Calico Confusion

by Katherine Hayton

  “A murder,” Regina whispered. “In fact, that’s why I’m here.”

  “What? You think I murdered someone?”

  Regina’s lips tightened and she glanced over her shoulder at the police car. “No. You’re not in any trouble. I just need your help with rehousing something that got caught up in a crime scene through no fault of its own.”

  The officer walked back to her vehicle while Marjorie frowned, unable to fathom what she was talking about. When the policewoman opened the passenger side door, sparking an indignant mew from the seat, she relaxed.

  Something small. And furry. And yowling as though the world owed it an explanation. That was the kind of something she could handle.

  “Who’ve you got here?” Marjorie cooed, relieving the officer of the tiny burden.

  A calico bundle of fluff shot her a grumpy expression.

  “I don’t know her name,” Regina said, rubbing the kitten under the chin. “In fact, I don’t even know if it’s a her.”

  Marjorie checked and nodded. “It’s a her. Where did she come from?” Suddenly, her face twisted with worry and she cast a look at the staircase, curious kittens lining up behind the safety gate. “Does she have her shots?”

  “The vet said she’s up to date on everything, including a microchip for ID.”

  “You’ve got a good owner, then,” Marjorie said, balancing the kitten in one hand while waving Regina inside—successfully this time—with the other.

  “The problem is, she doesn’t have any owner. Not any longer.”

  Marjorie was still examining the kitten so it took her a few seconds longer than it should to pull the officer’s words together. When she did, it was with a gasp. “Her owner was k-i-l-l-e-d?”

  Regina laughed. “I think you’re safe to say the word aloud. The kitten might be inquisitive, but I doubt it’s mastered the finer points of the English language.”

  “How did it happen?” Marjorie asked, then another thought struck her like a blow. “The kitten didn’t witness anything, did she?”

  From the way Regina shifted in her chair, not meeting Marjorie’s gaze, she surmised the kitten had done exactly that. She cradled her closer, letting the cat sniff at her fingers, then lick them.

  “It looks like she’s pleased to see you.”

  Marjorie twiddled her fingers. “It’s the baking. After icing this lot”—she jerked her chin at the baked goods cooling on the bench—“my skin gets covered in so much sugar, I’m sure it soaks right in. Not that you’re allowed to bite,” she warned the calico kitten as it opened its mouth wide.

  “Just a yawn,” Regina observed. “The poor thing had a very long day, yesterday.”

  After waiting a few seconds to gather up courage, Marjorie asked, “Was it Angelica Carmel?”

  Her friend shot her a cautious glance. “Who told you that?”

  “Nobody.” Marjorie tilted her head toward the large feature window. “I saw the flashing lights last night, just as I was closing up. It looked like something bad had happened.”

  “Well, don’t go spreading it around or anything, but yeah. It was Angelica.” Regina sighed and ran a hand through her short hair, sending the gelled top into spikes.

  “Can I ask how she died?”

  “Because of something somebody else did is all I’m free to say.”

  Marjorie stroked the small calico kitten as she agreed, “It’s best I don’t know, anyway. It’d just give me nightmares.”

  “Still squeamish?”

  Once, during a science lesson at intermediate school involving dead frogs, Marjorie had thrown up all over the front of her uniform and earned a lengthy telling-off from her mother about the expense of cleaning a woollen kilt. She’d been known as Marjorie Vomit-away for the next two terms until Bobby Wilmott screamed a rude word at a teacher and wiped the incident from her class’s collective memory.

  “I am,” she said with a small laugh. “Some things never go away.”

  The kitten stopped licking Marjorie’s fingers and sat down, giving a plaintive cry.

  “I think someone’s hungry,” Regina said, walking to the front door. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

  “Wait a moment.” Marjorie chased after her, the kitten now mewing loudly. “How long am I meant to look after her? Is someone else claiming her? Should I give her a name?”

  Regina’s eyes widened. “Oh, she’s yours now. I thought it was better to bring her along here than take her to the pound. We asked the family, but they don’t want to adopt her.” She ran a finger along the kitten’s brow, and it clawed her away, working itself into a fit of distress. “I guess no one had time to get attached.”

  “Which vet?” When her friend didn’t answer, Marjorie clicked her fingers impatiently. “In town, which vet holds her records? I’ll need to get the address changed on the chip, at a minimum.”

  “Sorry. It’s Kitcare Veterinary services on Jollies Pass Road. A colleague spoke to the main man there about her, so he might have more information for you.”

  “Thanks,” Marjorie said, then gave the wailing ball of fluff another glance. “I think.”

  “You don’t have to take her in,” Regina said in a hurried voice. “I just thought of you and this place…”

  “Of course, I’ll take her.” The kitten settled again as she stroked her back with one finger. “She’ll fit right in and I’m sure we can find her a grateful forever home.”

  “Just keep me posted if you do,” Regina said, taking a few steps towards her car.

  “Why?”

  “We might need her to give evidence in court of what she saw.” Regina waved as she slid into the driver’s seat.

  It took Marjorie a second of confusion before she got the joke and returned the wave with an appreciative laugh. “Now, it’s time to meet the rest of the family,” she told the kitten. “And give you a big bowl of whatever it is you like to eat.”

  The answer to that was anything as the kitten wandered from wet to dry food, giving each selection a good nibble before losing interest and rolling on her back on the floor.

  “Monkey Business, don’t give her too hard a time,” Marjorie warned as the Persian expressed an interest in the new arrival. “From the sounds of it, she’s been through a lot in the past few days.”

  But if she’d expected the calico kitten to end up the worst off in their first encounter, Marjorie was mistaken. The Persian gave a squeal as the new kitten bopped him on the nose with his claws out. Given Monkey’s penchant for drama, she couldn’t be sure if the injury hurt or just surprised him.

  “But it doesn’t matter,” Marjorie whispered to the calico, picking her up and listening to the purring motor whirring inside the tiny chest. “Until I know you won’t antagonise the other kittens and vice versa, we’re putting you in the crate.”

  She expected a fight, but the calico happily wandered inside the plastic cage and padded the cushions inside to arrange a nice bed, into which she promptly collapsed.

  “Don’t you look like a little sweetie, sleeping in there like you didn’t just chase Monkey Business away? Unless you have an objection, I’ll call you Sweet Callie.”

  The only response from the calico kitten was slow blinking eyes and a gigantic yawn.

  “Sweet Callie it is, then,” Marjorie declared. She got to her feet and wandered through to the kitchen to clean up her mess from the morning’s baking.

  Chapter Three

  Ten minutes into the dinner party, Marjorie found she was enjoying herself more than expected. Along with a young couple, and Esme’s partner Jerry, a man near her own age rounded out the group.

  Braden Samuels was relaxing eye candy, along with a quick mind and sharp wit. Watching his expressions as the group chatted was the only sweet treat that wouldn’t go directly to her hips.

  “Did you hear about Angelica?” had been the first words out of Esme’s mouth when Marjorie arrived, her desserts balanced precariously on a small plate. It was the only one fit for co
mpany, so she’d made do—even though it got her heart rate up on the short journey.

  “I heard she died,” Marjorie answered, not wanting to say too much in case she got Regina into trouble. It turned out to be a false worry—the others gathered in the small lounge knew so much more, it was like she’d found out nothing at all.

  “Before you say anything too awful,” a man introduced as Connor Butler said. “Please remember, my wife is Angelica’s only living niece.” He patted his wife, Candace, on the shoulder. A wasted gesture since she looked intrigued by the conversation rather than upset.

  “Do you mean all her other nieces died or were you the only one?” Esme asked and Marjorie suppressed a grin.

  Her friend could become very sharp with misused phrases. It only needed the slightest hint of a dual meaning and she’d be off on a tangent.

  “I’m the only one,” Candace said, draining her wine glass and holding it out for a refill. “And I don’t know why my husband”—she whacked Connor lightly on the knee—“thinks you’d all speak badly of my aunt, anyway. Angelica was a lovely woman.”

  “It’s easy to be lovely when you’re born with a silver spoon in your mouth,” Connor agreed. Although he smiled, his words hinted at a deeper tension. “But when it’s a mouth as lovely as that of my wife’s—”

  He broke off as she made a retching sound and stuck a finger in her mouth.

  “Fine! I won’t compliment you. When you wither and die for lack of appreciation, I’ll point out you brought it on yourself.”

  Esme’s special friend, Jerry Menalow, laughed and nudged her in the ribs. Marjorie could never quite decipher the relationship between those two. Somewhere in the realm between married and colleagues, they were inseparable for much of the time but also weren’t concerned if they didn’t visit each other for months on end.

  “Didn’t you do some work for her, Braden?” Esme asked. “With her installing the new security system?”

  “I hooked it up to the computers so she could watch all the cameras from one screen,” he agreed with a smile.

  “Not that it helped,” Connor said, earning another whack on the knee from his wife.

  “I don’t think she ever had it up and running,” Braden explained. “She’d installed the cameras years before she asked me about getting a live feed through to a monitor. When I first looked, I thought they were just those fakes you can buy online for a few bucks to deter burglars.”

  “Are you involved in home security?” Marjorie asked, feeling colour rise in her cheeks as he turned her way, a reaction for which she’d have to scold herself later.

  “I’m a computer engineer but in a town this size, I do anything a technophobe can’t bring themselves to do. It’s made me more of an odd-jobs-man than anything else.”

  “Braden’s being modest,” Esme said, leaning over to top up Marjorie’s wine glass, though she hadn’t taken more than two sips. “He’s an absolute whizz with computers. He won the Academy Science Prize a few years ago for his breakthrough with…” She furrowed her brow for a moment, thinking, then shrugged. “Doing something with something.”

  “That’s me,” Braden agreed with a laugh. “I’m the putting something into something man, at your service.”

  “Do you build computers from scratch?” Connor asked. “Our network always seems to go down just when we need it most.”

  “I do but it won’t help.” Braden leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I shouldn’t talk myself out of a job, but it’ll be down to the internet connection in this area. It’s spotty at best and it’ll be years until they install the fibre optic cables to upgrade the service and get us in line with the rest of the country.”

  “Why do they leave all the small towns until last?” Candace complained. “I can’t even get a show to stream more than ten minutes at a time. They should experiment on us, so we get everything first.”

  Esme giggled as she sat cross-legged on the floor. “Don’t say that too loud or we’ll be overrun with takers.”

  “The world’s dodgiest medical experiments,” Jerry said, shaping the words out in the air like a headline. “Coming soon to a small town near you.”

  “I didn’t mean like that,” Candace said, offering the room a two-second pout. “But isn’t there anything we can do?”

  “Just wait,” Braden said. He was also seated on the carpet and had to crane his neck at an awkward angle to make eye contact with Candace. “Once they upgrade, you’ll be fine. Your best bet is to nag your local councillor.”

  “As if I know who that is.”

  Connor took hold of her hand. “I know him, and I’ll be happy to tell the man exactly how the lack of progress is ruining my business.”

  “And my enjoyment of the latest Netflix series.”

  The dinner party moved to the table soon after that and it wasn’t until they were finishing up the dessert—a runaway hit—that talk shifted back to the murder.

  “The police aren’t telling me anything,” Candace grumbled. “You’d think as the only living relative I’d get a bit of attention but every time I asked a question it was met with a blank stare.”

  Marjorie wondered if her aunt had just died if she’d be in the mood to attend a small dinner party, but kept her mouth shut. Families were difficult terrain to navigate at the best of times and what worked for one group wouldn’t for another.

  “I’m sure they’re looking out for your best interests,” she said instead. “Until they know for certain what happened, it would be cruel to discuss all the possibilities.”

  “But I don’t even know how she died.” Candace helped herself to a sherry, using the same wineglass she’d used throughout dinner. “She might’ve been stabbed or strangled or beaten to a pulp.”

  “Instead of dwelling on her death, why don’t you tell us all something nice you remember about her?” Esme leaned over and put a hand on Candace’s arm. “I’m sure you must have a treasure trove of fond memories.”

  “Not really.” Candace drained the glass and looked around for the decanter, but it had moved.

  Marjorie hadn’t seen the action but imagined Connor, now wearing a fraying smile, might have been behind the disappearance.

  “She was a battle axe most of the time. Chewed up small businessmen for breakfast and used them to pick her teeth with at lunch.”

  “I saw her having a screaming argument with someone just last week,” Jerry said, ignoring the stern glance from Esme. “The beekeeper lady—what’s her name?”

  “Leah Parish?” Marjorie asked, half in answer to his question, half blurted in surprise.

  “That’s the one. She was still in her full bee outfit and yelling at the top of her lungs.” Jerry shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as angry.”

  “You will if you don’t cut that last cheesecake in half to share with me,” Esme said, twitching her nose as he set the delicacy on his plate.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He cut off a sliver and passed the rest across to her. “Message received and understood.”

  “Those were delicious,” Candace said, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. “You must give me the recipe.”

  Connor snorted. “As if you cook.”

  “Hey, don’t let out all my secrets. I’m just as capable of handing a recipe to my housekeeper as the next person.”

  Marjorie exchanged a quick glance with Braden, then turned away before she could laugh. “If you give me your email, I’ll send it tonight.”

  She punched the address into her phone and wrote a quick memo to remind herself. Along with her metabolism slowing to a crawl, the weird aches and pains that came out of nowhere, and her occasional hot flushes, growing older had also made Marjorie far more absent-minded than she liked.

  “Do you think the bee lady killed my aunt?” Candace asked Jerry, jerking the conversation back a few minutes. “If she was that upset.”

  “Seems unlikely,” Marjorie said when the table fell silent. “I�
�ve known Leah for a long time and she’s a good sort. Whatever got her in a foul enough temper that she yelled at Angelica, I’m sure she’d never take it any further than that.”

  “By bee outfit did you mean a costume?” Connor wanted to know. “Because that would be a sight and a half.”

  “No. Her aviary… apiary…” Jerry looked around the table with beseeching eyes.

  “Apiarist outfit,” Marjorie said, coming to his rescue. “It’s a white suit and has a hat with netting.”

  “That’s the one.” Jerry leaned back and rubbed his hands over his rotund belly. “The meal was absolutely delicious. Thanks to everyone who cooked.”

  “Thanks to everyone who ate,” Marjorie said with a smile. “There’s nothing worse than being saddled with leftovers.”

  “Wouldn’t your kittens put short shrift to that?” Esme asked.

  “Even those hungry wee beasts have limits.”

  Braden leaned over, eyes alight with interest. “How many kittens do you have?”

  “Twelve at the moment,” she answered, prepared for the shocked expression that followed.

  “I thought you were down to ten,” Esme cried out in surprise. “Did the adoption fall through?”

  “It’s too early to know for sure.”

  “And you got another one in the meantime.” Esme shook her head in mock condemnation, then giggled. “You’ve got a problem.”

  “It’s a lot,” Braden said, a confused expression on his face.

  “Go on and say what you want to.” Marjorie sat back and put her arms behind her head. “I’m a crazy old cat lady if you want the unvarnished truth.”

  “Crazy, for sure,” Jerry said, giggling so much Marjorie wondered how many times his wine glass had been refilled. At least he had the good sense to look contrite when Esme elbowed him in the ribs. “Sorry.”

  “They’re not all mine. I run a kitten café where guests can interact with the animals. If they get attached to any particular one, I facilitate the adoption, though most of that’s done through the SPCA.”