Page 37 of A Taste For Trouble
“I dunno! Buried under a pile of other headless rats? I don’t know what this little psychopath does with the evidence of his crimes,” he replied wearily.
“Don’t call him that,” I snapped.
“Why not? Rosie, it’s time to accept that your little darling is a monster. He needs help,” I said patiently, but she shook her head.
“He’s just a cat. This is what all cats do. Hunting mice is their evolutionary role, Dom.”
“Okay, first of all, that was not a mouse. That looked like a mutated rat hybrid from an illegal science lab down in Cali, which could grow a whole new metal body any minute. And secondly, while hunting might be second nature to cats, it isn’t normal for them to throw rat heads at their enemies. That shows premeditation. Your cat is a criminal,” I accused, flinching in fear when the said criminal walked too close to my ankles.
“Well, well, well…what have we here?” asked Trevor, showing up too late like a cop in a crime movie.
“We have the evidence of a crime,” insisted Dominic, to my irritation.
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” I said with a sigh.
“Trevor, I want to know how that feline went in and out of the building. And check to see if we have rats anywhere on the premises,” he ordered.
They left to speak to the building’s doorman, and I glared at Sweetpea, who stared back at me and blinked slowly in the universal gesture of love in cats.
“Aww, I love you too, you little monster. Are you proud of yourself for scaring everyone to death?” I asked, as I bent to pick him up and give him a little cuddle. “I wonder what the doorman told them.”
CHAPTER 18
DOMINIC
Gunther had been the doorman of our condo for more years than I could remember. He was always cheerful, always ready with a joke. But when Trevor showed him the rat’s head he’d retrieved from the garbage, the smile slipped from his face and he looked terrified.
“Take that away, Mr Trevor,” he cried, covering his eyes.
“How did this get into my apartment, Gunther? Are there rats in the building?” I asked, and he shook his head.
“No, sir. We call exterminators every six months to inspect the building. She’s clean.”
“Then how did Sweetpea get hold of this creature? Does he go out to hunt? But how is he getting in and out of the building with all the windows closed?” I asked.
He looked around wildly and leaned closer to whisper.
“I can’t tell you anything more, sir. I’ve already said too much.”
“You’ve told us nothing, Gunther,” I said impatiently.
“Exactly. And that’s already too much.”
“That makes no sense,” complained Trevor.
“Look, Mr Carlisle, I’m sorry to say this because you’re an excellent employer. But only one male runs this building now, and it ain’t you,” he whispered before he scurried back behind his desk, muttering something under his breath.
“Trevor, this is getting out of hand,” I said grimly.
“I agree, boss. We need to do something about that feline. And I think I know the answer,” replied Trevor, refusing to tell me anything else as he hurried out of the building.
He was back within an hour, just as Rose and I were sitting down to breakfast.
“Hello, beautiful people,” he said cheerfully. “I believe I’ve found a solution to our troubles. Tell me, what do you think Sweetpea needs most right now?”
“Some understanding,” said Rose immediately. “And maybe a therapist. Do they have therapists for cats?”
“He needs a new mommy,” I said loudly, ignoring the glare she aimed at me. “One who knows how to raise a good kitty. Not one who condones his bad behaviour.”
