Cat Fear No Evil by Shirley Rousseau Murphy Page B

red. They set the stretcher down on the lawn and the medics knelt over him. But soon they rose again; they did not work on Quinn. He lay waiting for the coroner’s attention.
    Dulcie knew that under other circumstances the body would not have been moved until a detective had photographed the scene and made sketches and notes. She supposed with the house full of gas, that hadn’t been an option. But to leave him lying here on the lawn seemed strange, even with a police guard around him. Maybe Detective Garza wanted to photograph the body and let the coroner have a look before they moved Quinn again. How could Quinn have died in there? How could he not have smelled the gas? Even in sleep, one would think the stink of gas would wakehim. He wasn’t a drinker. Never touched liquor; so he had not slept in an alcoholic stupor too numbed to wake. And from what she had heard of Quinn’s careful nature, it would not have been like him to leave the gas on accidentally. She saw Dr. John Bern’s car being driven over the lowered police tape, coming slowly up the street; she glimpsed Bern’s bald head, the glint of his glasses.
    Dulcie was watching Dr. Bern kneeling over the body when a thumping on the shingles above her jerked her up. The kit came galloping straight at her and, hardly pausing, dropped down onto the awning, rocking the canvas and digging her claws in. Dulcie was so glad to see her, she nuzzled against Kit, licking her ears and whiskers. The kit stunk of gas.
    â€œYou’ve been in there,” Dulcie hissed.
    The kit looked at Dulcie, shivering. “He’s dead.” She stared across the street at the stretcher and the body. “I was in there when you came the first time, I looked out and saw you and Joe, I saw you sniff at the gas, then turn and race away. I knew you’d call the station so I…but listen, Dulcie…”
    The tattercoat’s round yellow eyes were wide with the news she had to tell. “The gas stunk so strong I went in through the back door—to see if he was in there, to wake him if he was still asleep, to…” The kit stared at her with distress.
    â€œYou could have died in there.”
    â€œI pushed the back door open to get in, a little breeze came in. I wasn’t there long and I stayed low against the floor, but it choked me and I felt dizzy. He was lying on the kitchen floor. I stuck my nose at his nose and there was no breath and he was cold, so cold,and the gas was making me woozy so I got out of there fast and you and Joe were there, then running away up the street so I knew you’d call for help. Why was there gas in there?”
    Dulcie sighed. “You didn’t paw at a knob, Kit? And make the gas come on?”
    â€œNo! I never! The gas was all in there. Why would I do that!” she said indignantly. “I smelled it from the street. That’s why I went in.” Her eyes darkened with pain. “But he was dead. Cold dead.”
    Dulcie looked and looked at the kit. The kit settled down beside her, pushing very close. She was quiet for a long while. Then in a small voice Kit said, “Where’s Joe Grey?”
    â€œHe’s following someone.” Dulcie didn’t mean to tell the kit more. For once, the kit could keep her nose out. Below them, the coroner still knelt over James Quinn, Dr. Bern’s bald head and glasses reflecting the morning light.
    Down the block within the growing crowd, the cats saw Marlin Dorriss pushing through. The tall, slim attorney was dressed in a pale blue polo shirt and khaki walking shorts that, despite the chilly weather, set off his winter tan. His muscled legs were lean and brown, his white hair trimmed short and neat. He was a man, Dulcie thought, that any human woman might fall for—except that Helen Thurwell had no business falling for anyone. In doing so she had royally screwed up her daughter’s life, had sent Dillon off on a tangent that deeply