Meow Mayhem

by Lickel, Lisa;

  Go on with you, girl. I took a deep breath, loving the smell of the box of books behind me. I noticed the radio was set to the local public channel, and I didn’t detect any cigarette smoke. Not that I thought he was the smoking type, anyway. Isis left her presence with a few shed hairs.

  “I have the address.” Adam squinted at a paper stuck up on his visor. “Do you know a quick way to get there?”

  We worked out a path through the crooked streets and maze of downtown parking. I pointed to a red brick building at Main and Second. “There’s New Horizons, the church I’m thinking about joining.” I tried to sound casual. “Do you go to church?”

  “It’s been a few years.” He met my gaze briefly before turning onto the county road along the edge of Apple Grove. “This way, right?”

  I respected his change of subject. “Yes, down”—I checked a mailbox—“about two more driveways, I think. Yep. There’s their number on the gate.” Which was thankfully open.

  We drove to the large house, complete with two-story, crisp white fluted columns. Margaret, or whoever did their lawn, had the plantings around the stone portals military sharp, with lush red impatiens in neat rows.

  Adam pulled up to the front step, his mouth tight as he slammed his door shut. I followed suit, but more slowly, noting the circle drive around the back of the house and the outbuildings, a detached four-car garage with steps to a windowed apartment above, a small building that must be the old carriage house, and a playhouse-size mock Egyptian temple which I assumed was Tut’s domain. Donald told me long ago that Margaret would not tolerate pets in the house. Parked next to the little structure was a navy blue, paneled work van with no rear windows. It was parked at an angle, so all I could read of the small lettering along one side was “…rity” and the line below it: “ace of mind.”

  We climbed the red brick steps and walked through those imposing columns.

  “Some farmstead,” Adam muttered from the corner of his mouth. He rang the bell.

  A cloud went over the sun, and a chilly gust blew along the long porch. We checked one way, then the other while we waited. Finally, Adam rang the bell again. We heard it echo through the house. Footsteps, click-sliding on a wooden floor. The door was opened by the dark-haired woman from Donald’s office.

  “Hello, Letty,” Adam said. “We hoped Mrs. Conklin was at home.”

  Letty’s mouth did not change from its scimitar shape. “Mrs. Bader-Conklin is not receiving visitors at this time. Whom shall I say called?”

  “So, she is home?” I asked in my best polite voice.

  Letty did not even glance in my direction. “She is unavailable.”

  The curtain to Adam’s left twitched. I brushed his arm.

  “Could you please tell her that two old friends of her husband’s came by, Ivy Preston and Adam Thompson?” Adam bobbed his head. “Ma’am.”

  “Wait! Um, Mrs…Letty, is Tut here or did Donald take him? Who’s taking care of him?”

  “There’s no cat here,” Letty said. “The mayor took his animal with him.”

  “But—”

  Adam pulled me down the steps with him as Letty closed the door.

  “Hey! Did you—”

  He cut me off with a warning pinch while he opened the passenger door for me before going to the driver’s side. He started the engine with a twist of the key and drove out.

  “You saw what I saw behind the curtain?” I asked, once we’d turned on the road into the mighty suburbs of Apple Grove.

  “That wasn’t him in the window,” Adam replied.

  I didn’t understand what he was thinking. Clearly, he was on a mission as he drove past my turn.

  “But who—what—if they’re leaving town, who’s running Apple Grove? And what about Tut? If Donald has him, why did Margaret say that you could bring Isis over to play with him? And in the window? Are they hiding some man?”

  He gave a snort of impatience. “Could be the gardener, for all we know. I aim to find out.” Adam pulled up at city hall with a rocking stop and jumped out.

  I caught my breath as I tried to keep up with him. He raced up the stairs to Donald’s office, I watched, undecided for a moment while I contemplated the elevator. The mayor’s suite was on the fourth floor. When the doors opened in front of me and spilled out its riders, I jumped in. I met up with Adam at the door marked “Mayor” on frosted glass.

  He pushed it open and I followed. Donald’s office light was on. How had Adam guessed there would be someone in the mayor’s office? I narrowed my eyes. Or had he guessed?

  “Hi, Marion.” I greeted the blonde woman who stood between us and the inner office. She was not much older than I, but had married and had kids in a more timely fashion.

  She jumped. “Oh, Ivy, hello. Mr. Thompson. What’s going on?”

  Adam wasn’t even breathing that heavily after his jog up the steps. “I hope the mayor isn’t too busy today. We just stopped back in to see him. I wanted to double check on some information he had for me earlier, about investing in Happy Hearts.”

  I gave him my best wide-eyed “what in the world are you up to, but I’m with you” expression.

  Marion turned away and picked up a piece of paper from her desk. “I don’t know what to tell you folks. I hope it isn’t anything urgent, because the mayor won’t be able to see you for a while.”

  “Oh?”

  “I just got in. If you were here earlier, you remember that Mrs. Conklin’s assistant, Letty, was here. She called and asked me to come back to work the rest of today and tomorrow. Normally, I would never admit to being unsettled, but well, frankly, I’m not sure what’s going on.” She held out the paper.

  Cancel my meetings and appearances for the next week. I’ll be working with the Happy Hearts people in Madison and Washington. The deal’s a close one, Marion, and you understand what it will mean to Apple Grove if we can convince them to come here. Of course, I can rely on your discretion in this matter.

  Adam and I stared in puzzlement at each other.

  “What’s got you unsettled?” I asked. “And, since we already knew about Happy Hearts, your discretion is intact.” I wrinkled my brow. “But the CAT conference is coming up. He didn’t mention that?”

  “No,” Marion replied. “But, about this message—for one thing, it’s typed. Donald doesn’t type. Never learned, never wanted to. Said his fingers were too clumsy.”

  My throat closed up. I suddenly got the dizzy-sick premonition that I wouldn’t see him again.

  “What else is bothering you?” Adam asked her.

  She hitched her skirt and sat on the corner of her desk. “It’s just a feeling. I’ve worked for the mayor since I was in high school. At first, I ran errands, and then after I went to school for office training, he hired me when Regina retired—oh, eight years ago, now. A person in Donald’s job has to be careful. Tough, but respectful. Not everyone can do it well.”

  “I’m sure Donald is a great boss, Marion,” I cut in when she took a breath.

  She raised her brow. “Donald wants to do something to make Apple Grove a better place to live. But convincing the life-time residents to change their ways and vote to spend money to attract business and families is an uphill battle. We need more people like you to come in and support the community. But more people means spending more on schools and that sort of thing. The businesses and families would bring in more tax money, of course, but the old-timers don’t see the issue from that angle. I helped the mayor with some grant applications.”

  She folded her arms and sighed. “There’s a lot of money at stake. Anyway, Donald wouldn’t have typed that note. He would have left a voice message and fairly detailed instructions for me. I know most of what I should do—that’s not what bothers me. But the fact that he didn’t do it, or even leave contact information or his itinerary, makes me feel—well, suspicious on some level.”

  Adam rocked on his heels, ready to jump ahead. “You did know about Happy Hearts, though, right? Can you t
ell me what you know?”

  Marion gave him a curious glance. “Part of Donald’s plan. Happy Hearts is a bioengineering firm that’s developed the technology to breed cats that are hypoallergenic.”

  I blinked. That’s what Adam said earlier. “It’s for real?”

  “Yup. Has something to do with proteins and saliva. I didn’t quite catch it all, but Donald was enthusiastic. He said it would be a major boost to get them to settle here.”

  Adam jumped up. “Thanks, Marion. And no, we didn’t have any urgent business.”

  “I heard that you’re planning a grand opening fairly soon, Mr. Thompson. I’m sure he’ll be here for that,” Marion said. “I’ve been instructed to review your settlement claims and get the checks ready.”

  Donald dealt with my relocation by paying the mover and the telecommunication people for the initial hookups directly. He also promised to cover a certain percentage of my advertising bills and showed me a list of where I could place my ads. Marion had a large file of prepared folders with specific information. One whole file drawer to the side of her desk was marked “Business Growth” in a bold new font.

  I liked Marion, having met her the day Adam and Isis moved to town a couple of weeks ago. I admitted to some jealousy that Marion could so easily practice a teasing, small town chat, coaxing information from Adam that I had been too shy to discover. No, he was not dating anyone in the Windy City. He owned four other shops and was planning more. When the heat of carting boxes up the steps got to be too much, Adam had unbuttoned and rolled the sleeves of the plaid shirt he wore over a faded blue T-shirt. Not even Marion dared ask about the puckered scars that coiled around his neck and right arm.

  “Thanks.” I echoed Adam. “I was also wondering where his cat, Tut, is now.”

  “He always takes Tut with him. I assume he did this time, too.”

  “Marion,” I asked, “Do the Conklins have a gardener?”

  “Of course.”

  I walked to the door. “OK, we’ll be in touch.” I thought of something else. “Oh, hey, Marion? Do you have a photo of the mayor—you know, smiling, or something? I was thinking about…hanging one in my office.”

  Adam gave me a raised eyebrow.

  Marion frowned. “There are several pictures around. Let me see.” She held up two laminated pages and a framed photo.

  I took one. “Thanks.”

  Adam accompanied me in the elevator. “What was that about?”

  “The picture? Just in case.”

  After we got in his truck, he hesitated. “Ivy, you’re not thinking of doing anything dangerous, are you? Busy-body-ish, perhaps?”

  “Who, me?” I grinned at him from behind the seatbelt. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  3

  The little two-bedroom bungalow I bought in Apple Grove was perfect for me. I had gotten most of the money back from reserving the reception hall, and even took my wedding dress back, so I’d had some money I could use for a down payment. I owned a home! There was a sweet little living room and kitchen on the ground floor, besides the tiny bedrooms, and a finished room at the top of the stairs—like a garret. I wished I were an artist of some kind.

  It took Mem four days after the move to get used to our new digs. For the first time, he could wander in a yard with a real lawn and trees, and the old boy was living it up, discovering green grass and all kinds of new scents.

  The tech and personal computer business, or maybe it was me, was a novelty in Apple Grove. Although folks remained somewhat cool, things picked up once they realized the benefits and saw my advertising. I suspected that was natural in a small town. At least they were willing to pay me to keep other people from knowing their personal computing issues.

  People who were away, busy, didn’t like or trust technology, or just preferred to keep a personal touch to update their home equipment or websites used a service like mine. I made house calls. It was more common than people thought. I never wore pearls, or dressed in polka dots, well, almost never—about the pearls, that is—but I did use several incoming telephone and dedicated electronic mail lines. Faxes, too. Amazing how few people faxed from home. Once a customer punched in the code, I could have anything he directed sent through my system. I kept electronic mailboxes from becoming too full, a feature customers loved, and I wished more would use.

  I managed to make stiff acquaintance with Yolanda Toynsbee, the publisher of the local twice-weekly newspaper, the Apple Grove Gazette. I did not know enough other people to declare her the crotchetiest citizen of Apple Grove, but right now she topped my list.

  When I sailed through the Gazette’s front door on Thursday afternoon, she barely glanced up, half-glasses perched on her knobby nose. I needed to update my ad and I was determined to keep the newspaper in my favor. I stood in front of the desk, staring past Yolanda’s hunched shoulders and gray mop to the big clock on the wall.

  She made me wait for two minutes and twelve seconds. She slashed at something with her blue pencil then reluctantly gave me her attention. “Yes? Miss Preston? What do you need today?”

  Three questions. I breathed in through my nose first. “Right, it’s me, Ivy.” I had tried to get her to call me by my first name since day one, but she never bought it. “And I’d like to update my ad, please.” There, polite enough and offering to provide food for her table.

  She reached under the counter and pulled out a manila folder, seemingly by touch. She set it between us and flipped it open, all the while staring at me.

  I tried to smile, but my lips trembled.

  She was the least nosy newspaper person I had ever come across. I tried to engage her in conversation. “I suppose it seems strange that my last name is Preston and my business is McTeague,” I said and leaned over the tear sheet of my last design.

  Yolanda sniffed. “None of my concern.”

  My next comment was interrupted by a crash somewhere down the hall.

  Yolanda’s face changed expression, then she turned to rush toward the sound. “Jennifer, Jennifer Jean, what are you up to?”

  Unburdened by a lack of curiosity, I followed.

  A tiny girl with curls almost as wild as mine lay tangled in a folding chair she had apparently tried to pull to the water fountain located near the back door. She appeared to be debating whether or not to cry.

  “There, there, Jenny Jean, Gramma’s got you.” She bent to pull the little girl’s pink sandals from under the rungs and seemed grateful when I gently tugged on the other side.

  Jenny took several wobbly breaths and stuck her forefinger in her mouth while giving me a doubtful look.

  “Hi, there. You must be Jennifer. I’m Ivy.” I put on my sunniest smile.

  Jennifer rolled her face into her grandmother’s stomach. Yolanda patted her shoulder. Jenny peeked out with a shy giggle.

  “Thank you,” Yolanda told me. She escorted the child into the office and then brought her a paper cup half full of water. “Gramma’s got a little more work to do, then we can go home. Be good for a little longer, Jennifer. Can you make another picture for me?”

  “I’d like one, if you please,” I put my two cents in.

  “OK. I got a giraffe in me,” Jennifer said. She got on her knees on the seat of the desk chair and went to work.

  Yolanda led me back to the main room. As I rounded the big desk, she seemed to consider whether I was worthy of her confidence. Apparently, I passed the test. “My son’s child.” She sighed, squared my ad copy with both of her hands while staring at it absently.

  “Jennifer seems like a sweetheart. Not in school yet, apparently?”

  “Mornings with early kindergarten,” Yolanda said. “But out for summer as of next week.”

  We reviewed my ad copy while I told her what I wanted to change. We discussed pricing and size for a minute, and then I ordered small posters, too. She tallied my bill. While I ripped out the check, I happened to notice the blue-penciled article Yolanda had been working on when I first came in
. The picture showed Margaret Bader-Conklin shaking hands with somebody. The caption read “Mrs. Conklin greets representatives of MerriFood, the pet food company.”

  “Yolanda, is this an article for the next edition?” I asked her.

  She nodded, peering at me over her half-glasses.

  “May I?” I indicated the article. She didn’t say anything but turned away. I got the impression that she wanted my opinion but couldn’t bring herself to break the code of revealing the news before it went to print. I scanned the text and took one more glance at the picture. “Yolanda, you know that Mayor Conklin invited Feli-Mix to move here and signed contracts. You broke the story after the talk about incubator businesses and the special loan funds. It doesn’t say in the article, but is there any chance MerriFood is the parent company to Feli-Mix?”

  “I don’t believe so,” she said, her back still turned.

  “Is there enough room in Apple Grove for both companies?”

  “I can’t imagine how that would work. The employment base is non-existent as it is.”

  “Was Donald aware of this, Yolanda?”

  “This article was faxed over from Mrs. Conklin this morning, with instructions to publish it in the next edition of the Gazette.”

  “Well, don’t you need the other side? Feli-Mix’s side? And Donald’s side?”

  Yolanda faced me. “We have a strict policy to publish fair and unbiased information in the Gazette. And this article will not be published until we can gather the correct information from all parties involved.”

  I smiled. “That sounds like the Gazette I’ve come to love.” I glanced around the room, then lowered my voice. “Yolanda, what do you really think is going on?”

  Jennifer came into the main room, clutching two pictures. “Gramma, can we go yet? I’m all done with my drawings.”

  Yolanda picked the child up. Jenny thrust one wrinkled piece of paper at me. “Here, Ivy. I made a kitty picture for you. I just knew you liked kitties.”

  A number of snappy cat comments came to my mind regarding Yolanda Toynsbee’s expression. All of them involved satisfaction.