Cat Trick

Not a chance. I couldn’t see the cat, but he could see me, and all he had to do was jump out of the way of my sweeping hand. That was the problem with having a cat who could disappear at will. He did, generally when he wanted to do the opposite of whatever it was I wanted him to do—like horn in on my visit with Marcus instead of staying home. And how the heck was I going to get Owen back to the house again? He’d obviously snuck into my truck and then hopped out when I’d gotten here. Could I trust him to follow me when I was ready to leave? I needed something to use as incentive.

I took another drink and palmed one of the sardine-topped crackers, hoping Marcus hadn’t counted exactly how many he’d put on the plate. Then I pushed my chair back and stood up, brushing a few stray cracker crumbs off my jeans. “I think I might have left my phone in the truck,” I said. “I’m just going to check. I’ll be right back.” I kept the hand holding the cracker down by my leg, hoping it would be enough to entice Owen. I knew he’d be tempted to just sit on the table and eat all the sardines from the plate. I was hoping he was smart enough not to try it.

“Owen,” I stage-whispered, as soon as I was outside and around the side of the house. I looked around but I couldn’t see him, of course. “You better be out here.”

I opened the driver’s door of the truck, set the cracker in the middle of the seat and waited. After a long moment, Owen appeared, gray head down, sniffing the food. I’m tall enough that when I leaned across the bench seat my face was inches from his. “You are in so much trouble,” I hissed. He looked up at me, all innocent golden eyes. “How would I have explained things if Marcus had seen that cracker moving across the table all by itself, like it had little wheels on the bottom?”

The cat looked intently at me and it almost seemed as though he shrugged. Then he nosed the olive ring off the top of the sardine, bent down and ate it. I waited for him to spit it back out or at least make a face. All he did was lick his whiskers.

“Don’t tell me you like olives, too,” I said. “You know what Roma will say.” Roma Davidson was one of my closest friends in Mayville Heights and also the town veterinarian.

Owen made a face and shook his furry tabby head at the sound of Roma’s name. She wasn’t one of his favorite people, although in the last several months it had seemed like he might be warming up to her. At least a little.

Roma had been very insistent that I was feeding Owen and his brother, Hercules, way too much people food. And I probably would have agreed that she was right if they’d really been just everyday house cats, which they clearly weren’t. Along with Owen’s invisibility, Hercules had the ability to walk through walls . . . and doors and pretty much any other solid object that got in his way.

Of course, Roma didn’t know about the cats’ unique skills. No one did. It wasn’t the kind of thing I could casually drop into a conversation without seeming more than a little . . . well . . . crazy.

Owen used his paw to nudge the chunk of sardine onto the seat. Then he sniffed it. He sniffed everything he ate. If I gave him four identical kitty treats, he’d sniff each one before it went in his mouth.

“You’re not going to like that,” I said, pointing at the bit of fish. “It’s Louisiana hot sauce. Hot. Sauce.” I emphasized the last two words. Owen being Owen, he immediately gobbled up the fish. I waited for him to yowl and spit it back out again.

He didn’t so much as gasp. His kitty eyes didn’t water. He licked the last of the hot sauce from the top of the cracker and then pushed it at me.

“Thank you, but I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m going to go back inside now, and you’re going to stay here.”

He blinked and vanished.

“Okay,” I said, straightening up. “I guess that means I’ll have to stop at Harry Taylor’s on the way home and give that bag of sardine crackers in the glove compartment to Boris. I can’t give them to you if I can’t see you, and I don’t want them to get stale.”

I knew Owen’s tail had to be twitching in annoyance, even if I couldn’t see it. Boris was Harry Taylor Junior’s dog, a big, gentle German shepherd and Owen’s mortal enemy—if a cat can have a mortal enemy. When all else failed, the threat of Boris getting the cats’ treats was usually enough to convince them to see things my way.