by Cate Conte
I ignored her and focused on the cop, waiting expectantly for an answer. I could feel my smile slipping a bit in the face of his disdainful gaze.
He observed me with what I imagine he assumed was his perfected cop stare. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it still needed some work. These were the types of observations a granddaughter of a former police chief made. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m the person I assume you’re waiting for,” I said. “Maddie James. I’m helping run this volunteer operation. Avery is one of my volunteers.”
“Not for long,” Avery muttered.
I shot her a look that clearly instructed her to shut up and turned back to the cop. “Officer…”
“Patno,” he supplied.
“Officer Patno. So is something wrong? What can I help with?”
“This gentleman”—he waved vaguely in Virgil Proust’s direction—“called us to report someone trespassing on their property. He agreed to wait while we called you to apparently vouch for her. Not sure what you’d be vouching. If she was trespassing there’s not much to vouch for.”
Virgil walked over to us. Before he could say a word, the front door opened behind him and his wife, June, leaned out. She was scrawny, with giant glasses and short brown hair streaked with silver. For someone her size, she had a booming voice. “That’s right! She was trespassing! You should arrest her now and get it over with.”
Virgil paused where he was and visibly winced. “Go back inside, June,” he called without turning around. “I’ve got it under control.”
The door slammed shut. He squared his shoulders and focused on me. “Ms. James.” His voice was soft. “My apologies. My wife spotted … what she thought was an intruder and panicked.”
Avery bristled. “Intruder, my—”
“Mr. Proust. So nice to see you again,” I said warmly. Sometimes I could be my pillar-of-the-community father’s daughter so well I surprised myself. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding and for alarming your wife, but I’m quite sure Avery didn’t trespass intentionally. All our volunteers have a good understanding of the yards where we have some … leeway and those we don’t. If she happened to be near your property I’m sure she thought it was still the Hacketts’. Right, Avery?” I stared at her, willing her to agree with me.
Avery kicked at a chunk of ice on the sidewalk. “Yeah,” she said. “Right. The Hacketts.” Then she threw up her hands and faced the cop. “Dude, I just want to feed the cats. I have stuff to do. Seriously?”
The cop heaved a giant sigh, letting all of us know how he felt about answering this call, and turned to Virgil. “Your call, Mr. Proust. If you want to press charges, we’ll bring her to the station.”
Avery burst into tears.
“Hold on a second. Press charges? Really? Mr. Proust—” I started, but Virgil cut me off.
“I’m not going to press charges,” he said quietly. “Please just stay out of our yard, okay?”
The cop shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “Ms. Evans. Stay out of their yard. And any other yard you don’t have authorized access to. Got it?” His stern glance moved to me. “That goes for you too,” he added, for good measure.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
“Oh, I got it,” Avery said. Her voice still shook, but she sounded more angry than upset now. “I won’t be in anyone else’s yard around here, today or ever. I quit!”
“No. Avery, hold on,” I said. “Let’s talk about this.” She was a drama queen for sure, but we needed her. We had scant volunteers right now, and losing another one would mean I may as well move out here because I’d have to take on pretty much every shift.
“I’m not talking about anything. I’m gone.” With another defiant toss of her hair, she stormed off down the street and slammed into a beat-up Hyundai Accent that didn’t look very winter-worthy.
The cop gave me one last look, got in his car, and drove away. The Prousts’ front door opened again and June stuck her head out. “What is going on? Where is she going? Virgil!”
Virgil Proust met my eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’d better go.”
And he turned and walked up to his front porch, leaving me alone on the sidewalk.
Chapter 4
Friday, December 11: eleven days before the murder
1:40 p.m.
“This is all very interesting, but what exactly would you like me to do to help your cats?”
The man in the doorway of number nineteen Sea Spray Lane wore a pleasant but vague expression on his face as he peered through the crack in his storm door at me and my mom. He held the trifold brochure my mom had handed him between his thumb and index finger as if it might bite him, and leaned slightly away from us as if he were afraid we were criminals who had concocted an elaborate scheme involving cats to try to get inside his fancy house. I didn’t recognize him from any of the prior clashes, so he was probably one of the few who actually had a life and minded his own business.
Which was positive, because he could likely be swayed our way—if he cared enough to show up at the meetings and voice his opinion. Which I was kind of guessing he didn’t. And that made me start to feel impatient, like we were wasting our time.
My mother, however, was infinitely patient. And enchanting, as usual. “That’s the beauty of it,” she said, beaming a smile through the door at him that even in his vagueness he couldn’t resist. Sophie James had a gift. Charm was her specialty. And she had a knack for making people feel like they were the only person on earth when she was speaking to them. “You don’t need to do anything! Just let the kindhearted volunteers access the feeding stations, and help us educate the rest of the neighbors so they understand how important it is. They aren’t exactly my cats, per se … but they are very important to me.” She leaned in closer to the door, conspiratorially. “Some people just aren’t as understanding and enlightened as you, Mr…”
“Barbagallo,” the man supplied. “Curtis Barbagallo.” He blushed a little under her praise. “I do try to be enlightened,” he added modestly.
“That’s right. Mr. Barbagallo. Of course you do, and it shows.”
“Well, thank you. And you can call me Curtis,” he said with a shy smile.
Behind her, I let out a loud sigh.
My mother ignored me. “So you’ll be a voice for the cats?”
Curtis nodded eagerly. “I would be happy to. To whom do you need me to speak?”
“Well,” my mother said, “there are a couple of neighborhood association meetings coming up. There’s one in a couple of days, where my daughter”—here she motioned at me—“will speak to all of you. I don’t recall seeing you at the last one?”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t make it.” Curtis looked like he now felt guilty about that.
“That’s no problem, but we really need you at this one. You see, some people want to—”
“Do you want to come in?” Curtis interrupted.
“No thank you,” I broke in smoothly. “It’s awfully kind of you but we have a few more stops to make.”
“Ah.” Curtis looked crestfallen. “I understand.” He looked adoringly at my mother. “Please, continue.”
“So this association meeting is a special one,” my mother went on. “A few of your neighbors have decided to put on the January agenda a vote to take drastic measures to stop the poor feral cats from coming around. It’s really not the answer. We’d like to use the special meeting next week to present some facts and opinions on why this shouldn’t go forward. We need as many allies as possible to make sure this doesn’t happen.”
Curtis frowned. “What kind of drastic measures?”
My mother waited a beat for dramatic effect. “Poison,” she stage-whispered.
Curtis’s eyes nearly popped out. “My goodness!”
I knew how he felt.
“I know,” my mother agreed. “It’s unconscionable, right? To think of poisoning some helpless animals just because they want to live in a spot they�
��re familiar with.”
“No, that doesn’t seem like the best option,” Curtis said, and I was glad to note his eyes had lost that glossy, adoring look and were more focused on what my mother was saying. “I’m happy to speak up wherever you need. And certainly vote against those kinds of measures.”
“Wonderful! Thank you.” My mother handed him some of the literature we’d been passing out. “You can read more about the best ways to care for feral cats here. And I look forward to seeing you at the meeting on Monday at six p.m. at the Turtle Point Senior Center!”
“You bet,” Curtis said, waving the literature at her. “I’ll see you then!”
I leaned over and poked my mother. “Great. Ready to go?”
She frowned at me, then turned back to Mr. Barbagallo. “Please excuse my daughter. She lived in California for too long and now she’s cold all the time.”
I rolled my eyes as we hurried down the steps back to her car. “Really, Mom?”
“What? I got him on our side, Maddie. Isn’t that what we wanted?” She beeped the Lexus open. She’d left the car running so the heat was blasting, and the heated seats warmed my butt as soon as I jumped in.
“Of course it’s what we wanted. If he shows up. Also he was looking at you like he was a puppy dog and you had a steak. I didn’t want him to follow you home.” I pulled my scarf higher around my neck and huddled into my coat. “Dad might object.”
“Oh, Madalyn.” My mother tsked at me as she pulled away from the curb. “You’ve been so crabby ever since … well.” She cleared her throat.
I whipped my head around to look at her. “Since what? And besides, you don’t know the effect you have on people,” I said, positioning the heater so it blasted into my face. “Ask Dad. He’ll tell you.”
My mother threw back her head and laughed, the sound like tinkling bells. She knew exactly what was up. She glanced over at me, still laughing, and I couldn’t help but smile back. My mother’s good nature was infectious, no matter what my mood was.
“So what were you saying about me being crabby?” I asked, but the bite was gone from my words.
“Honey.” She reached over and squeezed my hand, creeping along down the road now slick with rapidly falling snow. “Whatever it was that happened with Lucas around Thanksgiving. You know you’ve been a little … off since then.”
I let my gaze drift back out the window. She was right. My mom was usually right, but this time it was obvious. “A little off” was an understatement. I’d been in a huge funk for the last month since the infamous ghosting.
“So where do we need to stop next?” I asked, keeping my gaze focused at the winter wonderland outside.
I could hear my mother sigh again next to me. I knew she wanted me to talk to her about Lucas, but the truth was, I was tired of talking about Lucas. Even if most of that talking was happening in my own head.
“We need to stop at the Prousts’,” she said.
Now I couldn’t help but look at her. “You’re kidding, right? They haven’t exactly made it a secret that they want the cats gone. Including trying to get one of our volunteers arrested. They don’t want anything to do with our spiel. I’m sure they started the petition. They probably already bought the poison.” I slumped miserably against the door.
“Of course I know that, honey. Well, not that they’ve bought poison. I hope they haven’t.” She looked worried about that. “But it just reinforces that they need to be educated.” She peered ahead through the snow, flicking her windshield wipers to HIGH. “I think they’re very active in the Audubon Society. Sometimes those people have a skewed view of the poor feral cats because they just think about it from the perspective of the birds. Which are very important too, but there’s room for everyone. And if we can talk to them about why it’s important people feed the cats so they have a consistent food supply, maybe they’ll understand.”
She looked so determined. I felt a rush of love for my mother, taking time out from her nights—many of them—to help with this effort simply because I’d asked her to, and because she thought she could help, given her and my dad’s status in the community. And she really took it seriously too, including doing most of the talking, which I was incredibly grateful for. I knew this effort was cutting into her book-writing time—my mother was an aspiring mystery writer, a new venture in a long string of creative ventures.
“Here we go.” She let the car roll to a stop on the street in front of the Prousts’ house, skidding a bit as she braked. She peered anxiously at the sky. “It’s really coming down. You should probably stay over tonight instead of driving back home, honey.”
“I have the truck. I need to get home for the cats,” I said.
She gave me a stern look. “Your grandpa is home. Isn’t he? And Val and Ethan?”
“They are, but I need to get back.”
My mother didn’t look convinced. “We’ll see.”
I hid a smile as I got out of the car and pulled my hood over my head. I followed my mother as she strode purposefully through the snow up to the front door. I couldn’t help but admire the lights, even though almost every other house on this street had white lights too. Personally, I liked a little color at Christmas.
My mother was at the door already, her finger poised over the bell, when she turned to see where I was. I hurried the rest of the way. But before she could push the bell, I heard shouting from somewhere around the corner. The two of us froze in place, shamelessly listening.
It was a woman’s voice. I recognized it immediately—Whitney Piasecki, who lived across the street. She was so sweet and bought us food for the cats every week. And she was at the side door shouting at June Proust.
“You’re just mean, June. And you know what? You’re crazy too! How about you mind your own business and stop worrying about what everyone else is doing? You should be ashamed of yourself.”
I couldn’t make out June’s response, but it didn’t sound pleasant. But then I heard a male voice say, “That’s enough. I think you should leave now.”
My mother’s mouth dropped. She met my eyes with a Can you believe this? look on her face. I peered around the side of the porch in time to see Whitney shake her cane at the open side door. “You are going to be really sorry about all this. Trust me.”
Ooh. I leaned over farther, hoping to hear exactly what the Prousts were going to be sorry about. The cats, or something else? I was dying to know. But at that moment June Proust’s beady little eyes behind her giant glasses shifted away from Whitney and over to me. Red-faced, I ducked back around. “We should go,” I muttered to my mother.
“Too late,” she said. “I already rang the bell.”
“Great.” I blew out a breath. “She’s not going to be—”
June yanked the door open and glared at us. “What?”
“… in the best of moods,” I finished under my breath.
My mother ignored me. “Hi, June! You remember me, I hope. Sophie James.” She held out a hand.
June took it with the enthusiasm of someone being handed a dead fish.
“And my daughter Maddie,” my mom continued, as if she’d gotten a warm welcome. “Hello, Virgil,” she added when June’s husband stepped up behind her at the door, his face solemn. “We wanted to stop by to talk to you both about feral cats, since there seems to be a lot of misconceptions about them. Could we come in for a few minutes?”
“Don’t bother!” Whitney shouted at us from the walkway, where she was limping back to her own house. “You’ll have a better response from that fence over there!” I could see her chest heaving even through her shiny gold parka, she was so mad.
“Get off my property!” June screamed, almost rupturing my eardrum in the process.
Virgil stepped in front of her. “It’s not the best time,” he started to say to my mother, but his wife cut him off, her head popping up over his shoulder like one of those annoying bobblehead dolls.
“Cats! You want to talk about cats?” She leaned
forward, looking maniacal, her glasses sliding down her nose. “Since when did this become the most pressing matter in town? And why does it have to involve all of us? This is a private neighborhood. With private property!” Her voice went up on the last word, making her sound unhinged. “And you’re all trespassing!”
Virgil leaned over and placed a hand calmly on her shoulder. “June, please.”
She turned, wrenching away from his touch, and stormed away.
He caught the door before it slammed, shooting my mother an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. Like I said, now isn’t the best time.”
“Don’t worry about it,” my always-unruffled mother assured him, pressing a pamphlet into his hand. Katrina had ordered a bunch of literature from Alley Cat Allies, a national organization that helped feral cats. They had a lot of educational materials available. “We’re happy to come back when it’s more convenient.”
Virgil took the pamphlet and glanced at it. I couldn’t tell if the look on his face was disdain or something else, but when he looked back up, the facade was back on. “Thank you,” he said. “I apologize again. I know it’s cold outside.”
“If you read that, I’ll be happy.” My mother beamed at him. “And let us know if you have any questions!” Without waiting for an answer, she took my arm and pulled me down the stairs with her.
Once we were back in the car we looked at each other, wide-eyed. I didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or what.
“She’s nuts,” I said finally.
“She does seem a little … off,” my mother agreed.
“We should go ask Whitney what that was about,” I said.
“We should leave it alone,” my mother said firmly. “It’s none of our business.” Before I could argue any further, she put the car in DRIVE and headed out of Sea Spray Lane, back to the real world full of colored lights and non–cat haters.
Chapter 5
Monday, December 14: eight days before the murder
6 p.m.
My phone had been blowing up with text messages since I’d stepped my first UGG-clad foot into the Turtle Point Senior Center, where the Sea Spray Neighborhood Association had called a special meeting in the little assembly hall.