Scratch the Surface by Susan Conant Read Free Book Online Page B

place on a shelf above the desk. To her disappointment, she had found herself writing on her notebook computer at the kitchen table, as if she were a housekeeper with literary ambitions instead of a published author who owned the whole house.
    Felicity gestured to one of the leather armchairs. “Have a seat.” Dave Valentine’s presence made her absurdly aware of the big couch, which, she reminded herself, didn’t even convert into a bed. Avoiding it, she took the other chair, but nonetheless felt aware of the man, as if she were seated a few yards from some powerful but safe animal: a tame lion. In leonine fashion, this animal wore no rings. In particular, she observed that the third finger of his left hand was bare.
    Instead of immediately asking her about the body and the cat, Valentine nodded in the direction of the shelves above the desk. “You’re the writer,” he said. “The Felicity Pride.” As a means to establish rapport with the witness, referring to her books was dandy, she thought, far better than making small talk about the rain and fog.
    “Yes,” she replied modestly, “I write about cats.”
    “I know. My wife used to read your books.”
    But she stopped? Felicity longed to ask. She developed an intense dislike for Prissy? Found a series she preferred? Developed early-onset Alzheimer’s and became unable to follow a story line? Got religion and quit reading anything except the Bible? She got tired of going to the Highland Games and watching you toss the caber, so she left you for...
    Occupied with her unspoken questions, Felicity said nothing.
    “I need to ask you a few things,” Valentine said. “I take it you’d gone out.”
    Valentine, she thought, was doing well: Interviewers were urged to avoid leading the witness. “I was at a book signing. At Newbright Books. It’s on the Newton-Brighton line. I left here at about five-thirty. And I got home at... eight? Somewhere around eight. I put my car in the garage, and when I got to my vestibule, there were the man and the cat. I knew he was dead. Or I thought so. And I couldn’t stay there, obviously, so I went outside and called nine-one-one. On my cell phone. The call got cut off, and I... I guess I started to panic. I was worried that he might be alive, and I wasn’t doing anything. So I went next door and got the Wangs. I’m sorry. It was a mistake. Mr. Wang went charging into the vestibule, and he touched things, he tampered with evidence, and he shouted at the cat. It nearly ran away. So I picked up the cat and brought it in. It’s very traumatized. It won’t eat. It’s hiding somewhere.”
    “Cats do that,” Dave Valentine said. “The man. Did you recognize him?”
    “No. I’ve never seen him before.” Seizing the opportunity to regain control of a plot that was escaping her, she said, “Or the cat. It’s a beautiful cat. A very large gray cat. Someone left that cat for me, you know.”
    “Could be a coincidence.”
    “And there’s the vestibule, too. There’s a mystery called The Body in the Vestibule. By Katherine Hall Page.”
    Valentine shrugged. “Does anyone else live here?”
    “No.”
    “Big house.”
    “I inherited it. I’ve only been here a few months. It belonged to my uncle and aunt. They were killed by a drunk driver. Last July, they were on their way to the airport, and they were killed by a drunk driver.”
    “Any children?”
    “Me? No.”
    “Your uncle and aunt.”
    “No.” In Felicity’s opinion, Uncle Bob had been too tightfisted to produce offspring he’d have had to support, but she didn’t say so. According to Felicity’s mother, he’d been stingy with Thelma, and it was certainly true that he and Thelma had given miserly Christmas and birthday presents: cheesy sweatshirts, ten-dollar checks.
    “The outer door. When you left the house, was it locked or unlocked?”
    “Unlocked. If I lock it, packages get left outside. So I leave it unlocked for UPS and the post office and so on.