by Clea Simon
To keep the holiday fun—and to keep the kids’ attention—Violet then planned a mask-making workshop with lots of sparkles and pipe-cleaner whiskers, and, of course, supervised visits with the calmer of the shelter occupants. The sleek gray Cassandra, known for striking claws out at anyone who tried to approach, would not be among the official greeters.
“Watch it!” Sibley, a more personable inmate, had come to watch us, which was fine until his long spotted tail began to flick over freshly glued sparkles. “Kitty!” Caro dragged him away.
“So are you going to get into the Druid stuff?”
“You mean, am I using any of the material Bunny gave me?” Our Wiccan friend had responded to Violet’s request for help with about fifty Xeroxed pages of religious history.
“Yeah.” I reached for the magic markers.
“Some of it. You know, the bits about Hecate, the Roman goddess who they made into the ruler of the witches, pretty much just because they didn’t like women having power. And Freya, with her sleigh pulled by flying cats. The kids will love that. But I’ll stop there, with the myths and legends. Not the modern stuff.”
I wasn’t sure that was exactly the intent Bunny had had in mind, but Violet knew her audience best. She must have noticed my eyebrows rising, though.
“Hey, it’s the parents, not the kids I’m thinking about.” She put down the sheet of orange construction paper she’d been gluing. “I’ve gotten them to accept me and Caro, not to mention the cats! If I start proselytizing that we should all become witches, whatever Bunny wants them to be called, this place would go up in flames.”
It was a joke, but we both stopped.
“You don’t think that’s what the break-in was about, do you?” Her face had grown pinched and pale.
I shook my head, reaching up to touch the spot where I’d been hit. “I don’t know, Vi. It still doesn’t make sense.” The spot no longer hurt, but it didn’t feel quite right yet, either. With all my men trouble, the thought that I might have been gay bashed made me smile. It was bitter, but at least I still could.
“Do you think the cops are any closer to finding out who killed Rose?” She voiced the next question in both our minds.
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if they believed me that someone was threatening her.” I wished I could talk to Bill about this.
“You can’t ask Bill, can you?” Maybe Violet really was a witch.
“I’ll be lucky if I can talk to him about anything after last night.” The cold pit in my stomach started growing again, and the glitter in front of me blurred. I got up. “’Scuse me.”
A quick trip to the bathroom to wash my face kept the tears at bay, but walking back I couldn’t resist picking up the hallway phone. No answer, just his machine. Before the second beep cut me off I managed to croak a message: “Hey Bill. Can we talk? I’m at Violet’s.” I could hear Caro and Violet whispering in hushed tones in the next room, but they were my friends and didn’t ask why it took me so long to come back in.
Nor did they comment on my sorry output the rest of the afternoon. Four basic cat masks assembled, ready to be decorated, a few more seasonal silhouettes, and I knew I had to go home. Caro was making a big pot of split pea soup, but I didn’t think I could manage conversation for as long as a meal. Besides, I wanted to see if anyone had called.
One message. Bill? I hit the replay button.
“Hey, Theda.” It was Cool, herself, without Ronnie interceding. But she didn’t sound happy. “I wanted to ask you something. I need some advice. You know that thing I told you about? Well, I haven’t heard back yet. Frankly, that’s not what I expected. I mean, they said ‘by the weekend.’ And, well, it’s making me even more nervous. Call me?”
I did, but the hotel switchboard told me nobody in her suite was responding. Why should I have assumed otherwise on this miserable day? A dinner of Raisin Bran and milk served to make me feel even sorrier for myself, and I retired early, not that sleep followed suit.
Chapter Thirteen
“Cambridgeport cat house!” The morning had broken bright and clear, and I had enough coffee to make a pot. I still hadn’t heard from Bill. Then again, my message had said that I was at Violet’s. Telling myself that I just needed to hear a friendly voice, I called the shelter. The one that answered was gruff, loud, and just a little off the wall.
“Morning, Caro! You sound lively today! Hey, thanks for the creature comfort yesterday.” I fumbled for the pot, needing a refill already.
“Think nothing of it, my girl!” Caro was practically yelling, and I could hear her bustling about the living room as she spoke. Gathering her tools probably. “But you’ll want to be speaking with Little Ms. Studious, the Carbon Queen herself.”
That’s right, I’d forgotten. Violet was due to get her Organic Chemistry midterm results today. A few seconds later, my friend’s higher voice was singing into the phone.
“We’re feeling pretty good about ourselves today, aren’t we?” I smiled despite myself and pulled my Café du Monde mug closer. “What’s up?
“Aaaaaaye-Minus!” Violet sang back in a “Here’s Johnny” cadence. Behind her, I could hear Caroline hoot and clap. The cats must be going nuts.
“And why the minus?”
“Hey, Caro!” Violet yelled, not bothering to put her hand over the receiver. “Theda just asked me the same thing!” More hoots ensued.
“Seriously, Vi, that’s great. Congrats. So, you getting ready for that steak dinner?” I was not going to be jealous of my friend’s happiness.
“Am I ever! We’re going tonight.”
“Well, you’ve earned it.” I stopped myself from saying anything more by downing half my mug. How could I rain on her parade? But although Violet hadn’t been my friend long, she knew me well.
“Have you talked to Bill yet?”
“Uh uh.” I forced the coffee down. “He didn’t try to reach me at your place, did he?”
“Sorry, no, and we’ve been up for hours. Call him again, Theda. You guys have to work this through.”
I sighed. What could I say? “Maybe there’s nothing to work through, Vi. Maybe this has just run its course and I should let it die a natural death.”
“That’s last week talking, Theda. A lot happened, and you forget, I’ve seen you together. You two have fun together. I think you click, on a molecular level.” I could hear a grin sneaking back into her voice. “Sorry. The chem test has gotten to me. But it’s true, kid, I like him for you.”
I bit my tongue.
“Oh, cut it out.” She heard what I wasn’t saying, although the words were sticking in my throat. “This isn’t because of me being with Caro or anything. You think I’m Bunny, wanting to marry you two off?” That was news to me, if it was true. “I wouldn’t blink an eye if a friend wanted to march down the aisle with one of my cats. Well, as long as it wasn’t Sibley. He’s mine, my own cow-spotted baby. But you and Bill are just so easy together. He relaxes you, I’ve seen it. And I think you’re the happiness in his life. His sunshine.”
How could she know that was one of his pet names for me? The unspoken words had turned into a lump too big to swallow.
“I’ve reached out to him, Violet. I left a message after…well, after the whole thing with Rick at your gig. He can call me if he wants to.”
“Ever think he’s afraid to? Worried about what you might say?”
It was more likely he just didn’t want to speak with me, but that thought made me queasy. “I don’t have time for this, Vi. I really don’t. I’ve got to get to work.”
“Well, don’t let it go too long, Theda.” I had to get off the phone.
“Enjoy your steak, kiddo. You earned it.”
“Thanks, Theda. Remember, you pushed me to go back to school and I fought you on that. Sometimes you’ve got to listen to your friends.”
***
My next call was to Cool, and this time I got through. Sure enough, the blackmailers had never called back. It sounded l
ike cause for rejoicing to me, but to Cool—and to Ronnie, I gathered—the silence was strange and in some ways more menacing than the initial threat.
“I mean, what if they’re planning something worse?” Her deep voice sounded tight. “Something big?”
“What else could they be thinking of?” My mind reeled for a moment. “Hey, Cool, are you sure you won’t consider talking to the police? I know a cop. He’s really a nice guy—” A snort cut me off, and what sounded like a swallow. “Cool, you’re not indulging in anything now, are you?”
“No, no, no. This is water, honey. Poland Spring. I’m going to a meeting almost every night. That’s where I was when you called yesterday. And I’ve been working out and seeing a shrink, too. Actually, I’m the healthiest I’ve ever been, at least in years.” As if to reassure me, her voice dropped down and opened up to its more usual boom. Maybe she’d just been thirsty.
“So you’re really okay?” How in control was she?
“Yeah, but I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I mean, Theda, I’m even writing again. Good songs, too. So how can I go public now?” I could hear the edges of panic creep back in. “How can I perform? How can I go back into the studio when I don’t know when they’ll call again?”
I bit my lip to keep myself from repeating the only advice I had, and let my silence answer for me.
***
My mood wasn’t going anywhere, but what could I expect for a Monday? Determined not to let the entire day be a waste, I made a few calls to florists, explaining to the inevitable machines that I wanted to talk to them for a bridal magazine. I added that the story was for the January issue, timed to help June brides plan their nuptials. They’d call back, all of them, if they wanted what amounted to free advertising. However, none had by the time I finished my lunch-time Raisin Bran, so I forced myself to buckle down on my profile of Rose. It was going to be hard enough summing up a life in seven hundred fifty words, especially the life of a friend. But after such a death—and with so many unanswered questions—the assignment seemed impossible.
Who was Rose Keller anyway? I’d always accepted her at face value: a struggling single woman, trying to make a living in a competitive and offbeat world. I knew she’d loved her cats. Each time one had a litter, Rose stayed home until she knew the queen and the kittens were all healthy and nursing. And each cat went out with a guarantee: show quality or pet, if the new home didn’t work out, Rose would take the feline back. In fact, she made all her buyers sign a statement—though whether that was legally binding I had no idea—saying that they promised never to just drop one of her Angoras off at a shelter if they didn’t want or couldn’t keep it anymore.
Plus, I had learned to respect her as a dedicated professional. It takes a lot of effort, both study and networking, to get as far as Rose had. When she had qualified to be a judge, she’d called me and I’d responded with a bottle of domestic bubbly. I remembered her talking about how much time she’d put in to earn that title. The breeder we’d met at the show, Sally, had spoken about Rose as one of the top in the field, dedicated to her profession. Maybe I could use Sally as a source in the profile. But thinking of her also brought back the rest of our conversation: Rose never had money to burn, and if her passion for cats was costing her more than it was bringing in, well, how far would she have gone? Could Bill’s suspicions that Rose was somehow involved in the cattery thefts have any basis in fact?
Somewhere, I knew I had Sally’s card. Telling myself that I really just wanted a quote for the piece, I dug through various pockets until it surfaced in Saturday’s jeans. Just as I reached for the phone, however, it started ringing of its own accord. Could it be Bill?
“Hello?” I tried to keep the breathlessness from my voice.
“Hello. Is this Theda Krakow?” A woman’s voice, a little coarse, and not one that I recognized.
“Why, yes. May I help you?” Whenever dealing with strangers, my mother’s training kicked in.
“This is Ivy. Ivy Gellinane. Rose’s sister?” Of course. The demanding voice of the suburban matron I’d met at the funeral didn’t fit with her polished appearance, but it did jibe with that air of entitlement that had surrounded her.
“Hi, Ivy. How can I help you? Are the cats okay?” If she’d fired the veterinary assistant who was looking after them, I wasn’t sure what I’d do.
“You know you said you’d look into breeders for me?” I already regretted agreeing to that.
“Yeah?”
“Well, I’ve got more now and I don’t know what to do with them.”
“Excuse me?”
“Cats, kittens. I got a call from the young lady who has been watching them, and I guess one of the cats had its babies.”
“Ah, congratulations! But you call them a litter. Have you seen them? They must be adorable.”
“I haven’t had the time. But I guess there are more to sell now.”
“Well, there’s more to it than that, Ivy.” I thought of Rose’s meticulous records, of her careful screening of potential buyers, and her guarantee. “I was actually about to call a breeder, though, and I will ask her if she has any ideas.” The thought of buyers made me wonder what else might be in Rose’s neat files. “But Ivy?”
“Yes?”
“Can you look through Rose’s papers for me? She used to keep records of everyone who’d ever bought a cat from her. That might help us.” I wasn’t going to tell her that I wanted to look at those files for any other reason.
“You mean, maybe someone would want another?”
“Something like that.” I was just casting about, but sometimes that’s how I got the best material for a story. Ask questions and read background material: you’d be surprised at what popped up. Maybe those records would reveal something about Rose’s murder. Something off, something suspicious. Something that an outsider—a non-cat person, a cop—wouldn’t recognize as fishy. Could another breeder have been behind the threats? Someone who had spent a lot of money at her cattery? I had no idea.
“Well, I could call the young lady. She sounded busy what with the new cats, and all. But considering that we’re talking about financial records, it would be better if a family member were there.”
I bit my tongue to keep from commenting on her priorities, and scrambled for words she might respond to. “I’m sure you can handle the business aspect, but I might be useful in translating the industry lingo. Besides, if you go over there, you’ll get to see the kittens. I bet they’re just the prettiest things!”
“I’m sure they’re fine.” In the background, I heard a day-planner slamming shut, another item crossed off her list. “But I’ll look through those files, see what I can send you, Theda. And you’ll call me about breeders?”
“You bet. And congratulations again. You’re a grandma!” I just couldn’t resist.
She sputtered a bit, and the line went dead.
***
That was fun, I thought, letting her attitude about the cats absolve me of any guilt. And I would ask Sally about breeders. Who might want to take over an entire cattery full of Turkish Angoras? Who could have wanted to take out the woman in charge?
Sally answered on the second ring, and remembered me right away.
“Did you stay late on Saturday? I didn’t see you at any other events.”
“We browsed…and bought.” I recalled Violet’s shopping spree, aided and abetted by the careful attentions of the Pet Set manager. She’d recognized a good customer when she spied one and barely let us out of her sight. “How did you do?”
“Not too badly.” Happy pride warmed her voice and I was glad I’d asked. “I’ve now got two grand champions, and some of my little ones got ribbons, too.”
“Congratulations. I’m sorry we didn’t get to see them.”
“You should come by sometime. We’re out in Newton.”
“Thanks, I will.” Without telling Violet, of course. Despite her warming to Sally as a person, I suspected her bias against show ca
ts would never completely disappear. “But I’m actually calling about Rose.”
“I figured as much, and figured you’d get to it in your own time. What’s up?”
“Well, do you know about the cattery thefts, the break-ins that have been happening?”
“Do I ever! That’s all my breed organization is talking about, and a few weeks ago I installed a state-of-the-art security system. Why?”
I tried to remember what I’d told her on Saturday. “Did Rose ever mention the robberies?”
“No.” I could hear her thinking, going over past conversations. “I don’t think so. But she wouldn’t have, would she?”
“What do you mean? Why not?”
“Well, her cats weren’t the type being stolen.”
“They were longhairs, and pedigreed.”
“Well, yes, but Turkish Angoras are sort of a…” The phone went quiet for a moment, and when Sally came back her well modulated voice was a little quieter, and more careful. “Well, Rose would hate me for saying this, but Angoras just aren’t in that high demand. It’s not that they’re a dying breed, just more of a boutique cat. I mean, they’re lovely and they’ve got fantastic temperments. But they’re not really considered top cats anymore. That was one of Rose’s problems. She adored those cats, but their prices were plummeting.”
This wasn’t news I wanted to share with Ivy, but I’d get to that soon enough.
“So, Rose was probably having money problems?”
“She definitely was. I mean, I’m sure she’d have weathered the storm, but she was facing some hard times.”
That was grist for the cop rumor mill. If they knew. I trusted Sally’s insight, but couldn’t see sharing her information with Bill. Not yet. It was too damning to my late friend. Besides, who knew when, or if, my beau and I would speak again? But enough of that.
“So, which cats are in danger?”
“The big ones, heavy cats in the Persian mode, like Ragdolls or Maine coon cats and even the English shorthairs, because they’ve got those wide faces and husky bodies. Norwegians qualify, too, though I tend to think of my cats as more delicate than those big babies.”
