Cat Breaking Free

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

(Joe Grey Cat Mystery Series, Book 11)

HarperCollins, 2005
Hardcover: ISBN 0060578092
Paperback: Avon, ISBN 0060578122
E-book: HarperCollins
Large Print: Thorndike, ISBN 0786284668
Audiobook: Download and digital rental (CD no longer available)

The award-winning author pits Joe Grey, feline P.I., and his friends Dulcie and Kit against a ruthless gang of thieves and murderers in a case like none they’ve seen before.

The fur starts flying when a gang from L.A. comes up to tranquil Molena Point, California, and begins breaking into the village’s quaint shops. The fur of Joe Grey, feline P.I., that is. After all, Molena Point has been his home since he was a kitten eating scraps from the garbage behind the local delicatessen, and he doesn’t take well to marauding strangers. Joe even wonders whether the blonde who’s moved in next to his human companion Clyde could be a part of the gang--she’s been acting pretty suspicious lately. But when the strangers start trapping and caging feral cats it proves too much for the intrepid four-footed detective. And when one of the gang is murdered, and a second mysterious death comes to light, he has no choice but to try and stop the crimes. Joe, Dulcie, and their tattercoat friend Kit, who used to be a stray herself, are deep into the investigation when they are able to release the three trapped cats. But as Kit leads them away to freedom, will she herself return to that wild life?

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Quotes from the reviews

"... winning blend of suspense and whimsy ... A complex, well-crafted plot and lively, credible characters will leave fans purring with pleasure." --Publisher's Weekly, October 3, 2005

"As usual, the three cats are true to both their feline and sentient natures. This eleventh entry in the Joe Grey Mystery series ... continues to enhance characterizations, both feline and human, all the while providing an intriguing whodunit for series fans." --Sally Estes, Booklist

"Clever felines and their well-drawn human pals." --Kirkus Reviews, October 1, 2005

"Cat lovers as well as the general public can't get enough of these intrepid feline detectives. Once you've made the acquaintance of Joe, Dulcie and the Kit, you'll look at your own cat differently. Perhaps there's more going on behind those big eyes and beguiling features than you realized." --Bob Walch, Monterey County Herald, November 27, 2005

"With an uncanny understanding of a cat's behavior and personality quirks, Murphy has created a series of suspense yarns that not only capture the feline "attitude" but offer a satisfying read. Cat lovers, you'll be nodding your head in agreement as you follow the adventures of this threesome!" --Silas Spaeth, Salinas Californian, December 24, 2005

"The latest Joe Grey mystery is just as exciting as the other books in this purrfect series. The sentient and talkative felines are so realistically portrayed that readers will forget that such cats only exist between the pages of a book. Cat lovers, fans of the Mrs. Murphy series by Rita Mae Brown and anyone who likes a charming and intricately plotted who-done-it will definitely want to read Cat Breaking Free." --Harriet Klausner, Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine, December 2005

Excerpt from the story

"We don't need that bimbo living next door,” the tomcat hissed. “Why would they rent to the likes of her?” His ears were back, his yellow eyes narrowed, his sleek gray body tense with disgust as he paced the top of the long brick barbecue, looking down at his human housemate. He kept his voice low, so not to alarm curious neighbors.

Joe Grey and Clyde had been together since Joe was a kitten, though it was just four years ago this summer that he discovered he could speak. He didn’t know whether that revelation had been more shocking to him or to Clyde. For a human, to wake up one morning and find that his cat could argue back couldn’t be easy. Joe paused now in his irritable pacing to study Clyde, then glanced toward the high patio wall behind him. Peering as intently as if he could see right through the white plaster barrier to the house next door, he considered the backroom of their neighbors’ vacation cottage where Clyde’s old flame had taken up residence.

“Bimbo,” the tomcat repeated, muttering. “Why did they rent to her?”

“They only just bought the house,” Clyde said. “Maybe they need the money.”

“But why Chichi? And how did she find you?”

“Leave it, Joe. Don’t get worked up.” Clyde sat on the back steps with his first cup of coffee, enjoying the early-morning sunshine. He scratched his bare knee and smoothed his dark, neat hair. “Call it coincidence.”

The tomcat replied with a hiss. Chichi Barbi was not among his favorite humans; “bimbo” was too polite a word for the thieving little chit. “Maybe they don’t know she moved in. Maybe she broke in, a squatter, like that homeless guy who. . .”

“Don’t start, Joe. Don’t make a federal case. That’s so way out, even for your wild imagination!”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Dropping down from the barbecue to the chaise, Joe stretched out along the green cushion in a shaft of sunshine, and began to indolently wash his white paws, effectively dismissing Clyde. Around man and cat, the early-morning light was cool and golden. Within the patio’s high, plastered walls their little world was private and serene--a far cry from the scruffy, weedy plot this backyard had been some months ago, with its half-dead grass and open to the neighbors’ inquisitive stares through the rotting, broken fence.

Above them, sunlight filtered gently down through the new young leaves of the maple tree to the brick paving, and around them, the raised planters were bright with spring flowers, the plastered benches scattered with comfortable cushions. Beyond the trellis roof that shaded the barbecue, they could see only a glimpse of the neighbors’ rooftop, which now sheltered Chichi Barbi. Despite his dislike of the woman, Joe Grey had to smile. Chichi’s sudden appearance might be innocent or might not, but for the two weeks since she’d moved in, she’d made Clyde’s life miserable. He’d started locking the patio gate, and kept the draperies pulled on that side of the house. He locked the front door when he was home and he studiously avoided the front yard, slipping around the far side of the house to the driveway, sliding quietly into his yellow Chevy roadster and pulling out with as little noise as he could manage.

“Anyway,” Clyde said, “the morning’s too nice to waste it thinking about some neighbor. How much damage can one airhead do?”

The gray tomcat’s yellow-eyed glance telegraphed a world of ideas on the subject. “You have a short memory-and an amazing tolerance.”

“Come on, Joe.”

Joe kneaded the chaise pad in a satisfying rhythm. “One airhead bimbo with a big mouth and a nonstop talent for trouble, to say nothing of amazingly sticky fingers. One thieving bimbo who will rip a guy off for five hundred bucks and never once act guilty or ashamed. Who shows up here crawling all over you like she never stole a thing, all smiles and kisses.” Joe stretched, enjoying the brightening caress of the sun. The golden morning light, gleaming across the tomcat’s short gray coat, made it shine like velvet and delineated every sleek muscle. Joe’s white paws and white chest were washed to an immaculate gleam; the white strip down his nose shone as pristine as new porcelain. There was no stain of blood from last night’s hunting, no smallest speck of grime to mar his perfection. Watching Clyde, he yawned with bored contentment--but his yellow eyes were appraising, and, looking up again at the patio wall, he imagined Chichi spying on their conversation. He envisioned the brassy blonde climbing up on a ladder to peer over, could almost hear her brash and bubbling “good morning,” almost see her flashing, flirty smile.

No, Chichi Barbi hadn’t driven down here from San Francisco for an innocent vacation, with no idea that she’d be living next door to Clyde Damen. No way he’d believe that degree of coincidence.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The radio went silent. They heard two car doors slam, then two men’s voices, one speaking Spanish as they headed down the drive, to the entry to Chichi’s back bedroom. They heard the men knock, heard the door open, heard Chichi’s high giggle as the door closed again, then silence. Rising, his ears pressed back with annoyance, the tomcat leaped from the chaise to the barbecue to the top of the plastered wall, where he could see the door and the drive.

An older brown Plymouth coupe stood in the drive. Stretching out along the top of the wall, Joe watched the one bedroom window he could see; the other was around the corner facing a strip of garden and the drive. Inside, Chichi was sitting on the bed facing the two men who sat in straight chairs, their backs to Joe. The three had pulled the night table between them and were studying some kind of papers they had spread out. Frowning, the tomcat dropped from the wall down into the neighbors’ scruffy yard. Racing across the rough grass and around the corner, he leaped into the little lemon tree that stood just outside Chichi’s other window.

Scorching up into its branches he tried to avoid the tree’s nasty little thorns, but one caught him in the paw. Pausing to lick the blood away, he tried to keep his white markings out of sight, hidden among the sparse foliage. What were they looking at? A map? He climbed higher, stretching out along a brittle limb, peering down.

Yes. A street map of the village. He could see the words “Molena Point” slanted across one corner. One man was Latino, with collar-length black hair. The other was a gringo, with sandy-red hair and short beard. Of what significance were the streets and intersections that the Latino man traced so intently with one stubby finger? Joe could not see the notes Chichi was making, where she had propped a small spiral pad on the corner of the table. He tried to peer around her shoulder but couldn’t stretch far enough without risking a fall out of the spindly little tree. He caught a few words, but they were doing more tracing than talking. They seemed to be working out some scenario. It was clear to the tomcat that these three were not, by the wildest stretch, planning a Sunday church picnic.

Read a longer sample from inside the book

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