A Cat on the Case

by Clea Simon

  “It didn’t make sense for her to lug it around.” Becca looked like she was going to explain further, but Maddy was already on her feet.

  “Where is it? I want to see it.”

  “It’s on the table.” Becca led the way, but when her friend reached for the case, she moved to stop her. “I don’t know if you should–”

  “A stranger left something with you. It could be a bomb. Or drugs. Or …” She’d opened the case by then. “Wow, it’s in rough shape, isn’t it?”

  “She said it was her grandfather’s.” Becca watched as Maddy picked up the age-darkened instrument and shook it gently. “It’s just a violin, Mads.”

  “So you say.” Her friend pressed her face up to the instrument, squinting into the f-hole.

  “Please, be careful.”

  “She wasn’t. She left it with a stranger.” Despite her words, she replaced the instrument with care back in its worn enclosure, and then proceeded to open each compartment, taking out the sheet music and smelling the block of dark rosin.

  “She was jet-lagged, Maddy. She’d been traveling nonstop. She arrived just in time for her audition.”

  “Great.” Maddy tapped a little glass-topped dial that looked like it had been recently set into the stained velvet. “This is probably a drug thing, then.”

  It’s a hygrometer – to measure the humidity.” Becca corrected her gently. “I was reading up on older instruments. They’re sensitive.”

  Her friend snorted, sounding suspiciously like Laurel. “This looks like it’s already been through the war.”

  “It might have been.” Maddy glanced up but didn’t respond, and Becca, knowing her friend, let her continue with her examination of the case and its contents, which she only gave up once their food had arrived.

  An hour later, the moo shi was gone, to the cats’ dismay. But the young violinist still had not appeared.

  “You’d think she’d call.” Maddy was eying the noodles. As delicately as any move of Laurel’s, she reached her chopsticks over to pick out a mushroom. “I assume you’ve tried to call her?”

  “I don’t have her number.” While her friend was still chewing, she explained. “Everything was so crazy, and I thought she’d be right back. I made a map for her. I hope she didn’t get lost.”

  Maddy coughed, waking Harriet, who had settled back beside her. “Maybe,” she said, in a tone of voice that made Clara turn to examine her broad friendly face as well.

  The two friends continued to eat, and if Becca kept sneaking peeks at the door, Maddy pretended not to notice. Still, her friend sighed audibly as Becca laid down her chopsticks.

  “I think I’m done.” She forced a smile. “You go on. There’s no point in saving any of the pancakes,” Becca rationalized. “They’ll only get stale.”

  “You might want to put the rest of the tofu in the fridge.” Maddy pointed to the half full container.

  “It’ll get cold.” Becca pointed out.

  “I’m not thinking of your houseguests. I’m wondering about your cat.” As if on cue, Harriet lurched forward. “I think she might have eaten a hot pepper.”

  “Harriet?” All eyes on the big cat, she sat up straight, licking her chops.

  “I don’t think cats eat tofu.” Becca sounded doubtful, even as she reached for her pet.

  “Did you hear that?” Clara felt it only fair to warn her. “It’s not meat!”

  “Stay out of this.” Laurel’s lip drew back, exposing her fangs. “I don’t have time to explain.”

  “She’s okay, isn’t she?” Maddy asked.

  “I think so.” Becca stroked the long, silky coat, even as she craned to see into the big cat’s eyes.

  “This is rather pleasant.” Harriet licked her chops.

  Of course, Harriet would do anything for attention, especially if that attention resulted in treats. Clara had a sneaking suspicion that more was at work here, but before any of the felines could act, Becca stood, depositing her pet on the rug.

  “Maybe I should put this away.” She reached for the tofu. “I can always reheat it if Ruby hasn’t eaten.”

  Gathering up their bowls, as well as the leftover rice, Maddy followed Becca into the kitchen. “Becca, I don’t think she’s going to show.”

  “Nonsense. You know how long the T takes, and if the switches are frozen all bets are off.” From her vantage place on the table, Clara could see Becca transferring the fragrant food into plastic containers. “Would you hand me that lid?”

  “Becca, look at the time. She’s not going to make the T.” Clara looked at her person, rather than the clock. Time means little when you can get treats almost on demand. The dismay on Becca’s face, however, made the little cat take notice.

  “I should never have let her go by herself.” She turned to her friend. “Maybe I should call the police.”

  As if on cue, her phone pinged.

  “Is that her? Has she been arrested?” Maddy leaned over.

  “It is, but no.” Becca looked up from the screen, the relief clear on her face. “She’s staying at the conservatory tonight. She’ll get the violin from me tomorrow.”

  “Hallelujah.” Maddy threw up her hands in mock celebration. “Or thanks to Bast, or whatever you’d say.”

  All three cats sat up, eyes wide in alarm. Luckily, neither human noticed.

  “So, do you still have Netflix?” Maddy sealed the top on the rest of the noodles and then licked the spoon, as carefully as Harriet would have.

  “Don’t you have work in the morning?” Becca handed her friend the remote.

  “Which is why I brought a bag, silly.” Laurel had already investigated the carryon at the foot of the couch. “Besides, I don’t trust her not to show up in the middle of the night.” Even as she switched on the TV, she fixed her friend with a stare. “If she does, I don’t think you should let her in.”

  “Maddy, you know I couldn’t do that.”

  “Yeah, I do. But please remember, she’s a person. Not a lost cat, Becca.”

  At her feet, Laurel and Harriet exchanged a glance. “That was too close.” Clara heard Harriet murmur, and Laurel dipped her head in agreement.

  “And now,” Harriet whispered, “where were we?”

  Chapter 11.

  The heat was intense. The sun, beating down, bleached out all color, so that even the stripes on Clara’s forearm appeared pale and gray.

  “Stripes?” The cat sat bolt upright in surprise and immediately looked down at her snowy white mitts and the sleeves – one orange, one black – on each side. She hadn’t been aware of falling asleep, but over here by the radiator the rug was particularly warm and cozy.

  “Relax, silly.” Laurel stared down from her perch on the bookshelf. “It’s just a memory.”

  A faint rumble to her right caught her attention. Harriet, eyes closed and with her own white paws tucked under her ample breast, was either purring or snoring. “A memory?”

  “Fatso here thought that would be easier, so she put herself into a trance.” Laurel settled down into her own meatloaf pose. “Especially since you have the attention span of a gnat.”

  Clara started to protest but caught herself. Harriet had to be really out for Laurel to risk calling her that. Besides, she was curious. Settling down, she closed her eyes and let the dream roll over her once again.

  Languid with the heat, the cat strolled slowly over to the high stone wall. Even a desert creature knows to seek shade at high noon, and the tawny blocks cast just enough shadow for one slim feline. From the relative cool, the cat looked out on a woman in a rough linen shift kneeling in front of a basket, woven apparently from reeds. From where she lay, the cat could see her back, dark with sweat, and how it heaved, her shoulders jerking in a fitful rhythm. Although the cat could hear no sound, it was easy to make out that the woman crying,

  “Poor fool.” The cat watched as the woman’s sobs subsided and she bent lower, cupping her han
ds to scoop up what appeared to be small golden kernels from the sandy ground. As she moved to pour the kernels into the basket, the cat got a better sense of what she was doing – as well as the cause of those tears. Some creature had gnawed a hole in the basket, a hole the woman had attempted to patch with the same rough linen as her shift. The patch was barely adequate, however, and the kernels – grain, or possibly corn – kept leaking through the torn reeds even as she knelt at her task, the linen on her back dark with sweat. “She should know better than to labor in this weather.”

  “She has no choice.” The voice, a deep rumbling that seemed to come from the stone itself, startled the cat. “She must save the grain, or she will be whipped. Your first duty–”

  “Who’s there? Who said that?” Despite the heat, the cat jumped up and spun around, seeking the source of that voice.

  “Don’t you know me?” Deep and low but lightened by – could it be? – humor. “You should.”

  The cat looked up at the stone that sheltered her, the base of a great carving. Bast, the goddess. Could it be? “Goddess.” She flattened herself before the great statue, chin flat on the ground in obeisance. “I know you,” she said. “What would you have me do?”

  Perhaps it was the sun. The heat, punishing even for a wild creature. A play of the light, a shadow cast by those giant ears, perhaps, but the stone eyes appeared to flicker. The great muzzle drew back, just for a moment, to reveal a mighty fang….

  Chapter 12.

  A sharp rapping woke Clara. Morning, a watery winter sun was streaming in the window, and the calico looked around for her sisters, eager to share her dream. As the tapping came once more, she found them already waiting by the door.

  “Took you long enough.” Laurel lashed her tail once, in acknowledgment, as her sister joined the line staring up at the locked door.

  “Did you – you must know…” Clara fumbled for words. “That was one of us, wasn’t it?”

  “One? You only saw one?” Laurel turned toward Harriet, who was licking her chops.

  “I may have rushed that one.” Harriet was licking her chops. “There were leftovers.”

  “You wouldn’t have liked them anyway.” Laurel, Clara noticed, had a touch of black bean sauce on her whisker. At least she did, until a quick swipe of the tongue made it disappear. “But I was wondering if you were going to sleep through the whole thing.”

  “What thing?” Clara scooted out of the way, as Becca raced to the door.

  “Ruby, I was wondering–” Becca stopped herself. Instead of the pale young musician, she had the door to a rotund little man. Roughly Becca’s height, his round face, as well as the red wool vest he wore under his brown suit, made him look like a robin. An agitated robin, Clara thought, his beady eyes glaring at Becca out of a face shiny with sweat.

  “I’m sorry. Who are you?” Becca pulled her bathrobe collar close. Not, thought her cat, because of the draft.

  “You sent us a photo.” A breathy voice, rather than a chirp. “I didn’t see it until this morning. I came over as quickly as I could.”

  Becca shook her head, and the man took a deep breath, the red of his vest expanding.

  “I’m from the conservatory,” he said. He was speaking slowly and clearly now, the breathiness gone. Almost, it occurred to Clara, as if he thought Becca hard of hearing or stupid. “Like I said. I’m here about the violin.”

  “Oh, you didn’t have to bother.” Becca eyed him with curiosity. Rather, Clara thought, like Laurel would a bird. “I found its owner.”

  “The owner?” He tilted his head, those beady eyes shining.

  “Ruby. It was her grandfather’s, so she knew it right away.” Becca stood blocking the door, but she must have heard Maddy come up behind her, her hair still wet from the shower.

  “No, that’s not possible.” The man’s face was growing redder. “You see, the violin you sent us a photo of is a Guadagnini, and we have reason to believe it’s the instrument that was stolen from a collector in New York several months ago.”

  “Wait.” Becca raised her hands to stop the flood of words. “It’s a what?”

  “A Guadagnini.” The little man leaned in, as if that would make his meaning clear. When it didn’t – Becca simply shook her head – he took another deep breath, expanding his belly as if about to break into song.

  “Guadagnini was an Italian luthier – an instrument maker – in the 18th century,” he said, in a decidedly unmelodic voice. “Very few of his violins have survived, and the ones that are still around are rather well known – among afficionados of course. They are also extremely valuable instruments. This one, as I’ve said, belongs to a private collector. In monetary terms alone, it is a treasure – worth in excess of half a million dollars. But it’s more than that. The collector – the rightful owner – is an extremely discerning man who is understandably upset about the loss of this treasure.”

  “That’s not possible.” Becca’s face showed her confusion. “Why do you even think the violin I showed you is it? Have you seen this Guad- whatever?”

  “Me? No.” The man squeaked. “But this is my field of expertise. And this is a very sensitive case. There’s a concern, with a piece like this, that if the thieves are apprehended they might destroy the piece before surrendering.”

  “That sounds horrible, but you really don’t have to worry.” Becca spoke calmly, but she didn’t budge. “Like I said, there’s been some mistake. The violin I found is a family heirloom.”

  “But that photo you sent–” His complexion was verging on purple.

  “Maybe it was a bad photo. My phone isn’t the newest model.” Becca was shaking her head. Behind her, Maddy shifted her weight from one foot to another. “Becca,” she said softly.

  Becca ignored her. “The young woman who left it with me just arrived here. She’s a student.”

  “She’s an accomplice.” The round man lisped slightly, his last word coming out like a hiss. “That’s what she is. At the very least.”

  Becca didn’t respond, as Clara felt her sister come up beside her. “Uh oh…” Laurel gave a soft Siamese sigh. Clara lashed her tail once, in acknowledgment. It didn’t take Laurel’s skills to pick up the combination of skepticism and doubt playing through her mind.

  “But I’ll leave that to the police. What matters to me is the safety of the instrument. Which I’d like to see now.” He paused, as if to master that lisp. “Please.”

  Still, Becca didn’t respond, and Clara looked to her older sister for guidance. But Laurel was staring at the stranger’s face, and so the calico looked around for their senior sibling.

  “I don’t like him,” said Laurel.

  “He does smell off,” agreed Harriet. Clair just felt for a rising on her neck and hunker down to watch the diminutive intruder.

  This is what Harriet had warned her about – that their person might get caught up in larger conflict. “And that,” Harriet had warned, “never turns out well.”

  “I don’t have it.” Becca’s words made Maddy gasp, but she warmed to her theme as she began to explain. “I sent the university that email last night because I was trying to locate the student who had left the violin with me at the shop where I work. But she came by, you see, and picked it up. That’s why I’m convinced that you must be mistaken.”

  Clara looked to Laurel. The Siamese’s blue eyes were wide, but there was a lift to her whiskers that suggested a smile.

  “There may be a reward.” The man didn’t seem to believe her, his beady eyes narrowing as he spoke. “I’m in my office every night till at least eight.”

  “She shouldn’t be trying so hard to explain.” Laurel’s ears flipped back, never a good sign. Beside her, Harriet coughed.

  “Thank you for telling me.” Becca glanced back at her cats and then pulled herself up to her full five-six to face the stranger once more. “And now I’ve got to go. Why don’t you leave your card with me? If I find any other violins
, I’ll give you a call.”

  The stranger began to sputter, as Becca held out her hand, but then he fished in his wallet and came out with a card.

  “Norm Brewstein, assistant dean,” she read. But as he opened his mouth to speak once more, she cut him off. “Thanks so much for coming by, Mr. Brewstein. I promise, I’ll keep my eyes open. But now, I have to go to work.” And with that she shut the door.

  “What a nasty little man.” Becca collapsed against the door, as Maddy looked on aghast. “And he looked rather like a robin too,” she added sadly. Her cats, who already had decided opinion about the nature of birds, silently agreed.

  Maddy, however, had found her voice. “Becca, what are you doing?”

  “I don’t really know.” She looked up at her friend. “Only I didn’t like the way he was talking to me.”

  “I don’t like this one bit, Becca. You don’t know this girl at all. She left her violin with you – it’s probably stolen. She’s probably not a student at all. She’s a criminal – and now she’s on the lam. You wanted to call the police last night, right? Well, I think you should – and call that conservatory guy back too. Tell him you were wrong.”

  “I don’t know, Maddy.” Becca shook her head. “You didn’t hear her talking about her audition. About the conservatory. And the only reason I was tempted to call the police was because I was worried about her”

  “She conned you, Becs. You always think the best of people.”

  “Maybe, Maddy. But what if I’m right? Or what if – I don’t know – this is all some kind of big misunderstanding? The violin is safe. It’s here. And if she’s telling the truth – and I think she is – then Ruby’s still waiting to hear if she’s been accepted. I don’t want to be the one to kill her dream.”

  Maddy sighed. She knew her friend well. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to get ready for work.” Chin up, Becca walked past her friend into the bedroom to get dressed. “And so, I think, should you.”