Cat Fear No Evil by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

licked the cube of butter and drank the cream from the pitcher, nearly getting his head caught. Why would anyone make a pitcher so ridiculously small? He sniffed at the cooling coffee but it smelled inferior, not the rich Colombian brand he preferred.
    Dropping to the blue-and-white linoleum again, he sauntered back through the dining room and down the hall to the guest room. Likely both humans and cats would be up the street all morning preoccupied with helping their neighbors. The black tom smiled. Fate couldn’t have planned it better.
    Alone in the guest room he set about a methodical search, pawing among Kate’s silk lingerie bags and rooting in the gathered elastic pockets that lined the sides of her suitcase, his agile black paws feeling carefully for a small metal object. For what could be his passport to a greatly elevated position in the eyes of his current partner. For what, possibly, might also be a source of information that could prove most interesting.

8
    T he yellow-and-white Victorian cottage stunk so powerfully of gas that the two cats thought it would go up any minute in an explosion of bricks and splintered wood and shingles. They’d seen such a disaster before. They didn’t want that experience again. But with typical feline curiosity, they were too interested to leave. Cops were on the scene now, and that generated more questions.
    Once the fire crew had cut off the gas, having circled the house peering in, they had broken the lock and gone inside. Shortly thereafter a rescue vehicle pulled up in front, then two police cars came screaming.
    The house belonged to James Quinn, a Realtor with Helen Thurwell’s firm. Quinn was, in fact, Helen’s partner, handling sales with her as a team. The air around the handsome Victorian cottage was, even from a block away, so heavy with gas it made the cats retch.
    Scorching up a pine tree, they clung in the frail branches side by side, where a breeze helped clear the air. Watching the police evacuate the houses along theblock, they were both alarmed and amused by people running out of their homes loaded with valuables and carrying their pets. A frazzled-looking young woman apparently forgetting something tried to run back inside, and pitched a fit when an officer stopped her. An old woman in a pink bathrobe hobbled out accompanied by an officer, her arms loaded with a two-foot-high stack of what looked like photograph albums, the little tie cords at the spines flopping in her face. As if she was saving all the family pictures. A portly lady in a red-and-black sweat suit clutched three cats, the frightened animals clawing her as she hurried down the street. When Wilma and Charlie saw her, they took two of the cats and ran with her, carrying the cats three blocks to a neighbor and handing them inside. Neither Joe nor Dulcie had seen the kit. Scanning the street looking for her, Joe moved from paw to paw, growing so nervous and restless he seemed about to explode, himself.
    â€œThe kit’s all right,” Dulcie said. “She won’t…”
    â€œYou don’t know what she’ll do. And it isn’t only the kit…” Joe’s yellow eyes narrowed. “Coming through the dining room—I think I caught the scent of that black beast.”
    â€œAzrael? In the house? Oh, but why would he…? Where, Joe? We have to go back.”
    â€œAs I passed the buffet. Just a faint whiff of scent—the whole house smelled of bacon.”
    Her eyes wide, she crouched to leap down. But he reached a paw to stop her. “I’ll go back, Dulcie. Stay here, watch for the kit. Who knows where she’s gotten to. You know how she is, she’ll be in the middle somewhere…” He sounded truly worried, his frown deep and uneasy.
    â€œI’ll watch, I’ll find her. But you…Be careful, Joe. Why did he go into Wilma’s house? What’s he up to?”
    Joe’s eyes were filled with conflicting