Page 1 of Catnapped

1

CARSON

Icheck the address from my texts, then look up at the enormous manor house behind a high wrought-iron gate. Enormous wreaths hang on the metal, their greenery dotted with red flowers, and in the center of each is a golden outline of a cat. “This can’t be right.” But it is. The address matches, and as I pull up to the gate, a woman in uniform steps from the guardhouse.

“Mr. Blair, private investigator?” she asks, her gaze raking over my car and then me.

“Yes.”

“I’ll need your ID.” She gives me a friendly smile, but I don’t miss the gun at her hip or the way she stands–she’s a cop. Or, at the very least, she was. She’s been trained. And the way her boots are polished and her hair is neatly styled in a close-fitting bun, she’s also ex-military.

“Sure.” I hand her my license.

She checks it over, then presses the radio on her shoulder. “Carson Blair.”

Handing my ID back, she gestures toward the now-opening gate. “Mrs. Farrol is waiting. Please park by the fountain, and Dudley will meet you there.”

I sigh inwardly. I’m well acquainted with the super-rich doing particularly weird shit. Cats on Christmas wreaths is nothing. Though, I must admit, when I took this job, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I suppose I still don’t. An old contact of mine, Stewart, messaged me that he had a lead on a job that’s right up my alley. Missing person. High profile. Real money involved. He’d already set up the meet. That’s all I needed to know. I got the address and went into action.

Now that I’m here, I realize I should’ve done a bit more research before jumping in blind. Then again, I’ve always been up for a challenge.

The grounds are manicured to perfection, some sort of flowers growing in mounds along the winding driveway, a light dusting of snow still on the grassier parts. Turf spreads out on either side, all of it cut into perfect diamonds. Any golf course would shit itself to see how well kept each blade of grass is out here.

Ahead, a mansion rises from the rolling hills, the façade French with vines climbing around the entryway. Wreaths with golden cats dot the windows of the enormous mansion. Whoever lives here–they’re in a tax bracket most can only dream of.

“Fuck.” I run a hand through my dark hair as I pull to a stop next to a fountain adorned with mermaids and tritons. It looks like something out of a museum.

A man stands at the front entryway, his black butler’s suit something straight out of a period drama. Stiff upper lip, even stiffer back, he eyes me with open disdain as I step from my car and slam the door.

I stride toward him, the cold gravel crunching under my feet. No stone out of place, it looks like someone just raked it.

“Mr. Blair.” He gives a short bow, his English accent unmissable. “I’m Dudley, Mrs. Farrol’s butler. Please follow me to her sitting room.”

I dip my chin in acknowledgement, then clock the front of the house now that I’m closer. Three stories, windows are wide and unbarred. The grounds are open, and anyone lurking in the tree line out near the edge of the property would have a clear view of everyone coming and going. But it also means that if someone were trying to leave the house, they could be spotted from inside. I suspect there are plenty of eyes in this place. An estate this large certainly has a staff larger than Mr. Dudley and the guard out front. Someone has to rake the gravel into perfect patterns, after all.

Dudley leads me into a marble foyer, everything in the room gleaming or gilded and decorated with swags of holiday greenery. Nothing here is understated in the least. Some people say that wealth is quiet. Not for whoever lives here. They don’t mind bragging.

“Through here.” Dudley’s pace is clipped.

I match it easily with my long strides, following him past a curving, double staircase, several side rooms, paintings, exquisite furniture, small knick-knacks worth more than my car, and many more expensive things I can’t even begin to name.

He stops at a set of double doors inlaid with pink tiles in the shape of a lounging cat. After a brief knock, he opens the doors and gestures me inside.

The tile on the door was just a hint. Inside, everything is pink. The wood floor, the walls, the furniture. Every single item is in some varied shade of pink–from deep magenta to the faintest whisper of rose.

In the center of it all on a large dark pink divan, an older woman sits with her feet up on a furry pink cushion and a large mixed drink in her hand.

“Mr. Carson Blair,” Dudley announces.

“Yes, come in. Come in.” The woman waves me to the pale pink sofa across from her. “Thank you, Dudley. Please let me know when the other one arrives.”

“The other one?” I ask.

“Yes. Sit, sit. I need all hands on deck for my precious darling.” She motions to the sofa again, her drink sloshing precariously in the glass.

“All right.” I walk over and sit down, the sofa groaning slightly under my weight. “I want you to know that I work alone. I’m not sure what–”

“Yes, yes. Of course, Mr. Blair.” Her eyelids are covered in a metallic blue shadow, and her eyelashes seem impossibly long. In a vivid blue gown, she’s the only thing in the room that doesn’t fit the color palette.

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