Cattery Row

by Clea Simon

  The only exceptions were in the family up front. Though the tall, elegant man didn’t look familiar, nor the two younger men by his side—one blond, one darker, both with his straight brow and Brooks Brothers tailoring—the perfectly coiffed woman seated by them gave me a shock. Ash blond, with a suit that must have been made for her, she looked so much like a made-up, spiffed-up Rose that I couldn’t help a quick intake of breath.

  “Who’s that?” Bunny saw her too.

  “Must be the sister, Ivy.”

  “I thought you said she was older,” added Violet, a little too loud for my comfort. The three of us stared, and then, realizing that we looked like a female Three Stooges, we looked away. Once we’d taken seats at the end of a row a few behind the model family, I peeked again. It was the makeup, a perfect job, that had fooled us. Closer up, where I could examine her profile, even the flawless foundation couldn’t hide the eight years she’d had on her sister. Not because her eyes were swollen with weeping—they weren’t—but the skin on her neck gave her away. As if she knew I was watching, she lifted her chin. But I caught her eyes straying to a slim gold watch.

  “Wow, she’s a cool one, isn’t she?” Violet’s whisper was softer now, and I couldn’t help but nod.

  “Rose had said they weren’t close.” The last time she’d had any extended contact, Rose had said, was during her chemo. Widowed young and childless, Rose had called on her older sister for help with the house and her then-fledgling cattery as the heavy-duty drugs kicked in. Ivy had responded, Rose had told me, with offers of money. The implication was that the funds would be a loan, not a gift. “It’s who she is,” Rose had explained, any bitterness long faded. “She doesn’t get her hands dirty and she never gives anything away.”

  As the rabbi began his address, I tried to remember if Rose had accepted any of her sister’s grudging comfort. Had she needed the cash? Had she perhaps let her older sister pay for some help around the house as she recovered from surgery or the chemo? I vaguely recalled my friend talking about that time in her life, but that confidence, made months ago, was fading from me. This fact bothered me as much as anything else as we all stood up to read from the black-bound prayer books. If her friends forgot Rose, forgot the details that made her funny and wise and just a little kooky, then she was truly gone. I found myself listing her wigs and her cats as we mouthed the prayers, trying to recall which ones she called “Pussums” and which “Sweetie.”

  Funerals are never a hoot, but the reception held right after seemed particularly cold, which even the day’s increasingly grim overcast didn’t explain. I could see not going to the grave site—I wasn’t family, after all—but I’d grown up with the tradition of visiting the family of the bereaved once the funeral proper was over. “Sitting shiva,” the ancient Jewish tradition that carried these visits through a full week of mourning, made emotional sense. Maybe the days of covered casseroles were finished; I sure hadn’t thought of making anything. But there was still something to be said for spending time with people after a funeral. It gave everyone a chance to unwind and make the transition between traditional rites and human mourning. At times, company, just the presence of others, was a comfort.

  After this service, though, it didn’t seem like anyone was invited anywhere. Instead we all let ourselves be herded into the synagogue’s adjoining function room, where finger sandwiches, coffee, and tea awaited. None of it looked very appetizing, and nobody seemed comfortable enough to kick back, reminisce, or even have a good cry.

  Still, Ivy and her picture-perfect family held court, standing near the room’s center, accepting condolences and making quiet conversation. The rest of the mourners mulled about, picking at the food. Maybe we’d all have sat and relaxed, if the family had. But they didn’t. And as the overcast outdoors turned to rain, the crowd began to slip away in twos and fours. Violet and I eyed each other, but Bunny shook her head in a firm “No.” Finally, the rabbi announced that there would be a notice of the unveiling, and we all felt free to leave. Free, but not relieved. The mourning had been too formal, too far removed from the friend we had lost, and the day too unremittingly sad.

  The cold little gathering had given me a chance to examine Ivy, however. “I’m sorry for your loss.” The same old lines, but they came back to me as we queued up to make our exit. My own parents had been killed in a car crash just over ten years earlier. I’d learned the forms back then.

  “Thank you.” Her response sounded flat, automatic. Up close, the wear and tear was more visible. Ivy looked tired, I decided, rather than old. And if she hadn’t teared up during the service, as Bunny and I had, she was wearing her grief around her mouth, where her powder now seemed to accentuate the lines framing those lacquered lips. I had to keep trying.

  “I’m Theda Krakow. Rose was my friend.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” An odd choice of words, but sadness takes us all in different ways. Then she looked at me, as if finally seeing me, a spark of life animating her face.“You were one of her cat friends?”

  “Yeah. I mean, that’s one way of putting it.”

  “Maybe you can help me then. I mean, you probably knew her better than I did. These last few years….” She looked off into space and grew pale. I steered her toward a chair and pulled one up beside her.

  “Thank you. It’s just such a shock. I mean, once she’d survived the cancer and all.” I made sympathetic noises. This was the first sign of humanity she’d shown. “We weren’t close, you must have known that. And now, all this.” She looked around, confused now rather than frozen. “Did you know that I’m her heir?” I hadn’t, but it made sense. Rose had no children, and considered her cats and the feline community her family of choice. “I’m her heir,” Ivy continued, “and I’ve got a house full of cats to dispose of. Frankly, I’m at a loss.”

  The cats! I hadn’t thought of those lovely, friendly Angoras. Wasn’t one about due to birth a litter? That was days ago. “Has someone been taking care of them?”

  “Oh yes, yes. The police put me in touch with the animal control officer, who recommended a young veterinary technician in the area. She’s moved in as part of the job. The insurance should cover most of it. But I’m rather at a loss as to what to do longer term.”

  Her color back, she focused on me as if I’d have the answer. “These people have told me that Rose had some valuable cats and that I shouldn’t just give them to a shelter.” I shuddered at the thought.

  “They were her life, Ivy. They are fine pedigree animals.”

  “So I gather.” Despite her words, she still seemed vague. I wondered if she’d been listening to me. Or drinking. “In fact, I’ve already been contacted by some dealers who want to buy the entire establishment. I’m tempted to just unload it, once the lawyers have taken it all through probate and all. But maybe I’m being foolish. Do you know anything about this?” She grabbed my wrist and I fought the urge to pull my arm away. “How much can a bunch of cats be worth, anyway? I mean, they’re just cats, right?”

  ***

  “She said it as if they were rats. I heard her.” Violet was annotating my report as Bunny drove us home through the rain-slick streets.

  “She didn’t seem particularly fond of them,” I agreed, wiping the wet hair out of my face. “Not a pet person.” Violet snorted, but Bunny took the philosophical tone.

  “Well, she’s living a different life. I mean, Rose had the cats. Ivy was raising kids.”

  “Bunny, if you start going all suburban on us just because you’re getting hitched….” Violet rose in a threatening tone.

  “I would never give up my cats. But, you know, Rose did leave them to Ivy.”

  “Rose didn’t expect to be killed.” I felt worn out by the morning, and by Ivy’s unexpected confidences. But it was up to me to point out the obvious, and I could almost hear Bill’s tone in my voice. “She didn’t expect to leave her cats like this. I told Ivy I’d ask around, find some reputable dealers to advise her. I told her to thin
k of them like jewels, that she shouldn’t just ‘get rid’ of them to the first buyer. That seemed to get through. She’s got a while, anyway, until the house and business clear probate.” I thought of the vet’s aide who was boarding at the cattery. “At least the cats are being cared for by someone who knows what she’s doing.”

  “Has she even visited those poor animals? They must be traumatized.”

  “I doubt she has. Can you imagine her covered in Angora?”

  “Not that kind,” Bunny answered. “Hey, speaking of—any interest in bridal gown shopping?” Violet and I groaned. “I’m not going nuts about it, I promise. But my mother is coming to town tomorrow and I figured she’s good for lunch. And I could use the buffers.”

  “No way.” This was not Violet’s thing.

  “I can’t either,” I said, grateful for the excuse. “Rose gave me Saturday passes to the big cat show this weekend. She was going to be judging. I figure the least I can do is go, ask around among the other breeders, see what I can find out about the Angora market.” Bunny eyed me. “Not for Ivy, but for the cats. Besides, maybe someone will know something about the cattery break-ins and we can get a lead on whoever was threatening Rose.” I saw Bunny open her mouth and knew she was about to warn me off getting too involved in an investigation. Time to change the subject: “Speaking of wedding stuff, I got another assignment from I Do .”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Yeah, but it’s also true. So if you want any info or back issues or anything.”

  “You think they’ve run any stories on handfastings or vegan receptions?”

  I was silent.

  “Seriously, hon, I don’t think I’ll need anything from them, but I’m glad they got back in touch. They pay you what you’re worth. And they’re not going to cut you out for some little bimbette.”

  “Have you been seeing my former editor around the Mail building lately?”

  “Let’s just say some of his requests for library files have been going astray.”

  “You’re a dangerous woman, Bunny.”

  “I try.”

  I turned around in my seat. “So Violet, do you want to go to this cat show with me?”

  “Consorting with the enemy?”

  “It’d be for Rose. For her cats.”

  “Or you could always change your mind,” chimed in our driver. “And go dress shopping with me and my mother.”

  We heard a groan and then a thud, as Violet flopped over onto the back seat. Bunny pulled up to the shelter.

  “Stay dry.” I handed her an umbrella from the car floor. “And I’ll pick you up at eleven.”

  ***

  The phone machine was blinking when I came in, but all but one message proved to be from the same person.

  “Theda? It’s Lannie. Call me?” By the fourth message, her voice was wound tight enough to snap, so even before changing I dialed the City number and asked for the quizzical editor.

  “Hey, Lannie. It’s Theda. What’s up?”

  “What’s up?” If anything, her voice had ratcheted up a few notches. “Death? Murder? Our millennial women?”

  Rose! Lannie had seen the notice in the morning paper. After letting her spew for a bit, I tried to calm her down. Yes, I had known. I had just come from the funeral. Yes, it was horrible. I left out my own role in the discovery of my friend’s body and focused instead on saving the assignment. That, rather than the death of a human being, seemed to be uppermost in Lannie’s mind.

  “We only have three now, and I just don’t know if that will be enough. Even with the photos.”

  Writer that I am, I’d forgotten about the photos. “So Sunny is doing good work?”

  “Well, she hasn’t shot Coolidge yet. But the photos of Borgia are wonderful. Very…” she struggled for a description, “high tech.” I tried to envision this and failed.

  “She didn’t get to shoot Rose, did she?”

  “No, sadly.” Regret seemed to be seeping into her voice with that realization. “We have the old photos, and they were pretty fun. Keller had also sent us some of her own press shots, judging cats? What a waste.”

  Indeed. “Why not use them?” I wanted to salvage the gig, but was also thinking of a last tribute to my friend. Besides, if I had an excuse to ask people questions about her, who knew what I could find out? “I interviewed her. I could still write the piece as a sort of memorial. What was going on with one of our ‘millennial women’ before her life was cut tragically short.” She couldn’t see my eyes rolling on the phone, and putting it in City speak would, I hoped, help.

  “Isn’t that a little gruesome? I mean, a murder and all?”

  “It would be a fitting tribute. Besides,” I was thinking as fast as I could, “readers love a real-life mystery. I even have some connections with Homicide.” Not in Watertown, maybe no longer in Cambridge, but I was trying.

  “True crime and a proper farewell? A moving tribute? Well, maybe.” I could hear her resistance weakening, her usual perkiness reasserting itself. “You’d have to be careful about the tone, though. And Theda?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If your connections do find out who did it, we want the first rights.”

  ***

  There was only one non-Lannie message.

  “Theda, it’s me. Bill.” He sounded like he knew he shouldn’t take recognition for granted. “I’m sorry about last night. Call me?”

  I wanted to, I really did. But the smarter part of me held back. What would resuming our relationship accomplish, if none of the underlying problems had been resolved? I was thirty-three, too old to be spinning my wheels. Did I want anything more with Bill? I didn’t belong with Rick, did I? In light of my disastrous encounters of the day before, I was tempted to write them both off, but something Rick had said stuck with me. Maybe it wasn’t about what you wanted, or even who you hoped to become. Maybe it was about complementary damage, and knowing which other humans in this cold, cruel world could at least understand what you had been through. I felt a sharp prick and heard something rip.

  “Ow, kitten!” Musetta, unused to being ignored, had tackled my ankle. Although the unfamiliar texture of pantyhose seemed to have momentarily thrown her, she had quickly rallied, following up her grab with a sharp nip. The run was spreading as I reached to pick her up.

  “Musetta! Bad! Come here!” She bounced down the hallway as if she knew this game, and I had to confess I was grateful for the diversion. “Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!” I darted for her. She slipped by, but waited for me to follow. Finally cornering her, to her purring delight, I hugged her warm, soft body to me.

  “Funeral funk, Musetta. You know how it is.” She lay back in my arms as if hypnotized, letting me rub her downy white chest. “I thought being with my friends had protected me from it.” All purred out, she wriggled to be let down and began to wash. Peeling off the ruined hose, I hobbled toward the phone.

  “Hey, Bill.” He’d answered his office extension on the first ring. “Thanks for calling.”

  “I wanted to. How was the funeral?”

  I sighed. “It was a funeral, you know? Bunny and Violet came with me and that helped.”

  “I’m glad. I thought about coming over. But all things considered…” His voice trailed off into a silence that I couldn’t decipher. Did he mean that he hadn’t come by because we hadn’t spent the night together? Or because he suspected the deceased had been killed as a result of her own crimes? Trying for a new conciliatory spirit, I didn’t ask.

  “You didn’t know her.” That would be my one dig, I promised myself. “But about last night?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Want to try again?”

  “I’d love to.” He sounded so relieved that I felt worse. I mean, I hadn’t decided anything yet. “I’m going to be here till about eight,” he said. “Want me to meet you someplace, or shall I just come by?”

  “Why don’t you meet me at the Casbah. I think I need to be out of the house as much as po
ssible today.” It was true, but I knew as I said it that I also wanted to see him on my turf. It was a test, a small one.

  “Great. That’ll be fun.”

  I hoped so. “Okay, then. See you tonight.”

  ***

  At least Rick wasn’t here, I thought as I entered the club’s front room several hours later. Ralph was. Did he ever leave? But the portly writer was so focused on a young goth chick that he didn’t notice me. From the way he was leaning on the bar, I suspected that he might not notice much that wasn’t half dressed. The young spandex-clad female wasn’t having any of it: one leg, covered to the knee in a thick platform-heeled boot, began swinging faster and faster as Ralph droned on. Finally, he must have pushed too far. Her heavy eyeliner accentuated the way she rolled her eyes as she pushed off her stool and clunked away.

  “Hey, Theda. Come on over here.”

  Even out of kiss reach, I could smell the fumes on him. He’d moved beyond beer long ago. “Wanna join me? We can drown our misery together.”

  “No, thanks, Ralph. Bill is meeting me here.” I looked around, hoping he’d be early.