and that she knew best. But I couldn't imagine her as a murderer. She was a perfectionist, harder on herself than those around her.

"I don't know. Natasha always does the right thing. Like sending a lovely note and payment in full to a widow who needs the money. That's typical Natasha. Everyone else will drag their feet paying the dead guy, but Natasha always does the right thing."

Nina glanced over at me. "What if she thought killing someone was the right thing? What if someone threatened Mars?"

Would she kill to protect Mars? She had implied as much. It just didn't add up for me. "Now you're grasping because you don't like Natasha."

Nina braked for a light. "Anybody other than Mars get sick at Thanksgiving?"

She had a point.

We turned right and familiar broad shoulders came into view. On the sidewalk in front of my favorite bakery, Wolf and Kenner were engaged in a heated discussion. I felt like ducking so Kenner wouldn't see me. No need, though, he wouldn't notice me seated in a car driving by.

Nina swung the Jaguar into a parking spot.

"What are you doing?"

She nodded toward Wolf and Kenner. "I know that detective. He might tell us what's going on in the investigation."

I shrank down in my seat. "Which one do you know?"

"The good-looking one. You should meet him. All the women who volunteer at the animal shelter are crazy about him." Nina opened the car door and called to Wolf.

Swell. "Nina," I said, "Wolf is the detective on my case."

It was too late. Wolf strode toward us. Reluctantly, I opened the car door and eased out.

"Nina Reid Norwood. I should have known it would only be a matter of time until you turned up involved in this mess." Wolf shoved his hands into his pockets.

Nina held her head in a coy tilt. "Sophie happens to be completely innocent and embarra.s.singly available."

I wanted to melt into the sidewalk.

"Thanks for clearing that up. I'll scratch her off the suspect list immediately," Wolf said with a grin.

Evidently they had known each other long enough to kid around. I hoped he'd think the part about me being available was a joke.

Nina straightened up. "Natasha's the guilty party."

Amus.e.m.e.nt faded from Wolf's face. "And you know that how?"

Nina ticked off reasons on her fingers. "She hired Pulchinski. She had the opportunity when Simon was killed and when Mars was poisoned. All we need is her motive."

"How do you know Natasha hired Pulchinski?"

Like a college girl flirting with her professor, Nina gave him a sly look and said, "We've been doing a little sleuthing on our own."

"You two stay out of this. Sophie's in deep enough trouble already and I don't need either of you mucking up my investigation. Is that clear?"

"What happened with the turkey trophy?" I asked.

"Wiped clean. No fingerprints. We're still running tests to see if there's blood on it anywhere."

"On the tail."

"Right now we only have your word on that. We don't even know for sure if it was the murder weapon."

"What about Mars? Was there poison in his soup?" My heart pounded. I didn't really want to hear the answer to that question.

"Don't have the results yet." He motioned over his shoulder. "I have to get back to Kenner. You two stay out of trouble."

We slid into the Jaguar. Despite the distance, I could tell Kenner's face had gone beet red again. Even if Wolf thought I might be innocent, the mere sight of me agitated Kenner.

Nina pulled her Jag into the traffic. "When this is over, you really should go out with Wolf. He's gorgeous and nice, too. A regular down at the animal shelter. Donates dog and cat kibble twice a month."

"If he's so great, how come no one has grabbed him?"

"Oh, that. It's just gossip, but the story goes that he was married and then he . . ."

Her voice drifted into a mumble.

"And then what?"