Revenge at its Felinest

by Patricia Fry

“So you still don’t trust her?” Michael asked.

  Peter cocked his head. “Do you know any reason why I should? She nearly ruined me.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s true,” Savannah said. When he looked at her, she explained, “Peter, you have a good thing going with your art. You have a large following and you know what they want. You’re really good at promoting your work.” She motioned around the room. “And you appear to be earning a good living.”

  Peter smiled. “Are we ever completely satisfied?”

  “Which is what makes you successful,” Michael said. “Unlike so many artists, you have a business head and you keep striving to be better and do better.” Michael leaned forward. “I’m convinced that the extra business classes we took all those years ago while we were in veterinary school really helped us both in running our businesses. Don’t you think so?”

  “Yeah, probably.” Peter nodded toward Rochelle. “But I owe a lot of my current success to my wife. When I met Rochelle, I think I was just coasting—you know, putting out the work like a madman, but satisfied with just doing okay when it came to sales. I didn’t want to be bothered with all that business crap.” He winced, glanced at Lily, and said, “Oops. Sorry about the language.” He continued, “It wasn’t until Rochelle came on board that things really started happening for me.” He smiled at her. “I mean for us. She’s an amazing marketing person.”

  “So, Rochelle, we have you to thank for this plush place to stay in this week?” Michael asked.

  Everyone laughed. After a few moments of silence while they sipped their beverages and watched the children play, Peter asked in a jovial manner, “Hey, tell us what’s been happening in your life.” He glanced at Rags, who was exploring his new surroundings. “Besides Rags saving lost cats in the big city.”

  “Well, not a whole lot,” Michael said. “Lily has learned some new words and she’s becoming quite the storyteller.”

  “Really?” Rochelle said, smiling at the child, who was coloring on her paint-with-water pad. “Well, she is the one who told us about Rags saving the cat. Lily,” she prompted, “what else did Rags do while you were traveling?” When Lily looked at her, Rochelle asked, “Can you tell me a story about Rags?”

  “Tell Rochelle and Peter about Rags getting lost,” Savannah prompted.

  “Rags got lost,” Lily said, her eyes as big as saucers.

  When she didn’t say anything else, Savannah asked, “And where did we find him, Lily? Do you remember when Rags was lost in the car on the way here? Where was he hiding?”

  Lily set her project aside and turned to face Rochelle. She shook her head. “Rags not lost.”

  “Where was he?” Michael asked. “Where did we find him?”

  Lily laughed. “Mommy look under the seat. Daddy look under the seat.” She turned her hands palm up and became more animated. “No Rags.”

  “No?” Peter repeated, now actually quite amused. “Where was he—in your suitcase?”

  Lily looked at Peter suspiciously and said, “No.”

  “Was he in Grammy’s pocket?”

  Lily grinned and glanced at Gladys. “No. He was in my toy bag,” she said, laughing.

  “Your toy bag?” Rochelle repeated.

  “Yes,” Savannah said. “I hung a bag over the seat for the kids’ toys and Rags thought it would make a good hammock. I guess he climbed in there and went to sleep.”

  “Well, Lily, you are quite the storyteller,” Rochelle said. “Where does she get that from, you, Savannah?”

  Savannah chuckled. “I don’t know about that. But she gets real interested in some of our stories. If it strikes her fancy, she’ll insist that we repeat it a time or two…”

  “Again! Again!” Michael mimicked. When the others looked at him, he explained, “That’s what she says after you tell her a story. ‘Again! Again!’ She wants to hear it again so she can tell it to someone else.”

  “How cute is that?” Rochelle said, smiling at Lily.

  “Who does she tell her stories to?” Peter asked.

  “One of us,” Michael said, “whoever comes by or the dog or Buffy. Teddy gets to hear some of her stories, whether he wants to or not.”

  Everyone watched the children play, then Peter asked, “How’s the gang? Anything new with your aunt and Max and all your friends?”

  “Well, Craig and Iris bought a house,” Savannah said. “It’s actually an older home that’s been modernized. It’s charming, really charming.”

  Michael interjected, “But there’s something weird going on with it.” When he saw the others waiting to hear more, he said, “We were there for lunch Sunday and this odd old guy shows up.”

  “A sea captain,” Savannah explained.

  Michael nodded. “Yeah, and he insisted that there’s something in the house or maybe on the property that belongs to his family. I got the impression it’s something they lost or for some reason left behind generations ago, when they squatted on the land. Craig and Iris don’t have a clue as to what he’s looking for.”

  Savannah broke in. “Iris is afraid someone’s going to come in the night or when they aren’t home and start knocking the house down looking for it, or digging up their landscaping.” She leaned forward. “Although it could be something more ethereal—you know, a spirit or something.” She shuddered. “Maybe a dead body.”

  Michael looked at his wife. “Now where did you get that idea?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess because he was so mysterious about it.” She giggled. “You know my wild imagination.”

  He smirked playfully at her. “Yeah. I know.” He lowered his brow. “So you don’t believe

  it’s a tangible item?”

  Savannah looked sheepish. “Maybe.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rochelle said quietly. When she realized that Savannah was waiting to hear more, she said, “I sense that it’s—well, I believe it’s solid—you know, not ethereal, but the belief surrounding it is…”

  When Rochelle hesitated, Savannah asked, “Is what?”

  “Is perhaps phony—you know, fake.”

  Savannah squinted in an attempt to understand. “The belief is phony?”

  “I think so,” Rochelle confirmed. She shook her head. “I see a very long trail of deception.”

  Savannah mulled over what Rochelle had told her. “Solid, real, but fake. Hmmm.” “Gold,” Michael said. When the others looked at him, he explained, “You know it’s sgold country up where we live. They probably came during the gold rush to claim their fortune and they found gold, or they think they did.”

  “Fool’s gold,” Peter said smiling.

  “That makes sense,” Savannah agreed. “I’ll have to run that by Iris and Craig.”

  Peter leaned forward in his chair. “But let’s say it is something valuable. Who does it belong to? The current landowner or whoever squatted there all those years ago?”

  “Whoever finds it, is my guess,” Michael said. “Although I’d think the homeowner would have claim to it. It doesn’t seem right that a stranger could come onto your property, pick something up, and claim it as his.”

  “What about mineral rights?” Peter asked. “Few properties in California, as I understand it, come with mineral rights.”

  Michael winced. “Oh, I’m sure this is different. If it is gold, it’s probably no longer in mineral ore form—you know, not in a vein. It may have already been mined. Without some pretty solid proof as to who put it there—and I don’t know how someone would come up with that—a bag of gold hidden on property that you purchase would belong to the property owner.”

  “I think you’re probably right, Michael,” Peter said, “unless it was taken from a bank or something—you know, in a robbery. Then it belongs to the bank.”

  Rochelle looked from Michael to Peter, then addressed Savannah, “So Iris is concerned about this?”

  “Yes,” Savannah said. “She’s a little freaked out. But she’s also looking forward to the
research she and a neighbor are going to do. I think it’s the not knowing and the wondering what might happen next that has her concerned and also intrigued.”

  “And Craig?” Rochelle asked.

  “Oh, you know Craig,” Savannah said. “He takes things in his stride.”

  “Yeah, it seems to take a lot to rattle him,” Peter agreed.

  Chapter 4

  Meanwhile, in Hammond, Iris and her neighbor, Florence Windham, had returned from the museum library, where they had attempted to learn more about Oliver’s family and their strange connection to Iris’s and Craig’s new home.

  “Do you have time for a cup of tea?” Florence invited.

  “Yes,” Iris agreed. “I’d like to go over some of this stuff with you before I show it to Craig. I’m a little confused about the timeline.”

  Florence walked up her porch steps. “Yeah, we did the research sorta backwards, didn’t we? Well, come on in. Do you like herbal tea?” she asked over her shoulder. “I just picked up a new one at the Tea House in Straley; it’s called Peachy Ginger Blast.”

  “Sounds delicious,” Iris said. She added, “It probably has a little kick to it—just the way I like it.”

  As Florence prepared the tea, Iris looked around the kitchen, focusing on the large window in the breakfast nook and the view beyond. “I love what you’ve done with this house. It’s really beautiful. I assume you’ve made a lot of changes here. I can see the quality and charm of the original farmhouse, with some wonderful updates.” She asked, “Who did your remodel? It’s just so well done.”

  Florence smiled. “We designed it, actually. My husband’s an architect. And I had some very definite ideas of my own.”

  “Good job,” Iris complimented.

  “Thank you. I appreciate that, coming from a professional home decorator.” She filled her apple-shaped teapot with water and placed it on the stovetop. “It was a nice place to raise our children and it’s fun to have the grandchildren visit here.” She gazed out the window. “We used to have a couple of ponies where the gazebo is. The ponies and the rabbits were the last of the farm animals to go. Now we just have domestics—you know, cats,” she grinned, “if you can consider cats domestic.”

  Rather than respond, Iris said dreamily, “I can’t stop looking at the view—it’s so peaceful.”

  “Want to sit in the gazebo?”

  “Yes,” Iris said, her eyes lighting up.

  Once the tea had steeped, Florence placed two cups full on a tray. “Sugar? Cream?”

  Iris waved her off. “No, thank you. I want to enjoy the true flavor. Sounds heavenly.”

  Florence placed a few lemon bars and napkins on the tray, then walked toward the back door, suggesting, “Bring our notes, will you?”

  Iris picked up the papers and had started to follow Florence when she stopped and asked, “Who’s this adorable little being?”

  Florence turned and smiled. “That’s Beulah. Isn’t she a doll?”

  “Oh my gosh, yes. She’s beautiful. Beautiful Beulah,” Iris crooned as she petted the long-haired tabby and scratched her around the neck. When the cat rolled over and invited a tummy rub, both women laughed. “Can she come out with us?” Iris asked.

  “Yes. We have the entire property wired to keep her and her rowdy brothers from wandering.” She addressed the cat. “Come on, Beulah-girl. Want to join us for tea?”

  As the women stepped outside, Beulah scampered ahead of them. She trotted along the path, then flopped down on a grassy spot and rolled over a couple of times. Both women laughed.

  “Oops, here comes Randall,” Florence said when she saw a dark, tiger-striped cat dart out from behind a large rock. “Watch out, sweetie,” she said to the tabby, “he’s going to pounce.”

  But Beulah was ready for him. She leaped to her feet and up onto the rock. Before Randall knew what was happening, the tabby dove off the rock onto his back, startling him and amusing the women.

  “They’re all rescues,” Florence said. “Beulah, would you believe, was a little ball of matted, filthy fur when she was found at a kitten mill. Thankfully, they shut that place down. A friend of mine works with animal control and she told us about this poor little kitty.” She smiled. “She cleans up nicely, doesn’t she? I’ll have to show you her before picture.”

  Iris smiled. “Hard to imagine. She’s really gorgeous. And where did Randall come from? The same place?”

  “No. We’ve had him for nearly ten years now. He just wandered onto the property, actually, with his mother and another sibling. We were able to get our hands on him, but the others took off never to be seen again.” Florence stepped up into the gazebo and placed the tray on a small table. She glanced around, then smiled. “Here comes Magic.”

  “Oh, a beautiful black cat.”

  “Yes, Black Magic.”

  “And how did he come into this lovely family?” Iris asked.

  “It’s a sad and kind of complicated story. He’d actually been picked up by some women who were trying to practice black magic. Someone reported them and authorities got him out of there before anything bad happened to him.”

  Iris frowned. “I think I would have changed his name.”

  “Yeah, I thought about the connotation, but it fits him. I think of it in a positive way.” She chuckled. “And he doesn’t know the difference.” When he stepped up into the gazebo with the women and rubbed against Florence’s legs, she picked him up and snuggled with him for a minute. “He’s such a little love bug.” She looked at Iris. “Do you have pets? I haven’t seen any around your house.” She grinned. “…or heard any.”

  Yes. In fact, we have eleven cats—also all rescues.”

  Florence gasped. “Eleven?”

  Iris nodded. “Our friends Savannah and Michael Ivey found Tommy when they were traveling and brought him to us.”

  “Dr. Ivey, the veterinarian?” Florence asked.

  Iris nodded.

  “I love him. He’s a wonderful vet. You’re friends with him and his wife?”

  “Yes. Best friends.”

  Florence smiled. “Cool. Tell me about the rest of your fur-kids.”

  “We have two feral cats that Craig found when he was…um…on a case once. They’ve turned out to be pretty nice cats. They prefer to be outside, but I guess if you have your place wired, they’re not going to come over here.”

  “Right.” She put her hand on Iris’s arm. “Just so you know, it’s a very light shock. It won’t hurt them, but it will make an impression.” She then said, “Okay, that’s three cats. You say you have eleven?”

  Iris nodded, “I have eight cuddle cats at the inn—you know, the Kaiser Bed-and-Breakfast.”

  That piqued Florence’s interest. She tilted her head and grinned inquisitively. “Cuddle cats?”

  “Yes, they live in the inn and guests can request one or more cats to stay with them overnight in their room if they wish.”

  Florence’s eyes flashed with delight. “How absolutely charming. And do many guests request them?”

  Iris nodded. “Just about every weekend one or two of the guests will ask for a cat. People seem to enjoy visiting with them in the foyer too.”

  “I love it,” Florence gushed. “What a great concept.”

  Once the women were settled in the gazebo, Iris handed Florence a batch of the notes and copies they’d made, then began poring through the rest of the stack herself. “So the Silvers were in the area in the mid-eighteen hundreds, based on the work that one historian did. They probably arrived in San Francisco and migrated north. They connected with the Moores, who did well in the gold fields.”

  “Yeah, the Moores’ son married the Silvers’ daughter and they had a bunch of little Silver-Moores.”

  Iris nodded. “Who turned out to be mostly lazy good-for-nothings who didn’t know how to or didn’t want to work.”

  “Right. It’s hard to imagine how someone could raise so many kids that turned out bad. I guess some of them died young and
a few migrated east. Why these people went east when everyone was coming west to make their fortune, is a mystery.”

  “The whole family is a mystery,” Iris said, rolling her eyes.

  “That’s true. Well, Ira and Davine Silver stayed, right? And they’re the ones who squatted here, along with one of Ira’s brothers, toward the late eighteen hundreds.”

  “Yes, Klem Silver—that was the brother, right?”

  Florence nodded.

  Iris watched as Florence flipped through the documents in her lap, finally asking, “Have you ever sensed anything here?” When the woman looked at her quizzically, she continued, “I mean, something maybe from another realm…a spirit?”

  “Oh,” Florence said. “No, not really. I don’t think I have that sort of insight. At least I’ve never become aware of anything.” She looked at Iris. “Why? Have you?”

  Iris winced. “Well, I’d like to think I have that sort of insight, as you call it. I sure want to.”

  Florence seemed surprised. “You do?”

  “Yes. And I swear I’ve felt what seems to be a spirit-being around me a few times since we moved into our home. Even before that—you know, when we came here to do some measuring and meet the utilities people and all.”

  Florence tilted her head. “So do you think that what the Silvers left here might be a relative?”

  Iris shrugged. “It’s possible, I guess.” She smiled. “Or it’s just wishful thinking on my part. I don’t know.”

  Just then something caught Florence’s attention. “Robert, hi,” she called out to her husband as he approached.

  “Having a tea party?” he asked, smiling at Iris.

  “Hello Robert,” Iris said. “Yes, I’m sure enjoying the ambiance here in your beautiful yard.”

  “We get pleasure from sharing it.” He frowned and asked, “What’re all the papers? You gals writing a book?”

  “No,” Florence said. “We’re trying to find out something more about the Silvers.”

  “Oh that,” he said. “Those Silvers sure can disrupt a family. It’s almost as if they’ve placed a curse here.” He shook his head. “Well, I’m going in to relax. See you girls later.” Before walking off, he asked, “Flo, did you show Iris Grandpa’s journal?”