A Curious Affair

by Melanie Jackson

  It was four days before I saw Tyler again, and when I did it was in his office. Tyler was welcoming but a bit distant at first, perhaps because we weren’t alone, or perhaps I had been putting him off with what might have seemed flimsy excuses and he was feeling a bit wary. Our favorite volunteer, retired officer Levoi, was there as well. I was surprised to find that he was a redhead.

  I had taken the precaution of bringing in a…not a bribe; let’s call it a distraction. A culinary sleight of hand that I had made before and which garnered a great deal of praise. It had taken the better part of the morning and emptying my spice cupboard, but I had managed to whip up my favorite show-off dessert, Pêche de Vigne. I had to sacrifice the last of the brandied peaches that Crystal had given me for Christmas, but it was worth it. Sliced thin, covered in chocolate ganache and then drenched in dark chocolate, the brandied peaches gave the dish a piquancy and sophistication that fresh peaches did not have. As distractions went, it was a pretty good one. Levoi went into immediate bliss and left Tyler and me alone to talk.

  “We got word this morning about Wilkes being questioned in a homicide in Oklahoma,” Tyler said, when Levoi had retreated to his desk out front with the dish of chocolates. I exhaled, bracing myself for the conversation I knew we had to have. But first Tyler would tell me about this homicide. There was about as much chance of this story having a happy ending as there was in a Sam Peckinpah movie. After all, Wilkes hadn’t stayed in Okalahoma, gracing one of their jails.

  Tyler went on: “His late girlfriend was killed in a hit-and-run. Actually a hit-and-hit-and-hit-and-run. Somebody ran her body over with a car three times. That has to be deliberate. Even Mister Magoo isn’t that blind. There wasn’t enough evidence to charge Wilkes, but the police there are pretty sure he’s guilty. It turns out that he has a long history of violence against women.”

  I nodded. This didn’t surprise me. Once a smelly-butt man, always a smelly-butt man. It was a comfort to know that he would never do anything cruel again.

  “It sounds like something that cowardly weasel would do,” I said, when it became apparent that I should comment. I knew my face was red, but maybe Tyler would put it down to the poison oak. “I’m very glad he’s gone. He gave me the creeps.”

  “So you think that he really is gone?” Tyler’s gaze was steady.

  “Yes, he’s gone. I hear that he skipped out on his bill at the inn—didn’t even bother to pack his stuff.” Atherton had heard this from Beaumont, the hotel’s resident cat. I had also heard it from Crystal, who had a friend who worked at the establishment.

  Tyler nodded, his expression as somber as I had ever seen it. “It seems that he was using Irv’s gold panning supplies. We found them in his room. We also found the poker that killed Irv in his car. It was wrapped in a blanket in the trunk. I don’t think there can be any innocent explanation for this.” He paused. “It looks like you were right. The man is a murderer.”

  “I can’t think of any innocent explanation for the poker,” I agreed as I looked over at the window where Hula Girl was watching the birds. I probably didn’t need to mention to Tyler that cats tend to be avian epicures, and that he should keep her indoors until nesting season was over. I tried to think of something else appropriate to say but my mind was nearly blank. I couldn’t think of much of anything that wasn’t some form of a lie, and I was getting tired of telling them. “Maybe Wilkes had an accident. The rivers are running fast with snowmelt this time of year. Or a mountain lion might have gotten him. It’s wild country out here. Anything could happen.”

  “Maybe. That would explain his failing to pack up his gear or take his car when he left.” Tyler was still watching me. I could feel his gaze, and that day the weight of his regard was burdensome.

  “Relax, Tyler,” I said, managing a smile. “I promise that I didn’t kill him for Irv’s long-lost gold mine, so you don’t have to worry about your love life becoming a conflict of interest on this case.”

  “That’s good.” Tyler nodded again. I can’t say that he appeared relieved, but the shoulder seemed to relax a bit. He knows I’m a bad liar and was certain that I was telling the truth, however limited the selection. This shouldn’t have surprised me. If anyone knew about shades of gray, it was a small-town sheriff. “I’m sure that if you ever killed anyone it would be in self-defense,” he added.

  This statement shook me a bit, and it was all I could do not to reach for my ribs where the print of Wilkes’s boot was still visible, but I think I managed to keep my poker face in place.

  “Or to protect someone else. Especially if they were defenseless.” I thought I needed to make this point. “I could never stand by and watch someone smaller or more vulnerable being hurt.”

  Hula Girl jumped up onto the desk and regarded me with wide eyes. She couldn’t understand Tyler’s words, but mine were plain enough and she was feeling alarmed.

  “I don’t suppose you could. And that’s as it should be.” Tyler said slowly. “It’s the job of the strong to protect the weak.” He waited a moment for me to say something, but when I didn’t his voice became brisk. “So, I’ve put out an APB on Wilkes and have told Dawg and Farland to keep an eye out on the country roads, just in case he’s been hurt. If his body fell in the river, it will probably wash up downstream eventually, dead or alive.”

  “Probably. Though there is some hard water this time of year and lots of rocks where a body might get hung up. The water will go down eventually, but there are a lot of scavengers out there. He might never be found.”

  “I suppose it would be better if we didn’t find him alive,” Tyler said thoughtfully. “I like things tidy, but a murder trial would cost the county a lot of money.”

  I nodded. Tyler nodded, too. We shared a long look and I knew that we’d never discuss this again. Unless I brought the matter up. In that moment I thought of Cal and honesty. And regret.

  “Levoi,” Tyler called suddenly. “Bring back that chocolate. It’s not nice to bogart the candy my woman made me.”

  “I wasn’t bogarting,” Levoi promised, but his voice was sticky with peach and chocolate, and almost half the truffles were gone.

  I did laugh then, though it hurt my ribs. I hadn’t heard anyone use the term bogart since smoking a joint behind the gym my freshman year at the Sadie Hawkins dance. I also didn’t mind Tyler calling me his woman. It suggested that we had a future after all.

  Suddenly, I knew what I needed to do.

  “Never mind those. They’ll just make you fat,” I said. “Let me fix you some lunch. There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you anyway.”

  A strange expression flitted across his face. It looked a lot like relief. Maybe I had been acting more oddly than I realized. I hadn’t meant to worry Tyler.

  “Let me get my coat,” he said.

  Are you going to tell him about us? Hula Girl asked when Tyler’s back was turned.

  “Yes.”

  I smiled at Tyler as he escorted me to the office door and opened it for me. The bells clanged loudly.

  “Tyler, have you ever heard of a horse whisperer?” I asked as the door closed behind us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Whenever the cat of the house is black, the lasses of lovers will have no lack.

  —Folk Saying

  The phone began ringing two days after Wilkes’s disappearance became generally known, which is to say that it was reported in the newspaper. It was my neighbors calling in with requests for cats—companion cats, playmate cats, mousers for barns and stables and basements. I knew right away that I had Crystal to thank for this. She had probably sat everyone down for a little one-on-one over tea and told them about Irv’s strays and the missing nephew who would never help with his uncle’s pets and then browbeat them into admitting that the cats were a neighborhood problem that Cal’s widow “shouldn’t have to deal with alone.” And, as they always had done before, the neighbors came through. I think they were even glad to finally have a way to aid and comfort
Cal’s reclusive widow.

  I live with some of the best people in the world.

  Tyler was oddly accepting of my story about the talking cats. It turns out that he had a cousin who married a Sioux in South Dakota who actually is a horse whisperer. He said that he also knew I had some strong affinity with the animals after our run-in with the mountain lion. His only comment was that he was relieved that I spoke to the cats in English and didn’t meow at them.

  Crystal’s birthday was coming up that next week, and she would be having a party just as she did every year. Many of her parties are fun because she doesn’t mark the usual holidays. She has drummings at the solstices and equinoxes. She celebrates the butterflies’ return from San Juan Capistrano, and every year on Ground Hog Day she has a bonfire and we all eat potatoes and corn on the cob roasted in the embers. Most fun of all, every June thirtieth she has an End of the Ice Age skinny-dipping and scotch-tasting party at the family’s hot springs in Nevada City. I’ve attended most of these events, but Crystal knows that I don’t usually do birthday parties anymore. I’ve always felt that when one has reached an age where you are lighting enough candles to set the frosting on fire it is probably time to stop playing with matches and accept the inevitable with some dignity. Also, nobody looks good in a party hat. If you think that you do, well…you’re wrong.

  Nevertheless, Crystal was having a party and she would expect me to be present at it. And it wouldn’t be entirely horrible. There would be a piñata and some kind of stupid hats that would make my elderly and more stately neighbors look silly. Last year the theme was pirates, the year before tiaras, and the year before that cowboy hats—and everyone wore them. Gender did not get one excused from donning the party regalia. This year, the invitations had had a vaguely tropical feel, so I was hoping for maybe something simple like a flower to tuck behind our ears, but it was far more likely that we would be made to wearing Balinese headdresses or something with rubber fish.

  “I think I’ll ask Tyler to come this year. It’ll be his trial by fire,” I said to Atherton, with a grin that wasn’t very nice. “It would be good to expose him to some of Irish Camp’s older traditions. Anyway, we can’t keep things quiet too much longer. Everyone on the hill probably already knows that we’re dating.”

  Sheep man will like this. Tiny Bubbles says the cats are coming too. Bird lady is making us our own piñata with catnip.

  “Crystal would. She’s very thoughtful,” I added, thinking that I would not only bring Crystal her birthday present—a bootleg recording of Elvis Presley at a rehearsal session in Atlanta—but that I would denude the hillside of every daffodil and narcissus and take Crystal the largest, yellowest bouquet the town had ever seen. It would be a thank-you gift from the cats and me. Without her, we wouldn’t have had as happy an ending.

  Still smiling, I went to the phone to call Tyler.

  EPILOGUE

  So that’s my story. Believe it or not as you choose.

  If I am not yet completely happy in my secret life with cats, at least I am hopeful that someday I’ll be used to it. In fact, I know that I prefer having the gift than not.

  It isn’t too surprising that Tyler eventually asked for a demonstration of Atherton’s skills. Reluctant, but willing to make the effort, I sat Atherton down and asked him to tell me some office gossip from Hula and Sleepy. Atherton had glanced once at Tyler and then said: meow.

  “Atherton?” I had asked aloud, and also silently. He never said meow. “Come on, Atherton.”

  But the cat had just looked at me and meowed again.

  “What’s wrong?” Tyler asked.

  “He’s not talking.” This alarmed me. I suddenly wondered if all my bitching had finally been heard by the gods and if they had taken my gift away. Just when I was getting really upset at the idea Atherton grinned at me.

  Got you, Jillian!

  “What’s he doing? What’s that noise?” Tyler demanded.

  “The cat’s laughing,” I said, feeling very relieved. “Felines have a strange sense of humor.”

  “Oh.” Tyler thought about it. “That’s weird, isn’t it? I’ve never heard a cat make a noise like that.”

  I hugged him and then turned and scratched a still chuckling Atherton under the chin.

  So…I survived each day after Cal died, but I didn’t know why. Now I do. As it says in Ecclesiastes there is a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance. The wheel has turned and the season of grief has passed. I am Lazarus resurrected from an emotional grave. Like Lazarus, I suspect I will always be aware of the grave, but still I say, let the dance of life go on. I am certain that Cal wants me to be happy in this new existence, however strange it may be. Certainly, if he were here and I were gone, I would want the same for him.

  I also know that he and Tyler would have liked each other. They are two of a kind, and I am fortunate beyond all reason to have had two such wonderful men in my life. Who says there isn’t a God?

  I am not the only one embarked on a new life. All of Irv’s cats have first-rate homes now. Atherton stays with me and seems happy, so my home is good, too.

  Tyler has set me an excellent example of how to deal with my human family, and I think that maybe this summer I’ll ask my niece and nephew to visit. It would be a fine thing to get to know them, since they and my brother are probably all the blood kin I’ll ever have. Besides, I’ll have a cat and a sheriff to entertain them if they get bored gold panning with their eccentric aunt.

  And I will be panning this summer. What Irv could find once I can find again, and I think that Irv would like it if I did. He’d have used the money from the gold to help stray cats, and so will I.

  So, this is the end of the story and we must part company. Be well, gentle reader. Visit the Gold Country if you can—just stay away from the lightning, you hear? And be kind to the feral cats you find in the campgrounds and parks. Hoc facite in meam commemorationem—Do this in Irv’s memory.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Dear Reader:

  Gentlemen of seventeenth-century France had a social code that, roughly translated, went something like “Inflict no pain, put everyone at ease and make them feel at home.” I try as an author to adopt this code and do nothing painful to my readers. Characters are another matter of course. They—and I—must suffer a bit or there isn’t much of a story.

  However, the pain of this book ended up hitting a bit closer to home than I ever planned or wanted. Last November, on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, I had just finished spell-checking chapter five of this story and started dinner when I got word that my husband had had a heart attack. Suddenly, there I was, smelling turkey-curry soup burn on the stove while shouting questions over the phone to an EMT on a rescue helicopter, and facing the real possibility that I might be widowed before I could reach the hospital and say good-bye to my husband of twenty-eight years. Fortunately, all turned out well—a million thanks to the EMTs who were with my husband at the gym when the attack happened, and to the top-flight surgical team at Doctors Hospital in Modesto.

  Still, I had a hard time coming back to this book, whose story about a widow was a little too near my own situation. Finishing it was an act of faith; all would be well for Jillian, and for me, too. Say some prayers for us, won’t you? We could use them.

  Every book must have a point of view. In this case, it’s the less usual first person, the most intimate POV. It is sometimes fun to turn the world on its ear, to make people see things in a different way—hence the first-person narrative and the talking cat, Atherton.

  There is a lot of me in this story, but I have never been hit by lightning. I do talk to cats. All the time. Atherton is one of them. We met at the Tuolumne County animal shelter and struck up an instant friendship. I went daily to visit, but all too soon he was adopted by a discerning family and I haven’t seen him since. He has stayed with me in spirit, though, and I find myself watching for him from the corner of my eye when I am writing. He’s my imaginar
y friend.

  My own cat is aware of this spirit intruder, and she is at times both indignant and jealous. Sound too humanistic for an animal? I think not. As proof of this very human reaction, I offer the fact that it is only since I began writing about Atherton that Snowy has taken to slipping behind my desk and turning off the power strip that feeds electricity to my computer monitor. It’s petty revenge—a very human thing to do, and she does it because she knows it annoys me.

  Unlike Atherton and my own beloved kitty, Irish Camp is a made-up place, a romanticized composite of several gold-rush towns with a few extra things thrown in for good measure. There is no Viper’s Hill and no Three-Legged Mule Saloon, and though we have many wonderful music festivals, none are held on the Saturday before Easter. If you would like to know more about the music scene visit www.fireonthemountain.com.

  Likewise, the people in this story are also fictitious creations, and exist only in my imagination, though all of my real neighbors are as wonderful and kind as any I could imagine. The cats, however, are all quite genuine. You can visit them at the Tuolumne County Humane Society at 10040 Victoria Way in Jamestown, CA. Perhaps I’ll see you there one day. I go every week so they can whisper in my ears while I gaze into the yellow, green and blue eyes that are windows into the feline soul.

  By the way, they have some great dogs at the shelter, too. Alsfo and Branco and Sandy—and everyone—are all good dogs and are looking for loving homes. They send slobbery kisses your way. If you would like to see any of our cats or dogs, please visit us online at http://www.petfinder.com/shelters/CA71.html.

  “The Kiss” appears courtesy of the author, Brian Jackson, and I am very grateful that he has allowed me to use it here.

  Happy Reading, and you can always write to me at melaniejaxn@hotmail.com or PO Box 574 Sonora, CA 95370-0574, or visit my Web site www.melaniejackson.com.