“I feel Erma would like the porcelain room,” said Wes.
“She’s a destructive animal.”
“She is not.” Wes defended her. “She likes the colors.”
To their relief, Erma was not in the porcelain room knocking over small side tables filled with Royal Doulton. Nor was she in the fashion room, where Nadine checked under the ornate skirts as a portrait of the cats in Elizabethan dress looked on. “The Diors are safe,” she reported, panting slightly as she rose to her feet.
“I believe those are House of Worth,” he said.
“Really?” She looked back in. “I didn’t realize you were so into fashion and design, but you know a lot.”
“I like it, but I also remember a lot from my stories,” he said, crossing his arms. “They impact us on a daily basis, so it helps me when I’m putting things in context.”
“It’s impressive.”
“Oh.” He looked at her in surprise, then frowned slightly as if he didn’t believe her.
Erma wasn’t in the library or the attic or the conservatory. They went back to the kitchen and opened another container of food. Overfeeding the cats was worth it to flush her out.
Wes paced in alarm. “Do you think she got outside?” He stared out the window. “She’ll be scared. She’s too small. What if there are raccoons? Coyotes? Those billionaire’s dogs we keep hearing?” Before she could answer, Wes held up his hand. “Wait. Do you hear that?”
Nadine tilted her head to hear better. “No.”
Wes turned in a slow circle. “I heard a noise.”
“From where?”
“I don’t know.” He walked to the left, then back to the right.
Nadine went to the door and listened. “Too bad we didn’t teach thecats to play Marco Polo.”
“I was great at that game,” said Wes absently. “Hold on. There it is again.”
They stood by the window and listened until a faint scratching came from the door.
“That must be her,” Wes said.
They speed walked through the kitchen and took up positions in the salon, Wes near the library door and Nadine close to the conservatory. “Erma?” called Wes. “Ermikins kitty cat?”
“Ermikins kitty cat?” asked Nadine.
Wes looked faintly embarrassed. “It’s what she likes to be called.”
It seemed he was right, because another meow drifted in. “The library,” said Wes, dashing through the door.
The sound was louder here. Nadine zeroed in on a section of panel to the left of the door. “Is Erma in the wall?” she asked.
They pressed their ears against the wall. “She is. Like some sort of Lovecraftian rat.” He raised his voice. “It’s okay, Erms. I’m here.”
Another imperious meow.
“Wait a minute.” Nadine stared at the wall, then up to the secret entrance to the attic as a distant memory of an old murder mystery came to her. Like Brent had done the first time he’d shown them the attic, she ran her fingers along the panel until she found what felt like a depression. She pressed it, and with a smooth slide, the door rose to reveal a dark hole.
A black streak leapt out and into Wes’s arms, purring and headbutting him in the chin. “Erma!” He lifted the cat up to look in her face. “You bad cat. How did you get in there?”
When she jumped out of his arms to stalk away, they turned to stare into the wall.
“It’s a dumbwaiter,” Nadine said. “Look at the pulleys. They used it to move things from one floor to another.”
