Death by Equine by Annette Dashofy (read this if txt) 📗

time, high heels and all. The stench grew more pungent, but no gray haze hung in the air. She tripped into her home office and slapped the switch with her hand. Light flooded the room.

Her home laptop was missing from her desk. Her printer and router lay shattered on the floor. She let out a soft wail. A plume of smoke rose up the chimney from the fireplace where the blackened remains of a stack of files smoldered. She closed the distance between the door and the remnants of the fire in three long strides and yanked out the folders, beating the still-smoking embers with the palm of her hand. She sifted through the papers—Doc’s files that she had been entering into her computer. Some of the records appeared salvageable. Most were little more than char.

But in the midst of the violation of her home, the only things that mattered were Molly and the kitten.

Jessie dumped the blackened files onto the hearth and picked her way through the ruins of her printer.

She rounded the corner to her bedroom, which appeared unscathed, but she had an eerie sense that someone had gone through her things. She dropped to her knees and peered under the bed. “Molly?”

Nothing. No black and white longhaired tuxedo-marked fat cat. No small drug-addled orange and white tabby.

Frantic, she checked the rest of the rooms. The bathroom, Greg’s old office, the guest room. All seemed intact. She peered under the guest bed and behind bureaus and desks and dressers. Anywhere that Molly had ever claimed as a hiding spot. Nothing.

As Jessie clumped down the stairs, none of her surgeon’s training helped. Her hands trembled. She couldn’t fill her lungs. After another sweep through the first floor, she wasn’t sure which scared her more—the idea of never finding the cats at all or finding them in some condition she couldn’t accept.

Jessie unlocked the heavy front door, which no one ever used, and stepped out onto the porch. The lawn sloped down through a thick growth of ancient pines to the road. If Molly had escaped and was out there, Jessie didn’t have a clue where to start searching. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called, “Molly!”

Nothing but the chirp of spring peepers answered. What about the little guy? That little tabby. He had no name, but he could hear. Would he respond?

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” she called into the night.

Nothing. Of course not. He didn’t know her or this place. He was terrified. Hiding.

Jessie went back into the house and closed the door behind her. She staggered to the stairs and collapsed on the second step. With trembling fingers, she unbuckled the ankle straps and peeled off the old high-heeled shoes. Then she cradled her face in her sooty hands and surrendered to the flood of tears.

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

Jessie lifted her head.

Scritch, scritch.

Swallowing her tears, she tilted her head to listen. What the hell was that? And where was it coming from?

She climbed to her feet and tiptoed up the steps, listening for the sound. But it stopped. At the top of the stairs, she paused. Waited.

Scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch.

It was coming from her office. She went to the doorway and surveyed the rubble.

Scritch.

The sound—could it be?—came from behind the closed closet door next to the fireplace. She charged across the room, ignoring the pain as her bare foot came down on something sharp, and flung open the door.

Molly and the tabby blinked as the light fell upon them. Jessie dropped to her knees. Molly let loose with one of her high-decibel meows. Jessie translated it as, what took you so long?

Laughter bubbled in her throat as she scooped up the old cat and held the small warm body tight, burying her nose in the silky fur. The tabby, still shaky on his feet, wobbled out. Jessie pulled him close against her thigh, rubbing his ear.

Molly gave Jessie’s chin a head-butt, and a purr nearly as loud as her meow echoed through the room. It was the most beautiful sound Jessie had ever heard.

Immense relief soon gave way to intense anger. Who the hell had done this? Vanessa came to mind. Vanessa wanted her out of the house, and what better way to accomplish it than to scare her out?

Logic told Jessie the idea was preposterous. Sweet, waiflike Vanessa was incapable of such vandalism. But the alternative meant some unknown intruder had been in Jessie’s house, trashing her things, messing with her cats. Setting fire to Doc’s files. The notion of the break-in being related to his death started to raise the hair on the back of her neck, but she shook it off.

Blaming Vanessa felt so much easier to accept.

There was a gaping hole in the front of Jessie’s house, courtesy of the shattered window. She’d already imagined the cats escaping into the night. No way was she about to let it actually happen. She packed some clothes in a bag and both cats in the carrier. Wearing work boots with her sooty dress, she loaded everything into the Chevy and got the hell out of there.

LIGHT SEEPED AROUND the curtain covering Greg’s apartment window. Jessie stood on the stoop at the top of the steps and pounded on the door.

Greg jerked it open. “What the...?” He gaped at her. “Jess?”

She pushed past him into the kitchen. “Where’s Vanessa?”

He closed the door behind her. “She’s out with some girlfriends. What’s going on? Why...?” He waved a hand up and down at her, indicating her attire or condition or both.

Jessie collapsed into one of the retro chic vinyl and chrome chairs. “Someone broke into my house.”

“What?” He sank into the chair across from her.

Exhaustion closed in. She braced her elbows on the table and told him about her evening.

When she fell silent, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Did you call 911?”

“No. I’m reporting it to you. I’ve got the cats in the truck and I’m going to stay at