Fear Familiar Bundle (147 page)

"I hate cats." Vincent eyed the feline with contempt. With a suddenness that belied his age, he reached down to capture Familiar and was rewarded with a savage bite that pierced his thumbnail.

"You black devil!" Vincent threw a kick that missed the agile Familiar by at least eight inches, but his shin hit the edge of the table. Holding his hand and limping, he gave up on the cat. Instead, he grabbed Sarah's shoulder.

"Where is Mora? I've figured out how to get rid of you and that snooping FBI agent, but your mother is another difficulty. All these years, she's been too afraid to do or say anything. She was afraid someone would come after
you.
I had her thoroughly convinced that the evil men who ruined her life would kill her daughter. Now it's time I put the past to rest. Mora has started talking, and I don't think she'll ever stop."

Sarah could clearly hear everything that Vincent Minton said to her, but she could not speak or move with any accuracy. Whatever drug he'd given her had left her helpless.

"I'm going to kill you and arrange it so that your friend, Mr. Dubonet, looks guilty. This drug will wear off without a trace. The FBI has done an excellent job of setting him up as the murderer of that research analyst. Although that fool Gottard never believed Dubonet was guilty, he's left his man in a perfect trap. One I intend to exploit."

Vincent rose from the table and slowly poured his glass of wine into the sink. Unable to control her body, Sarah tried to lunge at him, but she only managed to fall across the table. Minton ignored her as he went to the wine rack and selected another bottle, quickly opened it and poured himself a glass. "Not as good as the vintage I brought, but also not drugged." He took a long sip.

"All of this was completely unnecessary, you understand. I did use you, or at least, your cooking, to facilitate a few business deals. But when you called and told me the FBI was investigating you, I knew I had inadvertently reopened the door to the past. You weren't your mother. I couldn't frighten you into silence."

"Mo…m!" Sarah floundered against the table. The worst fear she'd ever known made her feel as if her heart would burst.

"Your mother could have had anything in the world she wanted. I would have given it to her. But she wanted only your father. She was a fool to scorn me for your father. But it made me realize she would not have been an asset to me, after all. And that damn Jean-Claude is so much like her. Weak. Foolish. He despises me and everything I've worked to build.

"Five years ago I started to bring him into the business, my real business. I'd kept it from him because I recognized his weakness. When he saw how things worked, he ran away to Paris. And then he discovered last month that I'd stolen the money from André's restaurant and left Mora in a noose. He found out that I had arranged for his 'uncle' Cal to walk into a bullet and put an end to that bastard Jenkins and his probing. So he dashes home to marry you, to make sure that I never hurt you again. He would protect you with my name. Such a noble boy." He laughed.

Sarah tried to make a sound, but her throat was frozen.

"Believe me, Sarah, I don't relish the idea of killing you. You've actually forced me into this position. Just as Betty Jean did when she tried to blackmail me."

"Bett…y…Jean."

"She eavesdropped on a conversation I had with my associates in New Orleans. We wanted a permanent structure, a place where we could spend weekends without interruption. I was the man who could put the deal together. Betty Jean heard my plans, and she tried to sell that information to Cal. Of course, we thought Cal was in our pocket, so we weren't worried, but Betty Jean had to be punished nonetheless."

Even through the paralysis of the drug Sarah felt a burning rage. This man who stood at her kitchen sink, sipping wine from her glass, was an imposter. She'd grown up believing he was the one man she could love and trust. The man who'd stepped in when her father died. The man who'd helped her with her education and her career. But it was all a lie. He'd done everything to control her, to keep her within his grasp. For his own purposes.

Though she could not run, or even walk, she felt Familiar beneath the table brushing against her leg. Fear for the cat darted through her. If Vincent saw him, he'd undoubtedly kill him. Unable to signal Familiar, she could only pray that he would remain beneath the table, out of sight.

"Where is that agent of yours?" Vincent downed the last of the wine and put the glass on the table. "Timing is all in a crime, you know." Vincent moved until he was directly in front of Sarah. "I'm expected at a cocktail party in fifteen minutes. I need to take care of you and Dubonet, then meet my social obligations. I was thinking of a shooting, here in your kitchen. Sort of as if you were trying to kill Dubonet, and he killed you instead."

He went to the cabinet and set out a plate and flatware. He carefully rinsed his glass, wiped it and then set it down on the table before filling it from the drugged bottle.

"See, you intended to poison him. He discovered it, shot you, and then got himself arrested for murder. Not very original, but it will work with Gottard and the FBI. Believe me, I led that Jenkins around by the nose for years. All I had to do was whisper in his ear that Cal was dirty. Just a whisper and a hint, a false lead and the promise of dire evildoing, and a payment to the easily bought Deputy Estis to lie to the good FBI agent. Jenkins never did catch on to how much I was using him. Never. The trouble was, though, that he'd never leave. He wouldn't give it up. Not until Cal was dead."

Sarah tried to swallow, but she could feel the muscles of her throat beginning to tighten. Panic struck when she wondered if the drug he'd given her would slowly paralyze her throat and then her lungs. She'd suffocate to death.

"Well, I was hoping to have Dubonet here when I finished this. As I said, timing is all. But let me get started. I think the body should be found in the bedroom." Removing a pistol from his coat pocket, he placed it on the table and moved so that he could pick Sarah up in his arms. She tried to fight him, but her arms and legs were like leaden weights. She could barely lift them, much less strike him.

Just as he bent to lift her, a black streak flew across the room, landed on the table and skidded. Gun, plate, wine and wineglass all toppled to the floor with a crash.

"I am going to kill that beast." Vincent stood. He looked around the floor for his gun. With a great dash, Familiar hit it again, pushing it up under the heavy commercial refrigerator.

Vincent aimed a hard kick at the cat but missed. "You black creature, you're going to pay." He got down on his knees and reached under the refrigerator, trying for the gun.

The back door burst open and Daniel rushed into the room. He didn't hesitate as he brought the toe of his shoe up into Vincent Minton's ribs, followed by an upward thrust of the knee into Minton's jaw and a hammer-handed blow to the base of his neck. Minton dropped to the floor in a heap.

There was the sound of the front door crashing in, and Paul Gottard and four FBI agents swarmed into the kitchen through the swinging door.

"Good work, Daniel," Gottard said, grinning. "Excellent. Now let's get Ms. Covington to a doctor."

"How?" Sarah forced the word out as she felt Daniel's arms encircle her. She was already beginning to feel stronger.

An agent stooped to pick up the telephone and return it to the base as Daniel talked. "When the phone was knocked off the hook, it automatically triggered the tap that the Bureau had put on your line. Gottard's men heard the call and reported it. One of the agents had followed me to Jenkins's house. Paul got the report, radioed his man…We came as quickly as we could." He tightened his hold on her. "The FBI not only heard everything Vincent Minton said to you, they got it on tape. He's going to prison for a long, long time."

It took tremendous willpower, but Sarah lifted her arms around Daniel's neck. "I love you," she whispered.

"You'd better get that young lady to the doctor," Gottard said, waiting for Daniel to get busy.

"Wait." Sarah felt her strength returning. She pressed against Daniel and felt his immediate response. "I think that Agent Dubonet has the exact medicine I need."

Gottard hesitated, then saw the look that Sarah and Daniel exchanged.

"Perhaps he does. I wouldn't ever want to underestimate Agent Dubonet again. Get Minton, and let's get out of here," he directed his men. In minutes, they were gone.

"Sarah?"

"Just hold me another minute, Daniel, and then I think I need to be carried upstairs." She smiled, face hidden against his neck.

"If you can't walk, maybe we should go to the hospital."

"Oh, I think I can walk. I wanted to be carried." She lifted her head, revealing her widening smile. "You see, I'm saving myself for another form of physical exertion."

A
GENT
009 reported to the First Cat with a case solved and his favorite chef cleared of all suspicions. Socks wanted me to show up for the ceremony when Chef André names Sarah as his primary assistant at the White House. Imagine, André had written down all of her catering engagements on his calendar to document her excellent work when he made his bid to hire her! He is, indeed, a good friend.

Too bad I had to decline the party, though. All of those shutterbugs are always following Socks around. With my luck, I'd get my mug in the newspaper and then Eleanor and Peter would cook my goose. They're still mad at me for frightening Magdelene with my "unexplained" disappearance. Hey, I was working a case. Does Sam Spade have to check in with his baby-sitter? Dashiel Hammett? How about James Bond? You can bet Sean Connery doesn't call home every day at five.

At any rate, I'm home now, toasting my toes on a red silk pillow in front of the fire with a bowl of my favorite sardines on the floor beside me. Ah, a cat's life. And I should mention that my beautiful Clotilde was suitably impressed with my courageous behavior and superior intelligence. I just have to keep a low profile to be sure none of this gets home to the dame and Dr. Doolittle. I guess that's the price of being a "secret" agent to the First Cat.

It was rough saying goodbye to Dolly, and I have to admit I'll miss that cocky attitude of Bureau Boy. We had some fun. But they knew all along I was never really their cat.

Socks, Clotilde and I are arranging a little wedding surprise for the happy couple— an adoption of the cutest little black kitten from the humane shelter. That's going to be one lucky little kitty.

And now for a nap. Secret agenting is a wearying business. Once I've rested for a few hours I might have to saunter into the kitchen and make Eleanor prepare something special for me. It's not that I'm not satisfied by sardines, it's just that humans have this awful need to be needed. So I oblige whenever I possibly can.

That's the thing to remember. "A man may toil from sun to sun, but a cat's work is never done."

Never one to be smitten by floral scents, I must admit that the magnolias and honeysuckles that surround the palatial Adams estate have intoxicated me. What a beautiful day in a tropical paradise. From the upstairs balcony I can see the front yard aflutter with those frilly azalea things, and the wisteria is clinging to the old bricks of this place, such a sweet-sad perfume. The Old South, alive with romance, beauty— and beneath all the color and trim, the odor of fine vittles.

The lovely Eleanor thinks she has me securely incarcerated in this room. Don't bet on it. My keen olfactory system detects an abundance of culinary delights on the buffet tables downstairs. The pitch of laughter also tells me that the party is in full swing. A sleek and sly black cat will never be noticed.

Eleanor is so busy with her bundle of joy, little Jordan Lindsey, that she forgot to lock the hall door to the bath. Ah, a small oversight in a woman as intelligent as she is good-looking. Perhaps it was a psychological blunder. It could be that she subconsciously wants me at the party. After all, Eugene Legander, the guest of honor, is not only a legendary author but a cat lover. I believe he is owned by eight felines, descendants of some highly elite Roman cats. His latest children's book is a literary success— and this is one party I don't intend to miss. No matter that Eleanor has still not completely forgiven me for my escapades at the White House last year.

Ah, a bump with my muscled kitty rump and the door opens. The hall is clear and the smell of something delicious will lead me unerringly to the food. Is it ham, baked with those cloves and pineapple? And there's a teasing odor of spicy boiled shrimp. Maybe I've died and gone to heaven.

A little peek between the banister railings and a perfect view of graciousness, Mobile, Alabama style. The lower floor is buzzing with laughing folks, and look at that platter of chicken livers wrapped in bacon. One of my favorite hors d'oeuvres. I'd say Mrs. Adamses' party for Eugene Legander is a smashing success. Champagne flutes floating in the air, beautiful women in such lovely, vivid dresses. There's the white-haired author. He's playing an air guitar! And reciting poetry! I simply must meet this man.