Cat on a Cold Tin Roof Read Free Page A

floozy she outgrew it, and she likes to play bridge.”
    â€œShe likes cats, too,” added Simmons.
    â€œFine,” I said. “She likes cats too.”
    â€œCome on,” he said, walking through the massive room and heading to the hallway.
    I followed him, we walked past three empty rooms and still more paintings by artists who were probably known to everyone who could afford a house like this, and came to a closed door with a uniformed cop standing guard. Simmons knocked on it.
    â€œMrs. Pepperidge?” he said.
    â€œCome in,” said a strong female voice, stronger that I’d have expected from a newly widowed woman.
    He opened the door, and I followed him into a paneled study with a carpet so thick you got the feeling they had to mow it every few days. She was sitting at an antique wooden desk, drinking from an expensive-looking glass while an even more expensive-looking bottle sat on the desk next to her.
    She was maybe five-foot-five or six, and she may have been slim and sexy once, but these days she looked more like a linebacker. She wore a tailored pantsuit, her face had been lifted at least once and probably a couple of times, and her auburn hair had some beautiful white streaks through it. I don’t know from hair, but I’d have bet whatever my fee for this gig was that those weren’t its real colors. The most lasting impression was that she wore enough gold and diamond jewelry to make your pupils contract once the light hit them.
    She looked me up and down, and finally got to her feet.
    â€œI am Evangeline Pepperidge,” she said, almost hiding the Chicago twang from her voice. “And you are . . . ?”
    â€œPaxton, ma’am,” I said, extending my hand. “Eli Paxton. I want to offer my condolences for your loss.”
    She looked at my hand as if it was diseased, and finally I let it drop to my side.
    â€œMr. Simmons has recommended you,” she said.
    â€œLieutenant Simmons,” Jim corrected her.
    She glared at him for a moment, then turned back to me.
    â€œAre you available to begin work immediately, Mr. Paxton?”
    â€œFirst thing in the morning,” I assured her.
    â€œI said immediately ,” she repeated harshly.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I replied. “Immediately.”
    â€œGood. I’m not going to quibble about your fee. This is much too important.” She reached down behind the desk, opened a drawer, pulled out a wad of bills, and handed it to me.
    â€œThat’s fifteen hundred dollars, Mr. Paxton,” she said. “It will serve as your retainer. I will pay you two hundred dollars a day plus all expenses while you are working for me, and a thousand-dollar bonus when you successfully complete your assignment.”
    Yeah , I decided, it was worth coming out in the snow . My usual fee was a hundred and a half a day, and as often as not I let it be negotiated downward when I was hard up for clients, which was usually the case. As for the retainer, it was the biggest I’d seen in three years.
    â€œI assume these terms are acceptable?” she said when I was still doing the math and seeing how soon I could get the Ford its transmission.
    â€œPerfectly, Mrs. Pepperidge, ma’am,” I said.
    â€œGood,” she said, opening another desk drawer, pulling out a bunch of four-by-six photos, and handing them to me.
    I thumbed through them. It was a normal, unexceptional-looking cat. A mackerel tabby, I think they call it, with a distinctive white spot over its left eye. It was lying on the dead man’s lap in a couple of them.
    â€œLooks like a cat,” I said.
    â€œOf course she’s a cat!” she snapped. “ My cat.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “It’s your cat. What’s its name?”
    â€œ Her name is Fluffy,” she said somewhat distastefully. “My husband named her.” She paused. “She’s gone missing, and I want her