“Charles stole my cat.”
Stole her cat? No way. “Now why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, maybe ’cause he’s a boy. I’m calling the police.”
I placed the plate atop others of the same size inside the cabinet. In the few seconds it took me to do so and walk into the kitchen, Melanie had already looked up the number from the magnet on the refrigerator and had punched the numbers of the police station into the phone.
“Hang that up,” I said.
“But he stole my cat. He needs to be arrested.”
The faint sound of Sandy Crane drawling hello came through loud and clear.
“Hey, this is Melanie. I’d like to report—”
I took the phone from my daughter’s hand. “Sorry to have bothered you, Sandy. Melanie didn’t mean to dial.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. “Yes, I did.”
“If there’s something I can help you with, Miz Meyerson, I’d be happy to. Things aren’t real busy today. A ride out to Yonder might be just the ticket for my mornin’ sickness.”
Sandy was pregnant, and town rumor was she was having problems, blood-pressure-wise. The last thing she needed to do was drive all the way out here on a bogus missing kitty case. “Don’t worry about it, Sandy. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Once I convinced Sandy that we were fine (it took about five minutes), I put the cordless receiver back in its cradle. I looked at Melanie. “Start explaining.”
She wound a piece of hair around her finger. “Well, I went outside to play like you said. I was chalking a picture of Fluffy Anne on the driveway when I heard Charles telling his friends that he was going to show them Spot’s tricks. I didn’t care about his stupid dog. But then I heard him casting his fishing rod, and I see this cat chasing the toy on the end of the line. A cat that looks just like Fluffy Anne, except the collar was different.”
“So Spot isn’t a dog?”
“Nope. Spot is Fluffy Anne. And that Charles Finch stole her and is making her do tricks. Cats aren’t supposed to do tricks.”
“Are you sure it’s Fluffy Anne?”
“Mm-hmmm. I checked. When I called her name, she looked at me. She’s the same color as Fluffy Anne, with that one spot on her tail white. And Spot likes her back scratched right above her tail, just like Fluffy Anne. She even does that lip quivering thing when I scratch, just like Fluffy Anne. I scratched her right after I told Charles she was my cat. Spot is Fluffy Anne.”
Maybe it was PMS or maybe it was frustration from spending most of Saturday unpacking and having little to no time for anything else, but I got a little hot. Who were these people? What made them think they could take a little girl’s pet?
I rummaged in the kitchen desk drawer for the Mossy Creek phone directory I’d received when I moved in. I flipped through the alphabet until I found the Finch’s number, underlined from last week, when I called about Charles pulling Melanie’s hair. I figured I could be more civil on the phone than I could in person.
“Hello,” a teenaged male voice said.
“Hi, this is Ms. Meyerson from across the street. I’d like to speak with your mother.”
“Sure.” Rustling noises. “Mom! Hey, get Mom, Mary Alice.”
I heard Mary Alice call back. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know. Some lady named Mrs. Meyerson.”
“It’s Ms. Not Mrs.”
“What?”
“Just . . . get your mother.”
At long last, a nearly breathless Mrs. Finch got on the phone. “Yes?”
“Hi. Mrs. Finch, this is your neighbor across the road. We moved in about a month ago. My daughter goes to school with Charles.”
“Yes. I’ve been meaning to invite you over for iced tea and cookies but haven’t had the time. And I’d like to apologize again for Charles pulling Melanie’s hair. Could you excuse me for just a minute?” She paused and put her hand over the phone. “Mary Alice, where are your cleats? We have to go in five minutes. Randy, get out of the snack cooler. Those aren’t for you.” A huge sigh. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”
“I think Charles stole our cat.”
Silence and not the good kind. “Stole? That’s an awfully strong word, Mrs. . . .”
“Ms., Ms. Meyerson.” I wasn’t going to offer my first name to the parent of a cat thief.
“Charles wouldn’t steal someone’s pet. Spot happens to be a stray he very kindly brought home.”
“Spot is Fluffy Anne, a cat who has a fine home across the road.”
Mary Alice started whining in the background that she had on her cleats and they needed to leave. “The cat that my son found was skinny and had no collar, no tags.”
Maybe it wasn’t Fluffy Anne. I covered the mouthpiece with my hand. “Are you sure?” I mouthed to Melanie.
Melanie nodded.
“Well, she had a collar last week. Pink velvet with a rhinestone F and A.”
“Was she skinny?”
“No, she was normal.”
“Then Spot isn’t your cat. I can understand that your daughter’s distressed what with your pet missing. Maybe you should put up some fliers if you haven’t already.”
“We haven’t, and we don’t need to now. We know she’s at your house. We just want her back.”
“Let me get this straight.” Mrs. Finch’s overly polite voice raised a notch to full-out irritation. “You’d rather accuse my son of stealing your cat than look for your cat. If you’re so concerned, where are the fliers?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If your cat was lost, why didn’t you put out fliers?” She whispered away from the receiver, “Hush. I’m on the phone.”
“What’s going on?” A man, I’m assuming her husband, asked.
“I’ll explain it all later. Take the child to her game for me. And don’t forget the snacks.”
I thumped the phone. “Mrs. Finch? Are you there? Are you done with your other conversations?”
She drew in her breath sharply as if I was the one being rude.
“As I was saying before you were distracted, our cat Fluffy Anne sometimes goes off.”
“There might be a good reason for that,” she tossed back, her tone still in the barely polite range.
My skin warmed from my chest up to the top of my scalp. “What exactly are you trying to say, Mrs. Finch?”
“If you let a cat roam around all the time outside, there’s a good chance they’ll get lost.”
“And if you don’t, they get obese, which isn’t healthy!” Why was I defending myself to this mother of a delinquent?
“Are you saying my other cat’s obese?”
“I’ve never met your other cat. I’ve never set foot in your house. You could have a Gila monster for all I know.”
“Charles would never take someone else’s pet,” she said with a sniff.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. You can ask him yourself. Charles?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mrs. Finch, but I haven’t seen any Found Cat fliers around the neighborhood either.”
“Charles made fliers. He even went door to door.”
“Not to my door, he didn’t.”
“Charles?” she called again.
“He ran out the back door with that cat,” the teenager yelled.
Silence. I could almost hear what she was thinking. His actions sure did appear guilty. “My daughter cried herself to sleep last night thinking her cat was dead somewhere, and the whole time the cat’s been at your house.”
“I’m sorry that she’s so distraught, but I really don’t think Spot is Fluffy Anne.”
“Melanie’s so sure that she rang the police station. I told Sandy Crane I’d handle it myself. I don’t think we need to bring Amos or Mutt out here.” Yeah, I was milking it.
“Mrs. Meyerson, would you and your daughter like to come over when Charles returns from walking the cat? I’m sure we can resolve everything.”
>
“‘Resolve’ meaning you’re giving Fluffy Anne back,” I said. I wished I’d gotten one of those microchips that Hank Blackshear could read and prove that Fluffy Anne was ours. “And it’s Ms.”
When Mrs. Finch called about an hour later, Melanie grabbed Fluffy Anne’s favorite brush from the basket where we keep her cat paraphernalia. It used to house my needlework, but I hadn’t had much time to needlepoint nor had I found the rest of my sewing stuff.
If I ever move again, and I hope I won’t, I will hire a professional organizer to pack and create a color-coded system and spreadsheet, so I can locate items easily. I’ll hire someone to unpack me, too.
Melanie shook the fine-needled brush, then shoved it in her pocket. “If we need it, this’ll prove it’s Fluffy Anne.”
Odd? Yes, but our cat likes the scent of her own dander.
We crossed the street, and I was about to knock when Mrs. Finch opened the door.
She smoothed her blue sweater set and ushered us in. Her guarded eyes quickly gravitated to my bare ring finger. “I haven’t met Melanie’s father.”
“Divorced.”
“I’m sorry,” she said a little too stiffly.
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.” I kept glaring at her but she wouldn’t stop.
“I haven’t seen him around.”
“That’s because he isn’t. He lives in Florida.” And about all Bruce did when it came to parenting was send the child support check, and not always in a timely manner.
Sympathy washed over her face. With that look, I knew she’d filled in the rest, that I was basically raising my child on my own, that Melanie was probably so attached to Fluffy Anne because her father barely acknowledged her existence, that I would do anything to get that cat back including writing her a check if that’s what it took. And I would.
I brushed past her, and her cute, sleek, not a hair out of place short hairdo. I did note with a considerable bit of relish that her roots needed touching up and her house was far from immaculate. Her eyes widened as she noticed a pile of Legos on the coffee table stacked next to two glasses, one half-full of chocolate milk.
The fact that she wasn’t perfect pleased me. Her den looked like kids and, apparently, a very large cat lived here.
Whoa. I focused on the obese beige tabby straddling the top of the overstuffed couch in their den. The cat glanced up at us briefly and resumed licking the skin between its toe pads.
Smile fixed, Mrs. Finch leaned over one of the seat cushions to remove a striped tube sock from the corner of the couch. She tried to hide the sock behind her back. “That’s Biscuit.”
“She sure looks like she’s eaten a few,” I quipped. “I guess I know why you thought Fluffy Anne was emaciated.”
“Biscuit is an indoor cat,” Mrs. Finch said by way of explanation. She gestured coolly toward the matching loveseat opposite the couch. “Won’t you sit down?”
Melanie sunk into the soft cushion. “Where’s Charles?”
“He’s on his way home.” She handed me a flier. “See? Charles did try to find Spot’s owners.”
The teenage son who was on the computer at a desk in the den snorted. “Yeah, Mom. He dumped them in the recycling.”
Her mouth dropped open as she stared at her older son. She recovered pretty rapidly, though. “And why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
He swung his overly long bangs out of his eyes, then shrugged. “I dunno. I figured if it was a problem, I’d mention it, which I just did, and if it wasn’t, there was no need to rat on him.”
Mrs. Finch shook her head. “This is why you were smart to stop at one.”
The back door banged open. About two seconds later, it slammed closed.
“You’re toast,” Randy called out, earning a glare from his mother.
The sound of the door knob turning reached us.
“You leave this house, young man, and you’ll lose gaming privileges for an entire month.”
She sounded like she meant business, and that pleased me.
Charles dragged his feet into the den where we were sitting. He had the audacity to glare at my child. “What’re you doing here?”
“I came to get my cat, the one you stole.”
His mouth twitched as he fought off an impish smile. “Is it really stealing if the cat likes me better?”
Melanie blinked rapidly, her face turned red and, try as she might to hold it in, the sobs shook her little body. I wanted to spank that little boy. I wanted to tell Mrs. Finch what I thought of her mothering skills or lack thereof. But I couldn’t find the words. All I could do is hold my crying daughter.
“Sweetheart,” Mrs. Finch said, hands fluttering. “Honey, don’t cry.”
Melanie looked up, focused her tear-filled eyes on Charles, and screamed, “Just ’cause you can’t have a dog doesn’t mean you can take my cat!”
I was proud she’d slung something back at the brat until she caught her second wind and launched into the loudest crying jag I’d heard since Bruce announced he was moving to Ft. Meyers.
“Charles didn’t mean to say something so cruel, did you, Charles?” Mrs. Finch prompted, waving her hand to encourage an apology.
Charles pouted. “Spot likes me. She wants to live here. If she liked it fine at Smelanie’s house, she’d have stayed there.”
With the way she was clenching her fists, I could tell Mrs. Finch was ready to swat his backside. If only she would, we could get our cat and never grace their doorstep again.
“Melanie, don’t listen to him,” I said, hoping my voice was registering with her. “Fluffy Anne likes you. You raised her from a kitten. You even saved her when she got stuck under the porch at the house on Laurel Street when you called Chief Royden to help get her out.”
Randy leaned back in his chair. “Can’t you shut her up? She’s, like, worse than Mary Alice.”
Great. The Finch boys don’t improve with age.
“Yeah,” Charles said. “You’re hurting my ears. And you look worse than usual with your face all crumpled and splotchy.”
Melanie made an effort to control herself, but the sniffling continued between her words. “It’s not like he doesn’t already have a cat, Mommy. Why doesn’t Fluffy Anne love me anymore? Why won’t she come in here to be with me?”
Talk about an arrow to the heart. Now I was choking up. We’d had a similar conversation about her father not so long ago, when he’d canceled a visit she’d been looking forward to. “She does love you.”
“But why is she staying away?”
Charles looked down at his feet. He mumbled something that only Randy could distinguish.
“Oh, no, you didn’t.” Randy snorted. “I thought I was bad when I was your age.”
“I guess I can try to train her to like you again,” Charles offered. “If I can get a puppy.”
“Excuse me,” Mrs. Finch said, fists still clenched. She barreled into her kitchen as if her bread was burning.
“What’d you do with her collar?” Melanie asked.
“Spot don’t like sissy collars.”
“Doesn’t!” Mrs. Finch called from the other room. “I think I know why Fluffy Anne is keeping her distance, Melanie. And it has nothing to do with you.”
The sound of a chair scraping the floor reached us. Seconds later Fluffy Anne bounded into the den and rubbed up against Melanie. The cat, I kid you not, was wearing a black leather collar with silver studs, a far cry from the cute pink velvet bling Melanie preferred. Fluffy Anne purred. She rolled onto her back, a sign of submission that little Charles would do well to learn.
Mrs. Finch gestured as she spoke. “He had her leash tied to the chair. Where’s the Meyerson’s collar, Charles?”
“I threw it away,” he admitted, then had the audacity to sneer at my child. “Spot must feel sorry for you ’cause you’re crying. Here, Spot. Here.” He made clicking noises to draw the cat away from Melanie.
Mrs. Finch grabbed her son by the scruff of the neck
. He flinched as she whispered something in his ear.
“Come back here, Fluffy Anne!” Melanie called.
The confused cat stopped midway between the children.
Charles frowned. “You can have her back, but only if I can come with you to walk her sometimes.”
“No way,” Melanie said, the sniffling vanishing for good. “Everyone will think you’re my boyfriend.”
“No they won’t. I’ll tell everyone at school I hate you, and I can even hit you on the playground if you want.”
The skin on Melanie’s forehead wrinkled. “If you hit me, I’m gonna hit you back.”
That’s my girl.
ooo
Nancy
“You need to apologize, young man,” I said to my youngest, who seemed bent on becoming a delinquent, despite my best efforts to keep him on the right side of the law. I wondered if I could convince Amos, Mutt and Sandy to do a modified Scared Straight, involving a spend-the-night at the Police Station.
“I’m sorry,” he said at long last.
“Say it like you mean it.” My voice cracked under the strain of wanting to yell at my son, but not being able to do so in front of the neighbors. I’m sure Ms. Meyerson already had a running list of my faults as a mother. I didn’t want to add to it.
“Oh, all right.” He scowled. “I’m sorry I took your cat, Melanie.”
I felt the need to reassure Ms. Meyerson, who had yet to offer her first name or a smile, that I wasn’t a laissez-faire parent. “And Charles, your punishment will be to take care of Biscuit for every day you kept Fluffy Anne away from Melanie. You’ll feed her, fill her water bowl, brush her, scoop her litterbox—”
“Aww, Mom!”
“I’m not finished. And you’ll clean up her hairballs.”
That earned a smile on par with the Mona Lisa. Ms. Meyerson leaned over and whispered something in her daughter’s ear.
Melanie nodded.
“Could part of the punishment include Charles showing Melanie how to do those tricks he taught Fluffy Anne?” Ms. Meyerson asked.
“I don’t see why not.” I hoped doing something fun together might help ease the tensions between the kids. But I’d better supervise to keep him in line. “Would you be willing to show Melanie Spot’s—I mean Fluffy Anne’s—tricks?”
Critters of Mossy Creek Page 11
