by Nina Post
Still through the apparent viewpoint of a cat, I played in the lab for a while, climbing on the table and knocking off the same coffee mug I like to use, my Svalbard Expedition mug. I went everywhere on my honeymoon, but that trip north of the Arctic Circle, where I saw polar bears and walruses, was the best time of my life.
I saw the mug shatter into pieces on the cement floor.
I was so nervous at the cat being in the basement lab with that particular piece of equipment turned on, I trembled with nerves and watched through my fingers. The cat moved on the table toward the blackboard. On the blackboard was a diagram of the machine and a small drawing of a cat with a big question mark next to it. Below that, there was a formula for some sort of herb — catnip perhaps? If the cat had already been in the lab when the machine was running, that would have tremendous implications.
Shawn took a couple of techs into the greenhouse and had them dig in the same place he saw the other Shawn dig on Lyle’s TV screen. Even Dr. Evans drove in, though she hung back with Shawn and Sarah and watched. One of the new cats that Shawn had brought to the house creeped in.
The techs gradually unearthed a paperweight the size of a softball, with deep, indented ridges and dimples the size of a contact lens for a horse. It was covered in dried blood and strands of red hair.
“May I see that?” The ME held out a rubber-gloved hand. They put the paperweight in her hand and she turned it over. “French. Clichy. Lovely piece. Without the blood and hair and fragments on it, of course.”
The techs started to pack up their stuff.
The cat went over to the far end of the greenhouse and sat there, staring at Shawn. It licked its paw.
“Wait,” Shawn called out to the team. “Dig over there, too.”
“Why?” One of the techs scrunched up his face, befuddled. “We found the weapon — I think we’re done here.”
“I want you to dig where that cat is.”
He raised a questioning brow, but picked up the shovel again. “You got it, Detective.”
They brought their gear over to the far end and the cat wandered back over to Shawn, throwing his weight against his leg so forcefully he had to take a step to the side.
A few minutes later, one of the techs called out, “We got something else!” in an excited voice, scraping away earth from a surface with a brush.
They all got closer and leaned in. Sarah gasped. It was part of a skull.
The scene turned into a more wide-scale project that involved digging into the entire end of the greenhouse. The techs ended up with two bodies.
The ME, though protesting she was no forensic anthropologist, identified one body as male and one as a female well over childbearing age.
Ludivicus and Margaret Sylvain?
“Maybe she had her revenge after all,” Shawn said in a soft voice.
The sky was light and clear again. The ground had stopped trembling.
Sarah left the EMTs and joined Shawn by the main doors of the Sylvain house. “I have to tell you, these dates we keep having?”
“Novelty’s wearing off a little, huh?”
She took a deep breath. “Does this mean you solved the case?”
“If I said yes, would you go on a real date with me?”
“Only if it’s true.”
“It’s true, but do we have to wait until the trial?”
“Let’s wait until you get some sleep.”
Sarah’s feature documentary, The Tortoise and the Heiress, was being screened at the Jamesville Six Cinema.
“This is our first real date, right?” They walked downtown from the Thai restaurant to the theater. She was wearing jeans and a cinched jacket with low heels, and he was in one of the new suits he had to buy.
“I double-checked official date criteria, and I’m pretty sure it’s our ninth.”
“I kind of miss checking cat paws for encrusted blood, or loading bulk bags of kitty litter into a grocery cart.”
“That old chestnut? And you didn’t check the paws for blood, Joe did. He still hasn’t recovered.”
She looked up. “Do you think anyone will want to see this movie?”
He raised his chin at the theater down the street, which featured one name in the bright white marquee and a line around the block.
“What does that look like?”
She laughed, and stopped, hands over her mouth, staring at the line.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“It feels amazing.”
His phone rang. Melly. “Pardon me one second, I have to take this quick guilt trip.” He brought the phone up to his ear. “What can I do for you, Melly?”
There was a slight pause, and he opened his mouth to speak again when she said, “I just want to thank you for the cats.”
Shawn had given his sister two of the cats, which seemed to make her a less unpleasant person. And somehow, he and Sarah — mostly Sarah — had managed to find homes for the others, which took a lot of work. Shawn even took some personal days off work to get it done.
“They’re – well, they’re great,” his sister said. “So, thanks. Okay, bye.”
“Bye,” he said, but she had already hung up.
“That was new and different.” He stood behind Sarah and pointed at the line again.
“All of those people are there to see your documentary. And that won’t be the only line for it. What did your Dad say?” He wrapped his arms around her and smelled her hair.
“He actually said he was proud of me. I couldn’t believe it. I could have sworn that only happens on TV.”
“Well, the earthquakes stopped, too. And the moon stopped flickering, and the ball lightning fizzled out. So why can’t your Dad say he’s proud of you?”
“I’m proud of you, for solving that case.” She smiled at his expression. “What?”
“The cats stopped showing up after we took Vincent in.” After going home for some serious sleep, he had counted the cats before Sarah took some to their new homes, feeling like Kendall Peterson reweighing every single anvil in the basement.
“You’re sure?”
He wrapped his hands around Sarah’s waist, feeling the indentations of her ribcage, and drew her in closer. “They started appearing after Haviland was killed, then stopped when we got him. I counted the hours, and the cats.”
“Why do you think the cats stopped showing up, then?”
Shawn smiled and shrugged. “Our Haviland wrote in her journal that she saw the investigation in her house with Lyle’s TV, through the view of a cat she saw in a photo and in the mirror. Then she sketched the cat in her journal multiple times the day before she was killed.”
“Riiight.” Sarah’s mouth curled up on one end.
“And she saw the blackboard in the basement lab. So maybe the other Haviland was doing an experiment involving particle acceleration or dark matter — don’t look at me like that, I’m just a homicide detective — and her cat wandered through whatever she was doing and got zapped with something. The other Haviland had also written something about a modified catnip she was working on. Why modify catnip, I have no idea.”
“Shawn, what – “
He put up a hand. “Getting there. After the cat got tangled up with the other Haviland’s experiment, then it could have eaten some of the modified catnip.”
She gave him a dazzling, amused smile, and he almost forgot what he was saying, along with everything else.
“I saw the other Shawn’s murder book. Haviland was missing in his world. But she was actually dead. Vincent killed her there, too. The other Haviland’s cat, altered by her experiment, could have hallucinated on that catnip and,” he rubbed his neck, “well, created this world so I could solve her murder.” He gave her a sheepish look. “Does that sound narcissistic?”
“Wait, let me see if I understand you. You’re saying that a Haviland Sylvain in another world was killed, and that her cat, which was altered by a particle experiment, hallucinated on catnip and – “
She closed her eyes for a few seconds. “That means,” she chuckled, “you saved this world by solving Haviland’s murder.”
He grinned. “I guess that is what I’m saying.”
“Will I ever stop hearing about this?”
He leaned down and swooped her up in his arms. “I hope not. Where do you want to go to celebrate me saving the world?”
“Where do I want to go?”
“Saving an entire world is exhausting. I think we both deserve a vacation. A real one.”
“Now that the world doesn’t rest on your shoulders anymore?”
He kissed her then set her on her feet.
“Exactly.”
Detective Shawn Danger sat on a tiny stool in the plushly appointed playroom of the murdered heiress’s three-toed sloth, and stared at a 1950s-era TV in dumbfounded shock.
“Who is this asshole? Why does he look exactly like me — and why does he get to have a girlfriend?”
Thanks to Garry Rodgers for answering my questions about certain aspects of homicide procedure.
Thanks to Ricky Gunawan for another excellent cover design.
And thanks to ProQuest for providing such a great service.
Nina Post is the author of seven novels, including Danger in Cat World, Danger Returns in Pairs, Extra Credit Epidemic, The Last Condo Board of the Apocalypse, The Last Donut Shop of the Apocalypse, One Ghost Per Serving, and The Zaanics Deceit.
She lives in Seattle.
To learn more about Nina, please visit her website at http://www.ninapost.com and sign up for her newsletter at http://www.ninapost.com/newsletter/.
https://curiosityquills.com/kindle/last-condo-board/
The Melancholy Cowboy Job
The Jackal was a high-maintenance client, prone to micro-management and fits of hysteria. He was also a resident of Amenity Tower, Pothole City’s Finest Luxury Condominium Building. Two weeks earlier, the Jackal’s estranged lover stole his favorite painting and sold it for a quarter at the building’s annual tag sale. The Jackal had little patience for local law enforcement, so he decided to bring in a professional to track down the beloved heirloom. His requirements were specific: the Jackal needed someone who could tolerate the eccentricities of working for an aardwolf — more commonly known as a gray jackal — and who could find their way around a high-rise populated with creatures that made him look normal by comparison.
A color copy of the insurance photo was folded away in Kelly Driscoll’s jacket pocket. In the painting, a melancholy-faced cowboy rode a roller coaster over an ocean, an opulent house in the distance. The cowboy wore a Stetson hat and red sunglasses. In one calloused, outstretched hand he held a tiny walrus; in the other, a pink-frosted donut with sprinkles.
The cowboy painting job was an unwelcome reminder of the sorry state of her career. A year ago, Kelly had found the werewolf fugitive who became known as the Mennonite Butler. He was hiding in a Horse and Buggy Old Order Mennonite community in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, doing chores for a local family: carpentry, milking, buggy-driving. When Kelly collared the Butler, he had a fruit flummery in the stove and politely requested that she wait until the oven timer went off. She agreed, and the oddly genteel and dainty sponge dessert was worth the wait. After the fugitive carefully put away the rest of the flummery, Kelly collared him.
But she never got credit for the job. A vampire huntress in a luxury RV swooped into town and stole Kelly’s thunder, garnishing accolades, media attention, and work. Lots of work.
“The slag,” Kelly said through her teeth as she stood on the roof. “That was not fair play.” She put the memory in a box, and imagined throwing the box off the roof until it smashed on the streets below. If there was one thing she was still skilled at, it was compartmentalizing. She needed all of her concentration to descend the granite flank of the sixty-floor Amenity Tower, wash some high-rise windows, and search for a painting of a melancholy cowboy. Even though she kept up her certs, it wasn’t like she operated the boatswain seat every day.
She wanted a second chance, another fugitive to find, and wouldn’t stop until she tripped over it or it slapped her on the mouth or mugged her behind a donut shop.
Kelly strapped herself into the harness, which fit snugly around her chest and thighs. She imagined what the great football coach Jay Vanner would say if he were on this roof with her, tan and focused: ‘Kelly, we both know you’ll be taking some hits while you chase down the big score. Just remember: your long-term performance is what really counts.’
She nodded as though in response, checked that her screw gates were tight and made sure that the ropes were attached to the eye bolt. She lowered herself in her hand-made boatswain seat, the wood cold against her backside, and pressed the handle of her chest harness to descend.
Kelly squeezed out each end of her mop into one of the buckets and ran it over the window in a square, leaving an overlap of dry glass at the edge.
February in Pothole City was aggressive, like the city itself held a grudge against its citizens. A frigid wind snapped around the skyscrapers, lashing Kelly like a bully-wielded gym towel. The air smelled like fish, chocolate, and dust. A black watch cap covered her ash-blonde hair and part of her ears; tinted polycarb goggles kept her eyes from watering.
Kelly grasped the squeegee with goatskin gloved hands. She started the blade at a forty-five-degree angle and turned the handle before it reached the right edge, skin crawling at the first squeak. She pulled the squeegee down at an angle to the left.
A hint of a smile creased her right cheek. A clean window gave her more satisfaction than any job she’d worked lately. On the boatswain chair she felt free from the tentacles of her past, though they could reach all the way, if she stayed long enough. For the moment, she wasn’t even afraid of the future.
She scanned the interior of an apartment with a weathered, yellow-taped spotting scope. To pass observational muster as a pro squeaker, she could take five minutes at each window. Even if louvered blinds were lowered and tightened, she could find an angle that gave her some visual access. So far, no painting. She hoped that it was hanging on someone’s living room wall, not accumulating dust under a bed. She needed this money.
Using the suction cup to stabilize herself, she moved to the next unit. A man in headphones hugged a roll of paper towels near the window. He ran a hand through honey-colored hair and placed the roll next to a backdrop of a mountain range, compressing his tall and lean body into a crouch. A white umbrella on a long stand glowed softly in the corner. He picked up a large camera and fiddled with the settings.
Kelly bounced lightly off the side of the building with the tips of her boots, and slapped her squeegee on his window.
He jumped at the noise and held the camera with a death grip.
She slid the squeegee to the side, flashing a mischievous smile. He stepped right up to the window. His widened eyes were the intense blue of a fresh Lactarius indigo mushroom, her favorite. She approved.
Kelly held up the squeegee in greeting.
After a moment, the man nodded, then left.
“What was it, the squeegee?” she muttered.
No painting. She finished his window and quickly installed a small plot watcher camera, which took a shot every eight seconds. Just in case.
https://curiosityquills.com/kindle/last-condo-board/
https://curiosityquills.com/kindle/last-donut-shop/
As a formerly successful and then not-so-successful bounty hunter, Kelly Driscoll hated working as herself. After gaining access to Amenity Tower as an elevator inspector, hamster grief counselor, FDA criminal division agent, and various city officials, she had somehow been named interim manager of the building. These days, she showed up to work as Kelly Driscoll. She winced when anyone in Amenity Tower, Potho
le City's finest (and only) luxury condominium building, recognized and greeted her. It just felt wrong to not radically change her eye color, her skin, her facial shape, her hair, her clothing, her body type, her occupation, her name. But she didn't mind being herself at home, which for weeks had been the top two floors of a 1920s-era art deco high-rise. It was just a couple of blocks from Amenity Tower in downtown Pothole City, and right across the street from the Pothole City Soda Fountain.
Kelly put on her uniform, a gray t-shirt under a navy wool suit. She gathered her ash-blonde hair in a bun and speared it with two pins. She put on some makeup, lining the top of her pale gray eyes. Then she went into Mr. Orange's office, which was full of small, single-purpose angels, or SPs as she called them. They had all moved in before the destruction of the city, with the notion that Kelly could protect them. After she sent Murray – the corrupt angel who killed the SP in charge of audio equipment – to indefinite retirement in a hell lodge, the rest of the SPs stayed with her. And it was all she could do to keep them in Cluck Snacks and pajamas.
The small angels sat in a group in Mr. Orange's office wearing pajamas, eating cereal, and watching Clucking Along Holdings Presents the Cluck Snack Weekday Cartoon Adventure Hour, with animated and live-action segments.
"Back at five," she said. They waved with spoons that flicked droplets of milk and bits of cereal across the room and on the marble floors of the office space where they lived. She grabbed her bag and was on her way out the door when the phone rang.
"Where is there a phone?" she said, to an empty hallway.
It kept ringing. She did a U-turn and went into Mr. Black's office, presuming it was one of the two phones, one black and one red, on the massive metal desk, though they had never rang before.
It wasn't. The ringing was further away.
She went back into the center of the floor and listened.
The call was definitely coming from inside the house.
