by Cate Conte
“Technically, she’s not on Sea Spray Lane so she shouldn’t get in trouble if she just comes in,” my mother said helpfully, reading over my shoulder.
Katrina was outside texting me question after question, trying to gauge if she’d lose her job if she came to the meeting. I’d told her that if she came in quietly, sat in the back, and kept her mouth shut she’d be fine. My mother seemed to think so too.
I fired off a text telling her to come in with a hat on and be nondescript, then put my phone on Do Not Disturb. If she had any other questions she’d need to come in and ask me in person.
My mom and I were sitting in the front row where Edie Wright Barnes had graciously led us as their “special guests.” Edie was heavily on the “no cats” side of the fence, but she knew better than to be rude to my mother. Despite the fact that my mother dressed like a gypsy, free-spirited herself all over the island, and advocated for the “filthy creatures” currently invading Edie’s precious neighborhood, she was still Brian James’s wife and, therefore, would always command respect.
“I told her,” I said, sticking my phone in my bag. “But you know Katrina. She’s really worried about all this. As much as she cares about the cats, she needs her job.”
The drama with Avery a few days ago hadn’t helped matters either. June Proust had called the Daybreak Harbor PD—Katrina’s employer—to lodge a complaint because she’d been mad that Avery hadn’t been arrested. Tensions were already high since Katrina had been banned from Sea Spray Lane, and he wasn’t happy to hear more complaints from that neighborhood. She’d kind of shot herself in the foot when she’d gotten (anonymous) word that someone had started a petition looking to poison the cats. She’d gone straight to the neighborhood and started knocking on doors, demanding to know what kind of soulless individual could even think of such a thing. Needless to say, her approach had not worked in her favor.
Except for a very short stint when she’d left the island for college, Katrina had lived here forever. She cared about the island and the animals on it, especially the ones who needed help. She did the best she could for the animals in need with very little funding and often used her own money. I knew for a fact she personally supplied food for some of the feral colonies around the island, even the ones for which she’d found feeders. Usually people were grateful for the help, and most people felt sorry for the cats. But the Sea Spray people were causing so many problems, it was shocking.
And tonight I had to sit here and listen to them being all fake with my mother and me, and it made me really cranky. But then, most things made me really cranky these days.
The door opened in the back. I turned to see Katrina slinking in, her black knit cap pulled low over her forehead, covering her dark blond hair. She also had glasses on, which was interesting because Katrina didn’t wear glasses. I watched, trying to keep the grin off my face as she slid into a seat in the back and pulled her giant puffy coat up around her face. She ignored me.
“Welcome!” Edie Barnes clapped her small, bird-like hands together to get the small crowd’s attention, causing me to jerk my attention away from Katrina. I risked another glance around the room to see if any of our allies had come. Monica Hackett was here, and Whitney Piasecki. They sat together in the second row. Monica winked at me. Whitney blew me a kiss. Trey Barnes sat a few rows behind me, arms crossed over his chest. When Edie sent a semi-withering stare in his direction, he sat up straight and pasted an interested smile on his pretty face. I had no idea what his position on the cats was. He didn’t seem to have much of a position on anything, although he was, admittedly, nice to look at. Along with being at least twenty-five years younger than Edie—maybe more—I hadn’t seen many indications of large amounts of brain cells.
The rest of the crowd, unfortunately, was of the “no” camp. June and Virgil Proust were in the front row. June Proust was practically vibrating with negative energy. Her husband stared at his phone, looking completely checked out. They didn’t even acknowledge each other’s presence, though they sat next to each other. Elaine Deasy, another neighbor, was a straight-up “no.” My mother and I had been to her house recently to offer some education, and she’d basically shut the door in our faces. No sign of a Mr. Deasy, though she wore a ring, so maybe he’d distanced himself from all this. It didn’t look like any of them had noticed Katrina yet.
Then there was Lilah Gilmore. She wasn’t so much a no as she was all about the drama. In her unofficial role as town—or really island—crier, she soaked up these things like a sponge and got the news around town faster than the Daybreak Island Chronicle.
And speaking of the Chronicle, where was the reporter? My best friend Becky Walsh was the editor-in-chief of the paper, and I’d asked her to cover this story. I was hoping that if it got some publicity—slanted toward the cats, of course—that it would make these guys back down. I didn’t see anyone who looked reporterish. I hoped she hadn’t forgotten.
My mother elbowed me. I turned around and faced front again as Edie waited for everyone to sit and give her their unwavering attention.
“Thank you for making time for this special meeting. We’ve got some guests here with us today,” she went on. “Sophie James and her daughter, Madalyn. They’re here to speak about why they feel the … critters that live in the woods need to be fed by humans.”
I covered up my snort with a cough. My mother sent me a warning look. I got it. Don’t rock the boat.
But man, these people.
My mom got up and approached Edie with outstretched arms, air-kissing her like the best of them. “Thank you so much for having us,” she said, and beckoned me to the front of the room while Edie hurried to her seat next to Trey. I noticed that although there were seats still in the front row next to the Prousts, Edie didn’t sit there. Odd, because she and June were usually inseparable.
I joined my mother, feeling stiff next to her. My mom flowed through life like a river no matter what the situation. Her long skirts and giant, colorful scarfs perpetuated the image, and tonight was no different, although she had tried to tone it down just a tad to ensure these uptight New Englanders took her seriously.
“Good evening everyone,” she beamed. “Maddie and I are delighted to be here to talk about the feral cats, which I know has become a sensitive topic for your neighborhood.” She paused, looking around the room, gauging the response. A few people nodded. The opponents looked even more stiff than I felt. Monica Hackett looked amused. I could tell she thought the whole thing was just stupid. I noticed Curtis Barbagallo standing in the back, like he’d come in late and didn’t want to disrupt the class. He gave my mother a little wave, then sat down next to Katrina.
“My daughter is actually the expert here,” she said, squeezing my arm. “I’m going to let her tell you the real story about these cats. But first, I want to address some concerns right off the bat.” She stepped away from the podium, closer to the crowd, like a lawyer about to deliver what she hoped was an impactful opening statement. “I know there have been a lot of upsets in your neighborhood. Bickering, new people coming in and out—”
“Don’t forget the thefts!” This from a guy in the back row whom I didn’t recognize.
My mother fixed him with a stare that wasn’t exactly withering, but made him squirm all the same. Once he’d quieted down and the silence had dragged on for a beat long enough to make it uncomfortable, she continued. “And some unfortunate acts of theft and vandalism. I want to be clear that my daughter and her fellow volunteers are professionals. They have one purpose only for being in your neighborhood—to help the poor animals who can’t help themselves. They are living beings, and the only reason they are outside living in the woods is because somewhere along the way, an uncaring human tossed a cat or two out to fend for themselves. If those cats weren’t fixed, they reproduced—and those cats reproduced—and before you know it, you have a line of innocent cats who never had the benefit of a warm house or a human touch.” She paused and looked around, ma
king eye contact with each member of the fifteen or so people in the audience. “These people—or cats, for that matter—aren’t coming around to be a nuisance to you, or to negatively impact your quality of life. So my ask of you all is to have some compassion for the cats and some patience for the volunteers.”
A few people shuffled in their seats. Virgil Proust stared at his phone. June shot him daggers out of the corners of her eyes. My mother ignored all of this and looked at me expectantly.
Showtime. Ugh. I hated public speaking. Especially to a room full of unfriendlies. I cleared my throat, trying not to appear as stiff as I felt. “Thanks,” I said. “So really, I just wanted to give you some facts about feral cats.” I felt like I should have a slide presentation or something. “The most important thing to remember is that they aren’t socialized, like my mother said. Which means they don’t want to interact with you. They either haven’t ever been in contact with humans, or it’s been a really long time.”
“So they’re vicious,” June Proust said, nodding so emphatically I feared her giant glasses would fall off her face. “I told you. They could spread rabies.” She poked the woman next to her, who yanked her arm away from June’s offending finger.
I could see Katrina sit up straight in her seat in the back, and sent her a look. “Not at all,” I said loudly, over the hum that had started in the crowd. “It’s actually the opposite. They’re afraid of you.”
“Hmmpf.” June didn’t sound like she agreed.
“Then why can’t they just be moved to a place where they’re not bothering anyone?” Edie Barnes chimed in. “Why do they have to live in our woods?”
Katrina literally twitched trying to stay quiet.
Whitney Piasecki slowly pushed herself to her feet, favoring her bad leg. She reminded me of a younger Bette Midler, with wild red curls and bold makeup. “They aren’t bothering anyone,” she said, looking straight at Edie. “At least, not anyone who has better things to do.”
A snicker went through the crowd. Katrina applauded. Edie shot Whitney a death stare, then turned it on Katrina. I could see her trying to figure out why she looked familiar.
“She has a point, Edie dear,” Lilah said from her seat where she was inspecting her manicure. “They’re just cats. You’d never see them if you didn’t go looking for them.” She winked at me and my mother, then met Edie’s eyes and shrugged. “I’m just saying.”
“It’s never ideal to try to move a colony,” I said, trying to get their attention back to me. “Especially now that they have feeders.” I didn’t mention that the long-term plan with feeders was to try to get the people in the actual neighborhood to take responsibility, not just assume the volunteers were going to traipse over there twice a day forever. “It’s a last resort. The cats are bonded to their neighborhood. They’re used to it. They feel safe there. They might even try to return if they’re taken away. And even if this colony was successfully relocated, it can create what’s known as a ‘vacuum effect.’ Meaning other cats will move in to take advantage of the resources.”
Edie made a face. I hoped her face froze that way.
“We’re also holding clinics where we can vaccinate them for things like rabies”—this with a side glance at June—“as part of our trap-neuter-return efforts so they don’t continue to reproduce,” I went on, trying to ignore the haters.
“What on earth does that mean?” June snapped. “And how much is it costing us taxpayers?”
Virgil Proust heaved a sigh, then leaned over and said something into her ear. She frowned at him. He got up and walked into the hallway, pressing his phone to his ear.
I gritted my teeth and refocused on June. “It’s not costing you anything. It’s costing the rescue people money, but not you.”
But she had stopped listening to me and was staring after her husband. I could legit see her anger—red rising up her neck and face, making me think of those old Looney Tunes cartoons where one of them—Elmer Fudd, I think?—got so mad at Bugs Bunny that his blood boiled all the way up his body until his head exploded.
“I really don’t see what the problem is,” Monica Hackett cut in. She stood too, pushing the sleeves of her sleek cashmere sweater up on her forearms. “Who cares if a bunch of cats live in the woods? How is it affecting your lives at all? This whole thing is ridiculous. Christmas is right around the corner, and we should all be focused on being kind, not causing trouble and taking it out on a bunch of harmless animals.”
I wanted to applaud her but managed to resist.
Edie turned to her with a saccharine-sweet smile. “My dear, I’m afraid it is affecting us. It’s bringing our property values down. We have strangers traipsing around our properties. And we’ve had a plethora of valuable items stolen from people’s yards.”
I had to roll my eyes at this. Apparently some light-up Santas were now valuable items.
“And I’m afraid that’s only the start of it. Wait until people’s houses actually start getting broken into.” Edie crossed her arms and faced front again, daring someone to disagree with her.
My mother accepted the dare. “Hold on a moment,” she said sternly. “My daughter is running this operation, and I do take offense at the insinuation that she has brought in undesirable people who are stealing from you all. They are there to do a job. And like I said, they are professionals.”
A sudden movement in the back of the room caught my attention. I watched in slow-motion horror as Katrina jumped up and strode up to where my mom and I stood. I wanted to jump in front of her and stop her from doing this to herself, but I couldn’t actually move.
She stepped up next to us and faced the group. “I’m sure some of you have no desire to hear from me, but I need to say my piece,” she said, pulling the fake glasses off.
I watched Edie Barnes’s mouth turn into a giant O. She sat up straighter, as if she was about to say something, but Katrina ignored her and plowed on.
“I’m Katrina Denning and I’m the ACO for Daybreak Island. All we want to do is help these cats. We didn’t mean to cause any problems in the neighborhood and we certainly have no interest in stealing anyone’s stuff. Yes, I did get upset when I heard that someone wanted to poison the cats—”
“Terrible idea,” Curtis pointed out from the back of the room.
“It is,” Katrina said. “Thank you. We just want to feed the cats, get them fixed, and let them live their lives. Please just let us do that.”
I held my breath. I think my mom did too; certainly Whitney did. Everyone waited in suspended animation to see what would happen next.
But actually, it was nothing that any of us could have imagined.
At that moment June, who had been laser-focused on her husband since he’d left the room to make a call, shot out of her seat and into the hallway after him. From my vantage point at the front of the room, I was at the perfect angle to witness what happened next. Virgil’s back was to the door so he didn’t see her coming. I watched in fascination as she reached over his shoulder, yanked the phone out of his hand, catching him by surprise, and hurled it against the wall. All heads in the room whipped around at the noise it made as it hit the wall then fell to the floor, shattered.
I held my breath as Virgil turned slowly around to stare at his wife, wondering what he’d do. Shout at her? Worse? But he didn’t do anything. Just stared at her, like he’d never seen her before.
June turned around and returned to her seat. “Well?” she demanded. “What else?”
Chapter 6
Sunday, December 20: two days before the murder
7 a.m.
“So sweet of Whitney to get us all that food,” I said, shoving a snow-covered branch aside as we plowed through the woods to our destination.
“Yeah, she’s awesome. Too bad more of them aren’t like that.” Adele Barrows said, huffing a little as she lugged her bag of food and a gallon of water. I worried about Adele. Aside from volunteering regularly at my café, she also worked as a crossing guar
d, drove a taxi, did all kinds of other rescue work including feeding the feral colony, and smoked like a fiend.
I wished Adele would quit smoking. And drinking boxes of wine. But it was hardly my business. We were on our way to check traps and do the morning feeding. Adele had come to the café early and gotten things cleaned in record time, so we figured it would be easier to just go together and get it done. When we arrived, Whitney must have been watching for us. She had come out to greet us and pointed us toward her garage, where we found two giant bags of dry cat food and two cases of wet food.
“A little something to help out,” she said, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “I wish I could get in there and feed for you.”
“Eventually,” I told her. “You need to get all the way better first.”
She rubbed her leg and grimaced. “Seems like this is taking forever.”
I supposed I should ask her what had happened to her leg at some point, but that also wasn’t my business and honestly, I just wanted to feed and get out of there. I thanked her and grabbed one of the cases of wet food.
Armed with it and two traps, I headed off, walking slightly ahead of Adele. The first thing I noticed were all the footprints. I frowned. None of our people—well, the one person we had left besides us two—would’ve come out here already. We were tightly coordinated, and with so few of us it was hard to get in each other’s way. Also it hadn’t snowed for the past two days, so everything was pretty tamped down and starting to melt in some places with the fluctuating temps. But it looked like there had been a lot of people running around out here. Literally. The prints went in circles in some spots, like people were chasing each other.
Weird. I figured it was a bunch of kids messing around, though. What else was there to do out here in the winter?
“At least there are a couple of good neighbors,” I said over my shoulder to Adele. “We have enough dry food for the next two weeks at least. And the wet food should last about that long too.” Finding people to physically do the feeding would be our number-one win, but people who bought us food were close seconds. Even buying cheaper food, feeding a whole feral colony was expensive. And if you were feeding more than one colony at a time, well, the food bill alone could be insurmountable, never mind vet care to get them all fixed and up to date on vaccines even at the heavily-discounted clinic rates. And since Katrina wasn’t allowed to collect donations in her official capacity as animal control officer, the donations had to be given to me through the cat café. Semantics, sure, but that meant on paper that this colony was my responsibility.