The thought of a sick Chablis pushed logic down to the hippocampus or wherever common sense goes when you have more important matters to attend to. I dropped my tote on the counter and hurried past the teak dining table. Since my kitchen, dining area and living room all blend together, the trip to where I’d heard Chablis sneeze wasn’t more than twenty feet. But before I’d taken five steps, I stopped again. Something else besides a sneezing cat now had my attention.

Silence. No background noise. No Animal Planet playing on the television. I always leave the TV tuned to that station when I go away. If the cats were entertained by The Jeff Corwin Experience or Heroes or E-Vet, I’d convinced myself, my absences were more tolerable. Okay, I’m neurotic about my three friends. Not cat-lady neurotic. At forty-one I’m a little young for that. But cats have been my best friends for as long as I can remember, and the ones that live with me now have been amazing since my husband, John, died ten months ago. They take care of me. So I try my best to take care of them.

Could the TV be off because of a power failure?

Glancing back at the microwave, I saw that the clock showed the correct time—one p.m. Perhaps the high-def plasma TV blew up in a cloud of electronic smoke? Maybe. Didn’t matter, though. Not now. I’d only heard from Chablis, and none of my cats had shown their faces. I was getting a bad vibe—and I can usually rely on my intuition.

“Chablis, I’m home,” I called. I kept walking, slowly now—didn’t want to panic them if I was overreacting—and went into the living area. “Syrah, where are you? Merlot, I missed you.”

I breathed a sigh of relief when I found Chablis sitting on the olive chenille sofa, her blue eyes gazing up at me. Himalayans look like long-haired Siamese cats and Chablis was no different. Her gorgeous crystal blue eyes and her champagne fur were accented by deep brown feet, and she had a precious dark face and a fluffy wand of a tail.