by Mark McNease
BLACK CAT WHITE PAWS
A Maggie Dahl Mystery
MARK McNEASE
Copyright © 2018 MadeMark Publishing
www.MadeMarkPublishing.com
ISBN-13: 978-1982086626
ISBN-10: 1982086629
Cover design by MadeMark Media
Cover image licensed from Shutterstock
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, situations and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Also By Mark McNease
Mysteries
Murder at Pride Lodge
Pride and Perilous
Death in the Headlights
Death by Pride
Kill Switch
Last Room at the Cliff’s Edge
Murder at the Paisley Parrot
Audiobooks
Murder at Pride Lodge
Pride and Perilous
Death by Pride
Death in the Headlights
Last Room at the Cliff’s Edge
Murder at the Paisley Parrot
Stop the Car
Other Books & Writing
Stop the Car: A Short Story and Kindle Single
The Seer: A Short Story
Rough & Tumble: A Dystopian Love Tragedy
An Unobstructed View: Short Fiction
5 of a Kind: More Short Fiction
Outer Voices Inner Lives: LGBTQ Writers Over 50
View all books on my Amazon author’s page
Visit Mark McNease.com
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Praise for Last Room at the Cliff’s Edge
“Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote that “easy reading is damn hard writing.” McNease writes in this ostensibly effortless way, employing all the elements of a true story teller: intrigue, tension, memorable characters and perfect pacing. I also admire the ease with which he captures a woman’s point of view. Linda is heroic and flawed and utterly believable.”
Jean Ryan, author of Survival Skills and Lost Sister
“This suspenseful series launch from McNease (the Kyle Callahan Mysteries) introduces retired homicide detective Linda Sikorsky … Plausible sleuthing and smart characterizations combine for a winner.
Publishers Weekly
Praise for The Cat in the Window
"... truly excellent – New Yorker-worthy, one might say. It was a perfect little Sunday-morning read."
- Michael Craft, author of Inside Dumont and The Mark Manning Mysteries
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Up Next: Open Secrets
A Note from Mark
Acknowledgments
I’d like to acknowledge the usual suspects: my husband, Frank Murray, without whom my life would be infinitely less fulfilling and whose small house in the New Jersey woods where we now live has inspired me so much.
My fellow author and friend, David Lennon, for his invaluable input on the manuscript and his encouragement in this thing called writing.
My proofreader, Robin Feldman, whose sharp eyes have now read four of my books line by line.
My writer friends whose support keeps me at it, and the many cats who have enriched my life over the decades, from Alice, who I got when I was twelve and who lived an astonishing 26 years, to our two current housemates, Jessica and William. I rely on their company, their annoyance and their purring to let me know that every day with a cat on my pillow is a good day.
And the readers! There wouldn’t be any books without you.
Mark
DEDICATION
For Joyce, Carolyn, Carrie, Patty, Dyan, Cathy and Caro.
Sisters make the world go round.
And for Michael Craft, because of cats.
DAY 1
“There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life—music and cats.”
– Albert Schweitzer
CHAPTER One
OCTOBER WAS MAGGIE’S FAVORITE MONTH. The hot, humid air of summer was finally chased away by autumn’s chill winds; leaves began to blaze in death, turning red, orange, yellow and brown, as they fell one by one to the ground. For many people, fall was the end of something—the end of their vacations, the end of their visits to family and friends, the end of the slow pace so common in jobs as people took time off and everything came to a halt in the summer bake. But for Maggie, fall, and especially October, was a beginning, bringing with its cooler temperatures a sense of renewal and ambition. She always wanted to do things in the fall. To accomplish goals she’d been distracted from as she suffered through the summer months. To open the windows and sleep in nature’s cool breath. To start over. But now, this year, that starting over came with the cost of immeasurable grief. For this time, at the age of forty-six, living in a large house whose renovation was only half complete, in a town as different from New York City as it could be, she was starting over alone.
Maggie’s husband, David Dahl, left her life as unexpectedly and abruptly as he had entered it twenty-four years earlier. They’d met at an art gallery in Manhattan’s SoHo neighborhood, at a time before artists and their representatives had moved north and west to the Meatpacking District. Maggie was in the earliest stage of her nonprofit career, working as an administrative assistant at Brooklyn’s Hyde Museum of Modern Photography. She’d spent the summer there with an intern named Kate Lennox, an aspiring photographer who would later open her own gallery. The women were still friends, and Maggie had spoken to her several times since David’s death, reminiscing on their time together double dating for dinner and a Broadway show or just visiting each other’s apartments.
It was at the Schermerhorn Gallery on Mercer Street, a rainy Tuesday in May, when Maggie stood next to a man not much taller than her, gazing at a photograph by a young Japanese-American college student who’d made a splash in the photography world.
Maggie did not remember the student’s name. She did not remember much of anything from that night, except going there with Kate and then looking at the photograph, scanning its details left to right
, slowly, until she turned and saw him staring at her. The sensation she felt next had been new to her, something electric and almost frightening. Later, when she thought back on it, she could compare it only to something like looking up from the kitchen sink and seeing a face in the window—it had been that startling. But this was not the face of an intruder or a peeping Tom. This was the most handsome, warm, curious, wanting face she had ever seen on a man, and he was staring at her!
When he realized she’d seen him, he blushed. She remembered that, too, all these years later, and every day since his death. How shy he’d seemed after brazenly eyeing her just a moment before. He’d stepped back slightly, no doubt worried he would alarm her and lose any chance of saying hello.
“I was just looking at this ...” he managed, indicating the framed photograph with a nod of his head, “amazing photograph, it reminds me so much of ...”
“Me,” she’d said, looking back at him.
“Pardon me?”
“Me,” she’d repeated. “You weren’t looking at the photograph. You were looking at me.”
He’d taken a moment to compose himself, then confessed. “Yes,” he’d said, like a boy caught with a cookie in his hand and chocolate on his face. “Yes, I was looking at you. You’re even more remarkable than the photograph.”
She’d chuckled at that. It was either the clumsiest pick up line she’d heard, or the greatest compliment she would ever be given in her life. And now, with David gone, she knew, as she had known since that rainy night in SoHo, it was the latter: no one would ever make her feel that way again.
She could live with that. She had to. She had a house to finish renovating. A business she’d started with David when they’d moved to Lambertville, New Jersey. A son back in New York City who needed his remaining parent, and a sister coming from Philadelphia to live with her under the pretense of helping her move forward. Maggie knew Gerri had other reasons for leaving Philly, three failed marriages and a recent bankruptcy among them. She couldn’t worry about that now. She had to finish getting Gerri’s room ready for the move-in that afternoon, as well as go to the small warehouse that served as the production facility for Dahl House Jams and make sure her biggest order to date got out on time. While grief was inescapable, it had to wait its turn on a day like this.
She finished dressing in jeans, a navy blouse and a beige sweater she didn’t mind getting dirty, then headed downstairs. She’d thought she heard noises several minutes earlier but dismissed them as the old house settling, something old houses never stopped doing. She was halfway down the stairs when she realized with a start and a gasp that she’d been wrong. It was not the floorboards groaning on their own at all.
“What are you doing in my house?” Maggie said, a half-dozen steps from the main floor.
She could see her entryway clearly, and to her left the large living room it fed into. There in the living room, looking into a fireplace that had not been used in years, was her next door neighbor, Alice Drapier. Maggie had learned early on that some of the locals called the woman standing in her house “Crazy Alice,” but she did not like the sound of it or the implications. Having spent her entire life in New York City before moving to Jersey, Maggie had encountered more than a few truly crazy people. Alice was not in that category. Maggie judged Alice to be eccentric, which is not the same as being crazy. Alice wandered. Alice sometimes said inappropriate (but never offensive) things to people whose presence she was in. And Alice had the unfortunate habit of intruding where she was not wanted or, in this case, even allowed.
“I’ve lost Checks,” Alice said, bending back up from the fireplace. She’d been staring into the flue as if Checks, who Maggie assumed was one of her seven cats, would come crawling out of the chimney, its tail between its legs in embarrassment, waiting to be forgiven with a treat.
“I’m guessing Checks is a cat,” Maggie said. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re in my house, Alice.”
“The door was unlocked,” Alice said, as if that justified entering someone else’s home.
Alice was somewhere between fifty and sixty. She was short, standing just over five feet tall. She was always in a dress that looked as if it could double for a housecoat, the kind of thing some people called a muumuu, cinched in at the waist with a belt. Her hair was solid gray and her eyes brown, framed by a pair of glasses she kept from losing by hanging them on thin black cord around her neck.
Maggie knew Alice cordially, as many neighbors know one another. She and David had even invited Alice over for dinner once. It was not an experience they’d wanted to repeat. There was nothing bad about it, just that Alice tended to talk nonstop, mostly about her husband Fred who’d been dead for three years, leaving her a house she’d promptly surrendered to cats.
Maggie took a deep breath and continued down the stairs. It was her own fault. She’d left the door unlocked. It was a habit she’d had since they’d moved to Lambertville nine months earlier. There was just something about being able to live in a house with an unlocked door that appealed to her after all those years in Manhattan. If you left your door unlocked there, truly bad things could happen to you. David had told her Lambertville was not some village where everyone knew each other and nothing bad ever happened. It was a fairly large small town, quite cosmopolitan in its way, and it was not safe to leave the door to your house open.
“It’s not open,” she’d said the first time he discovered it. “It’s just unlocked. Nobody would even know that unless they tried the door handle.”
“And by then it’s too late,” he’d said. “No, Maggie, we lock the doors here. Please.”
She’d said yes and had kept her promise most of the time, but he was gone now and she just felt like leaving the door unlocked. Now she wished she hadn’t.
“Listen, Alice,” Maggie said as kindly as possible, stepping down onto the floor and walking up to the woman. “I know how distressed you get when you’ve lost a cat.”
“Misplaced,” Alice corrected her. “I sometimes misplace them.”
It was an odd choice of words. Maggie wanted to tell her that cats most likely misplaced themselves, being independent creatures whose only use for humans was a food bowl.
“Misplaced, then,” said Maggie. “I just don’t think it’s appropriate for you to come into my house, anybody’s house, and look around like that. Seriously, Alice, you could get shot.”
“Yes, well, I hope not, and I’m sorry, Mrs. Dahl ...”
“Maggie, please.”
“Maggie. I apologize. I just worry so much when one of them goes missing.”
Maggie had been able to see Alice’s cats inside her house next door, sitting in the windows, meandering around. It wasn’t a cat house, the sort of place you see on the news after the owner dies and Animal Control finds dozens of cats inside. Alice wasn’t like that, and she’d stated the number of felines in her home as seven. That was a lot to most people’s thinking, and enough for some neighbors to call the cats’ caretaker crazy, but it was not extreme.
“Here,” Alice said, taking several folded flyers out of her sweater pocket. Maggie had seen her putting them up in the past when one of her animals had run off. “This is Checks. He’s getting old and needs his blood pressure medication.”
“Cats have high blood pressure?” Maggie said, taking the flyer.
“Oh yes. Sometimes they go blind from it. Just like people. That’s why he needs his pill every day. That’s the only reason I would ever walk into your home. It’s an emergency.”
Maggie doubted Alice needed a life-or-death pet emergency to enter her home uninvited. Alice was known to wander, especially when she was looking for a cat. She didn’t seem to think anything of crawling under a hedge row or climbing a fence. Maggie had heard the stories.
She looked at the flyer. BLACK CAT WHITE PAWS, it said across the top in giant black all-caps. Below it was a picture of Checks, who Maggie had seen many times in Alice’s front bay window. Below the picture was a descr
iption of the missing cat, the information that he needed his medication, and a phone number with a plea to call immediately if the cat was spotted.
“Maybe you can put it up at the store,” Alice said.
The store. Jesus, Maggie thought. Another worry for the day. In addition to having a small factory, she and David had planned to open Dahl House Jams and Specialties in a small storefront on Union Street. The rent was steep but doable if they could keep the business alive. They’d expected to take a significant loss the first year and had set money aside for it. Then his sudden death, with everything changing. But not his dreams, not their dreams. Maggie would not let those die with him—not the company, not the house, not the move to New Jersey. She was determined to stay put and succeed, whatever it took. The store would open before Halloween, there was no other option as far as Maggie was concerned. That meant days of constant work, work she needed to get to now instead of talking to her addled neighbor who’d taken the liberty of walking into her home.
“The store’s not open yet,” Maggie said. “Not for another week. I imagine you’ll find Checks long before then.”
“I have to!” Alice said, startled by the idea her precious Checks could live without her that long.
“Forgive me for rushing but I’ve got a lot to do today,” Maggie said. “My sister Gerri is coming to stay with me, and I’ve got this huge jam order ...”
“That’s an odd name for a woman,” Alice said.
Maggie stared at her, her patience having run out. “It’s short for Geraldine, not that unusual at all, at least not fifty years ago. Anyway, Alice ...”
“Yes, yes,” Alice said, folding the flyers and putting them back in her pocket. “I need to get these put up around town.”
