abandoned baby, and he knows Lily can help him solve the case—if she cooperates.
Susie Bishop—She made the ultimate sacrifice to save her baby.
Wayman Bishop—The mayor’s slick right-hand man has his fingers in a lot of pies.
Jim Lavert—When a cop turns bad, there’s nowhere to go but down.
Margie Lavert—Jim’s widow is very helpful. Too helpful?
Rose and Preston Johnson—The wealthy couple has everything—except the child they’ve always longed for.
Baby David—The cause of all the ruckus.
To all of Familiar’s fans, and especially to those who repeatedly asked to see more of Clotilde.
Contents
Chapter One
It’s a party! Orchestra, glittering gowns, laughter, the sparkle of jewels and conversation. In attendance, the crème de la crème of Washington society. Not to be a name-dropper, but there’s George Stephanopoulos. And over in the corner, another powerful pundit, George Will. Gads, none of the common reporter breed! And I see Senator Finances and the First Lady of Law and Order herself. Yes, Preston and Rose have created another successful power evening! Clotilde can be proud of her humanoids. I noticed earlier that the television vans were parked on the street. No working press invited tonight, but they’ll be eager to film who comes in and out of the party.
Power, prestige and purr-fectly prepared food—this is absolutely the setting for a few smooth moves and some hanky-panky from a swanky black feline. Speaking of beauteous kitties, where is Clotilde? I’m out on the veranda, picnic spread, waiting to woo my love with sumptuous tidbits I’ve purloined from the various buffet tables. And Clotilde keeps me waiting. Isn’t that just like a feline?
So I have a little time to recheck the menu. I have some smoked salmon with cream cheese spread and caviar. A little salty for my taste, but Clotilde loves it. Honestly, the way that caterer acted when he caught me snatching it off the table, you’d think it was gold bullion.
Now some escargots—yum. Fascinating what garlic and butter will do for a snail. A bit of beef, a sampling of roasted pork, some cheeses. I’d say I covered all the bases. As for dessert, that’s something I want to save for later, if you get my drift.
The night is a little chill for the humanoids, which means they’ll stay inside. Clotilde and I will have the lovely veranda all to ourselves. We can still hear the music and watch the bipeds do the dance of power and politics. And we can dine at leisure, without censure or interruption. Goodness, after my last case in New Orleans I’m glad to be home. I think I might have to take a breather from the P.I. business. I think a few weeks of Clotilde…what’s that?
Someone is climbing over the wall in Preston’s backyard. The guest list was exclusive, but I hardly think this party is worth breaking and entering. A sleek, elegant black shadow—hey, it could be me if I were a biped. Except this one is a woman! I wonder if it’s one of those pushy media types.
No, she’s carrying a basket. A big basket. And she’s being very, very careful not to be seen. I think this must be one of those surprise delivery services. You know, the ones that drop off expensive gifts in deadly secret. Let me say, I highly approve of this delivery gal. She’s got a pair of gams that Ginger Rogers would envy—long, lean and well-muscled. And the torso sitting on top of them screams “kick-boxing fool.” She climbed that wall like it wasn’t twelve feet of solid cement. And she can crouch and run—a talent for a biped, and don’t forget it.
The basket is pretty heavy, too. And she’s leaving it on the veranda. Very stealthy lady. A secret gift basket. Someone has sent Clotilde’s humans a lovely basket of food for the party. And guess what! I’m going to make sure there’s nothing in there that might make a humanoid sick. That’s part of my feline duties—to consume any suspicious foodstuffs. I’ll just give bat-woman another second to fly back over the wall…. Now I can make my move on the food basket. I hope it’s a good, salty ham. It looked to weigh about ten pounds or so.
There’s just nothing like a ham—uh, oh, this ain’t no smoked piglet. It’s alive and kicking, and it’s about to start crying for mama. That woman abandoned a baby! A real, live humanoid of the smaller version. A humanette. A muchacha. A bambino. A babette.
Oh, my goodness. It’s so newborn its eyes can’t focus. She can’t see Uncle Familiar hovering over her. And it’s too cool out on this veranda for a baby! What was that woman thinking?
Thank goodness, here’s Clotilde. One look at the little bambino and I can see a plan in her eyes. Yes, I know Rose and Preston have wanted a baby for years. Yes, I know they’d make perfect, loving parents. Yes, I know they could give a child all the advantages. But that doesn’t negate the fact that this child belongs to someone—someone who climbed a wall and dumped it here.
Clotilde
