by Clea Simon
Stepping out of the bathroom, I nearly ran into Violet. Wet with sweat still, but triumphant, she was oblivious to the room around her.
“Violet! Great set!” I would have clapped my arms around her, had she not been so clearly sticky.
“You really liked it?”
“I loved it. I was dancing up by the stage like I haven’t in years.”
She looked honestly pleased. “Wow, thanks for checking us out. Hey, I’ve got some more loading out to do, but then I’ll come talk. Where are you?” I pointed over to the bar. Her eyes followed the line of my hand.
“Yeah. Well, work to do.” She was gone.
She was distracted, I knew, with the post-performance buzz and the more pressing need to move all her band’s equipment off the stage so the next band could come on. I walked back to the bar, and this time both men dismounted from their bar seats, ready to offer me theirs.
“Thanks anyway, I’ll stand awhile.” They looked at me quizzically. “Hey, if I’m making the point that women can rock, then I better prove I can stand my ground, too.”
“Fair enough,” said Connor. “But watch mine, will you? I’m going to try to head off this bartender for another round.”
Risa did look swamped, but I don’t think it helped that Connor went to join what was rapidly becoming a pack. Thirsty drinkers had swarmed the service area, hindering the club’s one waitress. I slid into his seat—just for the duration—and found Ralph leaning toward me on the bar.
“So, you and Rick aren’t still an item, huh?” While his query wasn’t the most articulate, I read his meaning. The spirit of competition, it seemed, had awakened a spark in Ralph.
“No. I don’t know that we ever really were.” I didn’t want to encourage him, but his question hit on something I guess I hadn’t made my peace with.
“You seemed so down for a while this winter.”
“That was because of James, my cat.” I really didn’t want to talk about this. I certainly didn’t want to hear his response, and so I spun around to stare into the crowd. There was Violet, coming back from loading out.
“Hey, Violet!” She turned for a split second and just as fast looked away. I was sure she’d heard me, but she spun on her heels, heading toward the music room, and didn’t look back.
“What’s up with her?” I didn’t know what had happened.
“Oh, she recognizes me,” said Ralph, who had swung around soon after I did. “She probably read my manifesto in Sunday’s paper on the new rock chicks and how bogus they are.” I was tempted to tell him what I thought of his misogynistic little rant, but he wasn’t done. “Plus, clearly I’m in the front room and I didn’t go back to see her. She keeps sending me those fliers. Poor girl, she probably had her hopes up.”
I couldn’t imagine Violet would have any illusions about old Ralph here, but maybe she did have some about me. Did it bother her that I was sitting with Ralph? Had it finally sunk in that I had talked to the cops? When I’d run into her just now, she’d been fresh from the stage, and I’d been full of praise. Maybe as she was carrying amps and guitars out the door she recalled what we’d started to talk about earlier. She said she had her reasons about not wanting the police involved. But maybe she didn’t, or not any good ones. I didn’t know her well enough to tell. Whatever she’d planned to tell me before, clearly she had changed her mind.
Connor came back with our drinks just then, and I tried to put my new friend’s strange behavior from my mind. We told some more stories and then made our way back to the music room, just in time to catch the last of the middle band. That gave us enough time to secure a good place for the headliners. The space that had held a cool ashy chill before was packed with people, and I allowed myself to be sandwiched between the two men as they bullied their way over to the side of the stage. There, with the bar behind us, we could almost see. We could certainly hear, as the main attraction kicked in with a big, bass-heavy sound that had the crowd around us moving in no time. The band had something, almost a retro Southern rock style, with blues powered by the metal attack of well wielded guitars. But their music didn’t move me like Violet’s band had. Maybe I was more self-conscious now, standing here with Connor. Maybe I was just feeling the beer and the hours and the week that had passed. Connor was still charming, cracking me up with impersonations of various rock types, but I was pooped. In a lull between songs, I reached for his arm.
“I’ve got to crash,” I yelled into his ear. He looked disappointed. “I’m sorry,” I continued. “I’m just wiped out and I’m not going to be any fun soon.”
“I doubt that,” he said, and brought his hand up to cradle my face. I forgot my fatigue for a moment but then it, with the band, came crashing back.
“See you around.” I attempted a light-hearted smile.
“I’ll call you,” he promised. And with a slight spring in my step, I made my way out of the crowd and toward the comfort of my own sweet home.
Chapter Nine
The phone was ringing before I knew what it was.
“Argh,” I complained, pushing the kitten off my pillow as I responded blindly to the sound.
“Argh?” Somehow I’d found the receiver and grabbed my bedside pad and pen.
“Theda? This is Mrs. Hudson. Sally. I tried to reach you yesterday.” Damn, I hadn’t called her back when I’d told Tim I would. I looked at the clock: eight a.m. Felt like five. “When you were here, looking at my shelves, I forgot to tell you the most important thing.” Something like a hangover was settling in, pounding right above my left ear. I cursed that last round I’d let Connor buy. Keeping up with him and Ralph was foolish for a woman my size. At least I’d worn earplugs once the headliner had started. If I hadn’t, maybe I wouldn’t be able to hear the bookshelf lady right now. Then again, maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad.
“It’s the window seat. The one in my office? I wanted to point out how they were constructed.” She seemed on automatic pilot and soon I stopped taking notes. I don’t think I dozed much, but suddenly she was talking resale values. “By building around the original casement, they highlight the original design,” Sally was saying. “Which really ups your value. Especially with everyone rediscovering the architectural gems we have right here in town.”
I woke up a bit, trying to think of realtors I could call for confirmation or, at least, a quote. Adding value to your property wasn’t a bad angle. “That’s fascinating,” I interrupted her monologue. “Do you know a Patti Wright? She’s a realtor near me.”
“Oh, Patti. Yes, of course,” came the burbling response. “Going into real estate was the smartest thing she did after getting free of that husband of hers. Did you know George, too?” Her voice had sunk to a hungry whisper, but I had to disappoint her. Too early for gossip, and definitely not my crowd. “Ah well,” she sighed at my negative response. “He was one of her less-than-stellar moves. The other was accepting that white elephant she lives in as her entire settlement.”
“The house?”
“Of course, the house. That was her big project and I personally know that she’s sunk a load into it. A load! Can’t sell it now, of course. That neighborhood isn’t quite ready for redevelopment.” I swore I could hear a smirk.
“How do you know she wants to sell it?” I was waking up now, my community pride—and my curiosity—pricked.
“My dear, it’s been on the market several times over the last year. Thomas has seen the signs. He cuts through that area on his way to the turnpike. And we all know how, well, how difficult things have been for her, you know, in terms of finances, what with the property taxes and all.”
Hmmm…. I murmured my assent and let her ramble on for a bit. So perhaps Patti Wright’s dislike of her neighbor, with her rundown house and multiple cats, wasn’t just prissiness. Could Lillian’s stodginess—or her poverty—have had that big an impact on Patti’s real estate dreams?
“I should call her, of course.” Sally Hudson hadn’t missed a beat. “But, w
ell, she hasn’t really been around lately, has she?”
“She hasn’t?” I felt slimy, priming her for gossip in this manner. But if she knew something that might have bearing on Lillian—or my neighborhood—I wanted to know. Sally was more than willing to share.
“It’s not just that she’s working all the time, you know.” She said it like it was a scandal. “But I heard Patti also had to leave the club. Something about a check not clearing for the dues….” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, but I heard what she was insinuating. And if Patti Wright was falling out of her accustomed social set, her desperation could be personal as well as professional, particularly if she was trapped in a white elephant of a house by a seemingly disreputable neighbor. Real estate was a high stakes game in our rapidly changing city, but how much had she gambled? Enough to give her motive to kill an old lady simply because she was set in her ways? Hudson rattled on a bit before ringing off. I hoped that I was polite, but when I looked at my notes they read simply, “cabinet, upholstery. Wright???” Clearly, Sally had left me with more questions than she’d answered. I balled up the paper and tossed it. Out of nowhere, Musetta pounced.
“Okay, kitty. Talk about a rude awakening.” Musetta hadn’t been too happy to be expelled from her pillow, but now she reared up on her hind legs, looking for all the world like a little gopher as she batted the wad of paper. It disappeared under the radiator, but even when I sent it scurrying across the floor once more she seemed satisfied with having made her goal.
“Meh-eh?” she said, instead, looking up at me.
“Breakfast? Coming right up, your highness.” Being a freelancer didn’t mean you were free. It just meant that you served a whole slew of different bosses.
mmm
After I’d spent a good five minutes watching the kitten eat, empty can and plastic spoon still in hand, I realized that I’d not fully come to life yet. Time to do something about that. And even though bed beckoned, I could see from my window that yet another glorious spring day had begun. A head-clearer stronger than caffeine was called for.
“Ow! Stop that! Ow!” I moved to clap my hands and hit my head instead. Finding the first sneaker had been easy. But although I’d finally located the second, back in the corner under my bed, rescuing it in the presence of a rambunctious kitten took a little effort. I wasn’t feeling too limber as I crawled under the bed, and she saw my outstretched fingers as her natural prey. Instinctively, I’d reared up when she pounced, forgetting where I was. I’d trained James not to do that kind of thing by clapping whenever he pounced inappropriately. But the loud thud my head made as it hit the metal frame seemed to serve the same purpose, and I emerged just in time to see her scampering out of the bedroom. Lacing the second shoe on, I thought I could already feel my head clearing, but that was probably because of the counter-irritant from the bruising. Nothing fresh air and sweat wouldn’t cure, I told myself, feigning an optimism I didn’t really feel.
The air outside did feel glorious, slightly damp and just cool enough. I stood on the stone steps of my building looking around, trying to remember how I used to stretch before running, and generally stalling the inevitable. On the trees that lined my street, buds had finally been outnumbered by small, light-green leaves; in the shallow beds alongside my building the daffodils’ sprouting green hurried to make up for lost time. Time to follow suit. Although I felt leaden, each step a drag, for the first two blocks, life began to return. My stride lengthened and I started to move with some grace. Soon I was flying. I’d be sore tomorrow, but I couldn’t resist a real run, like I’d used to do last fall, when life had been simpler. I decided to make a circuit of the entire neighborhood, really give myself a workout.
Down to the river? No, I needn’t have fooled myself. I knew I was heading for Lillian’s even before I reached the corner. If I kept this up, I promised myself, I’d run along the Charles tomorrow. For today, however, I’d just jog by the old house, see what was happening. My encounter with Violet the night before had shaken me up. The way she had just walked off must have meant she was really pissed. I knew she thought her old friend had been murdered, and my instincts had agreed. But if she was right, it was best left for the cops to handle, no matter what she thought. Besides, in the light of day, I couldn’t back Violet’s conviction with anything other than a gut hunch. Bill Sherman seemed like a decent cop, a smart one as well, and he’d had answers for everything. More likely, I thought as the old house’s lilac hedge came into view, Violet’s belief came from a natural aversion to sudden death. She’s so young, I thought. She’s probably never lost anybody before. I passed the Wright house and slowed to a walk for a breather. Still, I didn’t want Violet to get herself in trouble with the cops. I’d talk to her again, if she’d let me. See if I could make her see reason.
Standing on the sidewalk, hands on my hips, I realized I wasn’t moving forward any more and might as well stretch. A nicely solid oak stood on the edge of the lawn, and I leaned into it, feeling the tightness at the back of my calves give way ever so slightly. Then, it wasn’t a noise exactly, but some combination of rustle and movement. I looked up at the side of the house just as it disappeared. Some flicker in an upstairs window made me think that the grand old house wasn’t empty.
Was it Violet? I feared that she was rummaging through boxes again, and wondered what to say to her. Having access to a key wasn’t the same as permission, and whatever she was looking for wasn’t worth getting busted over. Or could it be another cat? The one she’d called Sibley had escaped the round-up, and it was quite possible others had as well. Maybe I’d seen some stray who nested in the attic making his move toward an unsuspecting rodent. I stood for a moment longer, watching the window, the only one up on the third floor. Nothing else moved. Maybe it had been a trick of the light. Maybe all I had seen was a hallucination of my oxygen-deprived, endorphin-pumping brain. Maybe I was stalling before starting to run again, but there was something creepy about the old house, now that the cats were gone. Those windows felt too much like eyes. Enough! One final stretch and I was off.
A half hour later, I was singing in the shower. Sex could be great and chocolate was reliable, but nothing consistently lifted my mood like exercise. How could I have forgotten this wonderful feeling? I toweled off, trying to gauge the extent of my buzz. No, I would still need coffee. I laced my sneakers back on and positively trotted over to the Mug Shot.
I was lucky to get a stool at the counter, the little coffeehouse was that busy.
“Skim latte coming up!” Violet yelled over the whir of the espresso machine. She was fixing a row of chai teas, all to go, but brought my tall, foam-topped glass over with a smile not long after.
“Hey, Theda. How’s it going?”
“Great,” I could honestly respond. “But…last night.” I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. “Did I piss you off? Was it because I told that cop?”
She looked at me blankly. I wasn’t making sense.
“I thought you were going to come over and chat after, but you sort of took off.” In the light of day, I sounded like a hypersensitive fan. Maybe she’d just been tired or had some other perfectly sound reason not to want to socialize. We didn’t know each other that well after all.
“Oh, at the bar? Hold on, one mocha latte coming up! That was nothing.” She grabbed two empty mugs off the counter, wiped the pale brown rings beneath them and headed back toward the machines. “I saw a creepy guy I sort of know. Real bastard,” she said as she walked away. “I just didn’t want to have to talk to him.”
Relief tasted as good as that warm, thick drink, and curiosity followed. Could it be Ralph she was avoiding, as he had suggested? Ralph’s dismissal of her music had been more than cavalier, it had bordered on cruel. Maybe he’d said something. Worse, even if he didn’t want to admit it to me, maybe he’d written something that had knocked her band. To me the pudgy, aging critic was a bit of a buffoon, but for a fledgling musician trying to get gigs in this town, press was im
portant—and a slam in a major paper like the Mail could set you back months. I’d have to work on Ralph, I decided. Get him to actually listen to a song, if not a set, next time the band played out. Right now, I had more pressing concerns.
“Violet, have you been working all morning?” She’d taken a damp rag and was wiping down the counter as she nodded, stopping to work on one particularly sticky spot.
“Yup. I did set-up today, and we’re ready for customers by seven, why?” She looked up, curious.
“I thought I saw something—or someone—in Lillian’s earlier. Just a movement in the window. You’ve got Sibley, right?” She nodded. “Could there be other cats still in there?”
“Could be.” She bunched the rag in her hands as she thought. “I think all the house cats were taken. Maybe a feral, but you’re not likely to ever see one of them. They’re hiders.”
She moved along to help another customer. I must have been fooled by a trick of the light. All along the street, the budding trees had just begun to cast fuller reflections.
“You coming tomorrow?” Violet had swung back to my end of the counter to hand over a bag of ground coffee. She took the customer’s money and pointed at the bulletin board. “It’s been moved to the church. One of her friends works there.” I read the notice: “Lillian Helmhold, a life remembered.” Friends and neighbors of the late Lillian Helmhold, a.k.a. “The Cat Lady of Cambridgeport,” were invited to share memories and pay their respects at an informal gathering to be held Saturday morning at eleven at First Baptist, in the church’s downstairs common room.
