So when Harry had invited her to join the family on their annual vacation in the South of France, she’d had her doubts. Did she really want to spend two weeks in close quarters with these people? Did they even want her there? Harry had assured her that his mother had personally invited her. That she wanted to get to know her future daughter-in-law. And so eventually she had caved. In fact it was her own mother who had convinced her to accept the invitation.

  “I’m sure that once Amanda Griffiths gets to know you, she’ll learn to love you, just like everyone who knows you does,” said Mom. It had been a touching moment, and when her dad had added that if the Griffiths gave her any trouble he’d fix them good—whatever that meant—she had relented.

  What was the worst that could happen? Some mean-spirited comments and dirty looks? She could live with that. If it meant spending two weeks with Harry on a majestic yacht moored in the port of Saint-Tropez and enjoying a sun-soaked holiday, she’d be crazy to say no. So she said yes—wholeheartedly yes!

  But that was before the first message arrived. And the picture.

  She stared at her phone, still not fully understanding what she was looking at, exactly. She recognized the picture, of course she did. But what she failed to grasp was the message that accompanied it.

  Better think again!

  Think again? Think about what?

  Whoever had sent the picture must have realized the vagueness of the message, for the second text she received shortly after the first one read:

  Break up with Harry, or I send these pictures to the Griffiths!

  Now that was much clearer. But also a lot more terrifying!

  She studied the picture. It had been taken by her ex-boyfriend, the guy she’d been dating when she met Harry. It had been one of those on-and-off affairs, though more off than on, to be honest. And during one of their on episodes, he had asked her to pose for him, which she had happily done, since she was proud of her figure, honed through years of hard work in the gym, and didn’t mind showing it off.

  Now that she saw the snap again, though, she could see the trouble she was in. It wasn’t all that risqué. There wasn’t even a lot to see that would bring a blush of shame to the cheek of modesty. But to Amanda Griffiths it would confirm the notion that Emily simply wasn’t the right choice for her precious son.

  And then there was the clause, of course.

  The infamous Griffiths Clause!

  Now there lay the rub.

  CHAPTER 4

  Vesta was standing at the checkout counter, a pile of clothes ready to be put in bags, if only this darned card of hers would cooperate.

  “I don’t understand,” she said as she gave it one more shot.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the girl behind the counter said. “But it says here that your card has been refused. Credit limit exceeded.” She signaled to one of her colleagues, who started removing the pile of clothes.

  Vesta watched her haul being taken away with a kindling eye. “Wait!” she snapped. “Let me call my bank. I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the girl. “But you’re holding up the line.”

  “We’re holding up the line, Vesta,” Scarlett said. She looked nervous. “Maybe we should just let it go.”

  “I’m not letting anything go,” Vesta growled. “These are my clothes. I spent hours picking them and fitting them and I’m going to take them with me to France if it’s the last thing I do. Hey, you!” she yelled.

  The girl who had been tasked with removing the clothes halted in her tracks.

  “Wait a moment, Vicky,” said the checkout girl quite sensibly.

  “Yeah, wait a moment, Vicky,” Vesta chimed in. “Look, I’m going to call my banker right now. He’s going to make everything all right. And once that happens, I’m going to want you to apologize to me.”

  The girl bristled a little. “I’m sure I don’t understand—”

  “Shush,” said Vesta, because her call had just connected. “Martin, hi!” she bellowed into the phone. “Vesta Muffin on the line. You’ll never guess where I am.”

  “Oh, hello, Mrs. Muffin,” said the banker in his most mellifluous tones. “How are you?”

  “Bad, Martin. Not good. I’m in Midtown Manhattan and my card just got rejected at Fancy Pants Fashion Emporium. Credit limit exceeded. Now you’re going to fix this right now, you hear me?”

  There was a marked diminution of unctuousness when the banker spoke next. “There’s absolutely no need for you to—”

  “Oh, there is every need, Martin. I’m leaving for the French Riviera, to spend ten days on a great big yacht belonging to Dick Bernstein and I need some new threads. So are you going to let me buy new clothes or do I have to walk into your office naked and glue myself to your desk with super glue like these climate protesters? Your choice.”

  Martin started gibbering something she failed to understand, but it was clear that the man was greatly impressed by the image of Vesta in her birthday suit glued to his desk. After a few moments of hemming and hawing, he finally relented. “I’ll make sure your purchase goes through,” he said. “A valued customer like you has to be able to—”

  “Hang on a second, Martin,” she interrupted him. She gestured for the girl at the checkout to give her card one more try. And this time, much to her satisfaction, it worked. All around her, sighs of relief could be heard. “Good job,” she spoke into the phone. “Quick service.”

  “I’m gratified to hear that,” said Martin. “Anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Muffin?”

  “We’re going to Victoria’s Secret next,” said Vesta. “And then on to the beauty parlor. Make sure my card keeps on behaving, will you? There’s a good boy.” And she hung up on the man. She gave her friend Scarlett a triumphant grin. “What did I tell you? Bankers are just like dogs. You have to train them, otherwise they misbehave. Start urinating on your carpet and chewing the furniture. One of the first things my mother taught me.”

  “Your mother taught you how to train a banker?” asked Scarlett.

  “Of course! Bankers are important, honey. Just look at this stash.” She gestured to the bulky bags that were accumulating on the counter. “None of that would be possible without this wonderful piece of plastic,” she said, waving her credit card.

  “I guess,” said Scarlett.

  “Life is a grind, my friend,” said Vesta, suddenly feeling philosophical after having won this important battle. “So you have to grind right back before it grinds you down. Now let’s get out of here. The day is young and my banker is willing!”

  Harriet couldn’t believe her ears when Max told her that Gran was leaving for the South of France. “You have got to be kidding,” the pretty white Persian said, mouth agape at this piece of news.

  “No, she was being serious,” said Max. “She and Scarlett have been invited to join Dick Bernstein on his yacht and she’s leaving soon.”

  “And she’s not taking us along with her,” Dooley added, though he looked happy and not sad, as one would have expected upon hearing the news that their human is going away and leaving them behind.

  “I think it’s great,” said Brutus. “Gran works hard and she deserves a break,” the black cat clarified.

  Harriet turned to her mate. “So you think this is a good idea, do you?”

  “Absolutely,” said Brutus, though as he took Harriet’s furious look in stride he seemed to lose some of his confidence.

  “She’s abandoning us, Brutus!” said Harriet. “And you know Gran. She’ll get in trouble down there in this place called River Era. And then our humans will have to fly out there to bail her out. Which means we’ll be all alone—with no one to take care of us!”

  “I think it’s actually Riviera,” I said. “Not River Era.”

  “Who cares what it’s called! We’ll be left to fend for ourselves!”

  “That won’t happen,” Brutus assured her. “Gran is old and wise enough to…” As a frown appeared on his brow, his voice trailed off. “Actually, she’s not, is she?” he finally admitted. “Old and wise, I mean?”

  “Oh, she’s old, all right,” said Harriet. “But wise? Not exactly!”

  “Mh,” said Brutus, chewing on this simple truth.

  “So what are you saying?” Max asked. “Pretty soon we’ll be alone, without anyone to take care of us?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying!” said Harriet, who couldn’t believe that Max, of all cats, could be so slow on the uptake. He was supposed to be the one with the big brain, ready to solve any mystery great or small. But he didn’t seem to realize the grave danger Gran’s surprise trip posed for the four of them.

  “I think it’ll be fine,” a fifth voice piped up. The voice belonged to Grace, Odelia and Chase’s little girl. For some reason the toddler could communicate with cats, but not her own species. Not yet, at least, since she was too young to grasp the basic tenets of the English language. “Gran will have a great time in France and she’ll return to us a new, improved woman. Refreshed and relaxed, you know.”

  They all stared at the toddler, who was clearly talking through her hat, even though she didn’t even wear one.

  “Why are you all looking at me like that?” asked Grace finally.

  “I’m sure Gran will have a great time,” Max said, having adopted an avuncular tone. “In fact she will have the time of her life. She always does. The problem is that the measure of Gran’s enjoyment is usually inversely proportional to the trouble she creates. So the more she enjoys herself, the bigger the problems we will have to solve. And with we I actually mean Marge and Odelia and the rest of the family.”

  “Oh,” said Grace as she processed this. She scratched the fluffy wisps of blond hair on her dome with a chubby hand, her cherubic face twisting into an expression of the utmost concentration. “So what you’re saying is that Gran leaving for France and having a good time is going to get us all into a heap of trouble?”

  “Bingo,” said Max, still speaking like a kindly grandfather to a grandchild dandling on his knee. Harriet had to admit that her big blorange friend had a way with babies. “Every time Gran gets something into her nut, it invariably upsets the delicate balance that governs our universe. So we better brace ourselves.”

  “Brace ourselves for what, Max?” asked Dooley innocently.

  “For a storm, Dooley,” said Max gravely. “For a great storm.”

  Dooley glanced up at the sky, and so did Grace. The sky was blue, with not a single cloud in sight. But nevertheless Harriet could hear the rumblings of a distant storm moving in. And she didn’t like it one bit. “At least the four of us have each other,” she said. “Let’s promise that we’ll stick together, all right?”

  Grace, who had been silently counting, now frowned. “I know I’m just a baby, and I haven’t gotten my first math lesson yet, but aren’t there five of us here?”

  “Yes, but you don’t count,” said Harriet, then realized how her words might be interpreted. “What I mean is that you are a baby, and we are cats. And if our humans decide to skedaddle, because of some crisis relating to Gran, they’re not going to leave you behind.”

  “But they would leave you behind?”

  “In a heartbeat,” said Harriet. It had happened before, when the four of them had been foisted on Charlene Butterwick, Uncle Alec’s partner. It hadn’t been an unpleasant experience, per se, but she still preferred to be in her usual surroundings, with her customary bowl of food, her litter box and her favorite spots on couch and bed and, well, everywhere, really, since it was her home, after all. “Just you wait and see. The moment disaster strikes—and it will strike—our happy unencumbered existence will be over.”

  “So let’s promise each other that we’ll stick together,” said Brutus, and held up his paw.

  “Let’s stick together through thick and thin,” Max said.

  “I don’t like getting sticky,” said Dooley. But when Harriet gave him one of her trademark looks, he quickly amended, “But I’ll happily stick to you guys.”

  “I’ll second that,” said Harriet. “All for one and one for all.”

  “And I may be just a baby,” said Grace, putting her pudgy hand on top of the four paws. “But you can count on me so count me in.”

  As luck would have it, her hand was quite sticky.

  CHAPTER 5

  The day after these dramatic events, the four of us were sound asleep in Odelia’s office, our human working like a beaver on an article about a rare beaver sighting on Long Island, the first one in a decade. The person who had spotted the beaver had snapped a shot of the animal, which could be seen chewing on a log, something beavers seem particularly partial to for some reason.

  “I wouldn’t want to be seen dead chewing on a log,” Brutus said when Odelia showed us the picture.

  “That’s probably because you’re not a beaver,” Harriet told him, at which point we all decided to take a nap since beavers don’t hold a lot of interest to us cats. And besides, Odelia needed to write her article.

  And so for a while all was nice and quiet, until the door to the outer office opened and consequently a soft knock sounded at Odelia’s office door. A woman strode in, looking a little furtive but nonetheless determined to have speech with our human. She was pretty, with a tilt-tipped nose and big blue eyes.

  “Odelia Kingsley?” she asked. “My name is Emily King? I don’t know if you remember me, but my great-aunt Maria and your great-uncle Lucius were cousins, which makes us relatives in a sense.”

  “Of course!” said Odelia, getting up from behind her desk. She seemed to be glad to take a break from beavering away at her latest masterpiece to welcome this distant relative into her lair. “I don’t think we’ve met, but I’ve heard my mother mention her uncle Lucius.”

  Emily King smiled, well pleased by this warm reception, and took the offered seat in front of her distant cousin’s desk. “My mom told me you’re a reporter, but also something of an amateur detective.”

  “All true,” Odelia admitted. “Why? Do you need a detective?”

  “Well, I need someone,” said Emily with a sigh. She placed a phone on Odelia’s desk, who took it and frowned at the display.

  “Is this you?” she asked.

  “Yep, that’s me, all right. In a state of undress, as they say.”

  “Discreet, though,” said Odelia. “Nothing explicit.”

  “But still too much for some people,” said Emily, and took a deep breath, ready to launch into her story. “The thing is, Odelia—can I call you Odelia?” After being assured that she could, she continued, “I’ve recently become engaged to Harry Griffiths.”

  “Congratulations,” said Odelia warmly. Then: “Griffiths as in the Griffiths?”

  “One and the same. Which is where the trouble starts. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Griffiths Clause? No, I didn’t think you would be. It’s one of those closely guarded family secrets. I didn’t know about it myself until Harry mentioned it at some point during our third date, though it could have been our fourth. Things were heating up between us, and getting more serious, so he figured he’d better warn me about some of the peculiarities of the Griffiths family.”

  “I know they’re one of the richest and most prominent families in the country,” said Odelia.

  “Then you may also know that the Griffiths fortune was built from scratch by Harry’s great-grandfather Jonah Griffiths. But it was his son Franklin Griffiths who, on his deathbed, stipulated that any heir to the Griffiths fortune, which at that point had already become substantial, must be of impeccable moral fiber. And whoever they marry should possess the same virtues.”

  “So…” said Odelia, her eye darting back to the phone belonging to her cousin twice removed—or perhaps even thrice.

  “So if Harry were to marry someone like me, who has been snapped in a picture like this, he could be disinherited. Lose his claim on the family fortune, which would then go to his sister Kimberly.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Odelia, tapping her desk. The gleam in her eye told me that the story hadn’t failed to grip. It certainly was a darn sight more interesting than a random beaver masticating some random log.

  “Someone sent me this picture,” said Emily, holding up her phone. “Along with the message that if I don’t break up with Harry, they’ll send it to my future in-laws. The message also referred to pictures, plural, which tells me there are others.”

  “Are there others?” asked Odelia, quirking an inquisitive eyebrow.

  Emily inclined her head. “My ex-boyfriend took them. Oliver Rose. We were both feeling frisky at the time, so when he started snapping away, I didn’t stop him since I was in love with him, and this is the kind of thing people in love do. But then when I met Harry and broke up with Oliver, I actually took the time to go through his phone and delete any pictures that might be embarrassing. And he was fine with that.”

  “So where did this one come from?”

  “He must have saved those pictures in some other place,” said Emily. “Maybe in the cloud or on his computer. Some backup he never told me about.”