A Box Full of Trouble
5 Black Cat Detective Novels from the Familiar Legacy series
Carolyn Haines
Rebecca Barrett
Claire Matturro
Susan Y. Tanner
Laura Benedict
Copyright © 2018 by KaliOka Press
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Covers designed by Cissy Hartley
Contents
Familiar Trouble
Trouble in Dixie
Trouble in Tallahassee
Trouble in Summer Valley
Small Town Trouble
Chapter One
Since I moved to the cozy town of Wetumpka, Alabama, I get a lot of grief for my posh British accent. Of course, most of the humans I run across can’t hear me, but the local felines are vainglorious creatures. While many are cultured and well fed, they fail to appreciate that to my refined ears, they sound like Foghorn Leghorn or some refugee from Gone with the Wind. By the time they finish a sentence I’ve had lunch and a nap. Still, they like to kid me about my linguistic quirks, but they respect the fact that Sherlock Holmes is my idol. I was just an adolescent lad when Tammy became my biped mother. But by then my magnetic personality was already formed and my love of all things Sherlock had molded my world view.
No, I wasn’t born in England, but my dad, Familiar the black cat detective, has always been a fan of Sherlock Holmes, particularly the Benedict Cumberbatch version. Though Dad modeled himself after the Sam Spade character immortalized by Bogey, you might say he was a late blooming Cumberbatch addict, sometimes called a Cumberbaddict. I grew up prizing the sleuthing techniques of Sherlock and those of my talented feline father, who solved cases around the world. Familiar is quite the detective, and if I do say so myself, I believe I’ve inherited his skills (and winning personality).
One of the side effects of binge watching Cumberbatch as Sherlock is that I grew up speaking in a British accent. Of course the humanoids can’t hear my voice—only my meows or growls or other feline emotives. (Don’t you love that word—it’s so…Cumberbatch!) Now, Cumberbatch is just part of who I am. And I must say, it gives me a bit of refinement. When I say, Bond. James Bond. It sounds impressive. Try that in an Alabama drawl and you get mayhem.
So bear with me as I sit on the front porch of Tammy Lynn’s Wetumpka home and enjoy the December sunshine warming my sleek black hide. Soon Christmas will be here and I’ll be able to commandeer a bit of delicious eggnog. Tammy will build a fire for us and sip a glass of wine. I sometimes think she’s lonely, that I’m not enough for her, though I am charming, entertaining, and modest. She works all day at the Book Basket, her bookstore in old historic Wetumpka, and she’s been obsessed lately with some old folklore about the impact crater that formed the geographical terrain here in Wetumpka.
A few factoids about my home, because Sherlock would know all of these things. The meteorite struck this area some 83 million years ago, back when dinosaurs roamed and this part of the world was still underwater. The meteorite hit so hard, it pushed rock and land up to create a series of incredible ridges and hollows, which were settled by Native Americans and then pioneers. The Coosa River cuts through Wetumpka and many of the exclusive neighborhoods have been constructed on the spectacular sites of the crater rim. But there are still wild areas of the crater far from civilization. And my humanoid, Tammy Lynn, is very interested in one area called Rook’s Vantage.
A bookseller with a keen interest in history, astronomy, geography, anthropology—you name it and Tammy has read about it—Tammy is on the trail of a local legend. She found a book with the Choctaw Indian calendar and some wild predictions about a new planet that will swing close to our orbit and impact the Earth’s rotation. If it all sounds a bit out there, you can just call me Fox Mulder and her Scully. I keep telling her, “The truth is out there.” And she just keeps ignoring me.
She does, in fact, bear something of a resemblance to that gorgeous redhead who demands rational answers to everything. Problem is, Tammy isn’t 100 percent rational—she’s a folklorist and a reader. She cries when she reads a good book or watches a great movie, but she’s 100 percent determined not to feel too much in her own life, a common human failing according to my dad. Hence the fact she’s dragging me out into the cold for moon gazing.
Tammy has been boning up on the impact crater—and how it is unique. She’s determined to go up to Rook’s Vantage tonight because it’s the Sassafras Moon or some such Choctaw mumbo jumbo that Sherlock Holmes would disdain. If she had a humanoid partner, I could stay home where I’m comfy and warm. But such is not to be, at least not tonight. I will accompany her as my father taught me—protect your biped!
She’s been packing telescopes and equipment all afternoon for the trip to this spectacular a ridge created by the crater. It’s one of the highest points around in this hilly area. From Rook’s Vantage, Tammy will be able to study the sky in search of this new planet, called “the spider in the web” in Choctaw legend. I think it’s just an excuse for Tammy to trespass and stargaze on a crystal clear winter night.
Tammy is a voracious reader and maybe a little bit out there, but she isn’t a kook. When I try to unpack the car with her gear, because trespassing is a bad idea, she just tells me to behave, that she’s going to do this come ‘hell or high water.’ That’s one of the many local sayings around these parts that makes zero sense but sounds clever. Tammy doesn’t care that Rook’s Vantage is on private property owned by a well-known crank and survivalist who hates trespassers. She has this idea that she’s totally safe in Wetumpka. Getting her out of jail may be my first case. I’ll need to know the details to help build her defense.
The work of a fledgling black cat detective is never done. Long live the Queen.
* * *
Tammy Lynn Pushed the black duster back from her boots as she arranged the dry twigs and sticks for a small fire. She scanned the horizon, which included a blackness so complete she could imagine she was the only human still alive. Rook’s Vantage looked over the roughest terrain in the crater, land that remained undeveloped and wild. It was the perfect place to set up her telescope to watch the spangled night sky. She’d come to explore a Choctaw legend, but also to enjoy the solitude of an inky vista filled with the moon and spangled pinpricks of the stars.
The star-gazing episode was part curiosity and part need to enjoy the December night sky with a borrowed telescope that cost more than a month’s earnings at the Book Basket before she had to return it. Sometimes she felt that life was passing her by. She’d vowed to have adventures, even if she had to have them alone.
She loved the old myths and legends that came from the Native Americans and early settlers of the land. There were tales of how the Coosa River was formed by the angry Choctaw spirits hurling boulders and how the meteorite that smashed so long ago created sacred places, like Rook’s Vantage. She’d grown up listening to the older generations talk about a time when nature and man were more closely bonded, and when wisdom was valued. Nights like this allowed her to revisit those childhood emotions and memories.
The fire gave off a pleasant smell of burning oak from the limbs she’d gathered, and she squatted beside it, warming her hands. She eyed the lanky black cat, Trouble, her constant companion, with amusement. He shivered delicately and gave a hoarse little “meow” as if he might expire
at any minute. He was smart as a whip and she adored him, but he could be quite the faker when it came to what he viewed as physical hardship. He had a thick, luxuriant black coat and was plenty warm in the moderate Alabama night. Still, she’d made him a fire.
“You could have stayed home,” she reminded him. Sometimes she thought he understood every word she said and might one day answer. “I seriously spend way too much time talking with cats and fictional characters.”
Once she had the fire started and the black cat had stopped his silly fake trembling, she set up the telescope that had almost given her a hernia hauling to the top of the treeless, grassless rock called Rook’s Vantage. Long before a local survivalist bought Rook’s Vantage and the surrounding land, she’d come here with her father to enjoy the view. He’d taught her the constellations and a love for history. Good memories. The Choctaw legend was a great excuse to visit this place and the past.
She’d found her love of folklore while going through boxes of books and papers left behind by the former bookstores owner, Amelia Weatherford, a true eccentric and scholar. Amelia had been quite the collector of stories, lore, songs, musical instruments, and a thousand other items. But the legend of “The Spider in the Sky” combined Choctaw predictions with a geographical reality, the impact crater, that had never really been studied.
She fixed the telescope she’d borrowed from an astronomy professor on the night sky. At the head of the constellation known as Cetus, she focused in. This was the place where the new planet could be seen. Or, if not, she and the cat would have a lovely marshmallow roast over their little blaze and sing campfire songs.
The night was clear and crisp and the full moon was moving up the sky. She checked her cell phone—it was 11:40 and she had zero reception. Not surprising in this very isolated area that had taken her a while to climb to. In twenty minutes, she’d check for the “spider in the web.” The view was made for romance, the stars spreading across the velvet black night and the smell of pine on the breeze.
The sound of a rock tumbling down the face of the bald rock she’d set up camp on made her turn around. Lighting the fire had been foolhardy since she was trespassing. Tom Wells, owner of the property, had made it more than clear to campers, teenagers, lovers, and would-be lovers, that his property was off-limits to all. She hadn’t asked permission, but had chosen to beg forgiveness.
If he caught her. She was so far away from his home and the terrain on the edge of the crater was so rough and wild, she didn’t see how he or anyone else could have spotted her. She’d left her vehicle far below at the turnaround that marked the end of civilization.
Trouble left the warmth of the fire and came to rub against her legs, purring and enticing her to sit with him. “Just a minute.” The cat had an amazing way of making his wishes known.
In the distance another rock slipped down the steep slope, rattling and clacking as it dropped. She didn’t panic. It was likely a deer or some other creature moving around at night.
“Who’s there?” she asked, not anticipating an answer.
She listened. About a quarter mile to her right was a sharp drop off. The breccia around the edge was easily disturbed. The sliding rocks had to be coming from there.
Another little landslide, this one closer, made her edge away from her place toward the sounds. Trouble joined her, putting his front paws on her legs. She thought he was stretching until he put his claws in her jeans and tried to pull her back toward the fire.
“Take it easy. Let me check out that noise.”
“Me-ow!” Trouble wouldn’t budge.
“Let me go.” Tammy unhooked his claws and picked him up. “I need to see what’s out there. If it’s a bear, we need to get rid of the food I brought up here.” There weren’t big grizzlies left—they’d all been killed. But it wasn’t impossible that a small black bear might be living in the wild seclusion.
Trouble jumped from her arms and ran in the opposite direction.
“Fraidy cat,” Tammy teased him. “Afraid of a little old bear.”
Despite the cat’s attempts to stop her, she left the camp and started along the trail that followed the rim of the crater. She’d been here in daylight, and tonight the moon was bright enough to illuminate the trail, except when it slid into the deep shadows of a heavily wooded area.
She stopped, her breath shortening. A branch snapped. “Hello,” she said. “Is anyone there?”
Before she could move, a dark figure hurtled out of the underbrush at her. The figure hit her front and center, knocking her off her feet and to the ground so hard the air whooshed out of her lungs. Her head smacked into a rock, and for a long moment she fought the dizziness as she gasped for breath. She managed to turn her head to the sounds of her fleeing attacker. All she saw was a figure dressed in black, running away.
Consciousness fled, and she was enveloped into a world of blackness.
* * *
Aiden Waters sat at his desk in the Elmore County sheriff’s department and wished for a cup of really good coffee. The stuff Alma, the dispatcher, brewed in the break room was more akin to burnt motor oil than coffee. The last small city he’d lived in had a Latin Beanery, and the coffee had been wonderful. Wetumpka had its own charms, but coffee wasn’t one of them. To the good, though, was the local bookstore owner. Tammy Lynn hid behind her reading glasses and stacks of books, but nothing could take away from the fact that she was a rare beauty. She had the hazel eyes, red hair, and perfect complexion of a wild Irish rose. And she had the very devil in her at times. He’d seen her love of the city and the people who lived there. And she was smart, reading everything from mathematical theory to romance novels. Sometimes, she was a bit out there, but it made for interesting conversation when he was lucky enough to strike up a chat.
“Waters,” Sheriff Rob Siecks called out, “got a report of a stolen bicycle over on Eden Street. Check it out.”
“Yes, sir.” He stood, checked his holster, and grabbed a jacket. He didn’t mind working the night shift in Elmore County. His Christmas cactus didn’t care if he came home at five in the afternoon or five in the wee hours of the morning. And there was nothing else alive waiting for him. Not since Kayla was gone. As he glanced outside at the colorful Christmas lights, he thought how much his wife would have liked Wetumpka. It was exactly the kind of town she’d dreamed about. Instead, she’d followed him from place to place with his work. She would have put down roots in the beautiful Alabama city on the Coosa River and thrived.
He pushed the past away and stepped into the cold night. Life in Wetumpka was mostly crime free. A stolen bicycle was a big case. This was a far cry from his old life when he was an agent with the FBI, but he found the slow pace and lack of crime to be a relief, and a frustration. He’d come to Wetumpka to catch a killer, and sadly, the only way to stop the murderer was to wait for someone to die.
He rounded a corner and headed to the parked car.
A portly figure came toward him, huffing a bit from exertion. “Deputy Waters, you’re just the man I want to see.” Reverend Frasier McNaughton put a hand out to stop the deputy.
“What can I do for you, Reverend?” Aiden asked. He liked the tall, ginger Methodist minister who carried too much weight but had a big heart for the more unfortunate of his congregation. McNaughton had come to the Wetumpka Methodist church with a long list of community projects and the enthusiasm to push them forward. He had members of the congregation working nights and weekends on construction, clean up, food distribution, you name it. Labors of love, he called the projects for the poor.
“We’re holding the Habitat for Humanity build tomorrow and there’ll be a lumber truck offloading at the site on West Ninth. I don’t want any traffic issues. Could you possibly arrange for some road blockades, just until we get the lumber off the truck?”
“Sure thing. What time?”
“Ten tomorrow. Thank you, Aiden. Will you be helping us?”
“I plan to be there at eight. I’m always happy
to swing a hammer for a good cause.”
“If I were fit and in shape, I’d be more help.” Reverend McNaughton sighed. “I just love the sweets Martha Causey bakes. It’s a sad thing when my appetite outstrips my will power. Gluttony is a sin, as we all know.”
Aiden knew the minister had lost his wife before he’d moved to Wetumpka, and they’d been a childless couple. The preacher was on his own. “A few baked goods won’t hurt. When the time is right maybe you’ll start joining me at the gym for a workout.”
“Don’t hold your breath. I’m more of a reader than a weight lifter. Which is why I’m eager to visit the Book Basket tomorrow. Tammy got another shipment of old manuscripts and books in from an estate sale. She always lets me rummage through them.”
“Tell Tammy I send my regards.” Aiden started to walk away but stopped. “Everything good with the congregation?”
“What could be wrong? The choir is rehearsing for the Christmas cantata, and Miss Mildred’s arthritis has let up and she’s back at the organ. I just got the church closed up after choir practice.”
“Just checking. Have a good evening.” Aiden watched the minister bustle down the street, which was now empty. He got in a cruiser and went to check the stolen bicycle report, wondering if his transfer to Wetumpka had been a waste of time. In the six months he’d been in residence, nothing untoward had happened. The abduction and murder of a young Montgomery woman on her way home from Wetumpka had shown the signature of John Wexler, a serial killer he’d been tracking. But so far, if Wexler was in the Wetumpka area, he was keeping a low profile.
Aiden cruised the streets of the sleepy town, taking pleasure in the serenity and sense of security, torn between his desire to find a lead on Wexler and his pleasure at living in a town where bad guys seemed to be at a minimum. Wetumpka had sprung into being as a river community just north of the state capitol of Montgomery. The location had once been considered as the site for the state capitol, but Montgomery, on the Alabama River, had won out. Past the rugged terrain of Wetumpka, the land calmed and flattened until it gave onto the foothills of the Appalachian mountain chain.
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