Da Vinci's Cat

by Catherine Gilbert Murdock

  She rubbed against his leg. “Mrow,” she agreed. I love you.

  “I love you, too. I’ve just remembered another verse—do you want to hear? It begins ‘Haec ate,’ I think.”

  “Mrow.” Juno vaulted off the planks for the closet. Luckily the door was closed.

  “Or is it ‘Haec ait’?”

  She scratched at the closet door.

  “Don’t do that—”

  With a tug of her paw, Juno pulled the door open. He had not latched it properly.

  “No!” Federico leaped off the stack.

  She slipped inside.

  “No—” He hurled himself forward, pulling the door wide.

  She was gone.

  “Juno!” Don’t panic, he told himself. Soon Santo Spirito would ring, and all the other churches, and Herbert would appear with Juno, just as before. Federico must simply shut the door—properly this time—and wait.

  He paced, biting his nails in the thundering silence. The dark night hovered beyond the windows; the heavens gaped down. That dreadful closet. He hated it.

  Bonngg, began the bells of Santo Spirito. Bonngg.

  Federico sagged with relief. Now at last his friend would be here. His friend and his cat. His friends. Both of them.

  Bonngg, the bells continued.

  He kept his eyes on the closet door. Light glinted on the eight glass balls. The holly wood inlay glowed palely beside the ebony black. But no click of the latch. No greeting.

  No mrow; no Juno.

  Bonngg. . . .

  Bonngg. . . .

  Church after church struck midnight. Santa Maria in Trastevere. San Silvestro. Santa Francesca. Federico waited and waited. But his friends, it seemed, would never return.

  Part II

  Now, and Then

  Chapter 9

  Bee of Brooklyn

  Bee slumped against the Subaru window, staring at the trees flashing by. “Why would anyone live here? It’s so boring.”

  “It’s not boring. Look, a bicycle.” Mom pointed as she drove. “Lots of people live here. I bet some of them are even happy.” They passed a man walking a golden retriever. “See? That’s nice.” She squeezed Bee’s knee. “I’m sorry, Queen Bee.”

  Bee was supposed to be in Italy right now, spending the summer with her grandparents like always. But Nonna and Pepe had won a last-minute cruise, so instead she was stuck with her moms.

  Bee crossed her arms over her T-shirt—her favorite T-shirt, black with a gold crown on the front. Probably no one around here wore T-shirts like hers, or black leggings. “He should have gotten a shelter dog.”

  “Maybe it is a shelter dog. Maybe it’s a rescue.” Mom pulled into the driveway of a big white house. “Who knows?”

  Bee sat up. “Wait—what? Why are we stopping here?”

  Mom unbuckled her seatbelt. “Remember that couple Moo helped? They needed someone to house sit. So ta-da.”

  Bee stared at the house. It had a lawn and flowerpots and green shutters. The front porch even had a swing. “Wow.” She’d never seen a porch swing in real life.

  “Don’t forget to carry stuff in,” Mom called as she unlocked the front door.

  “I know,” Bee sighed. Mom and Moo were always telling her to carry stuff in. She shouldered her book bag, so heavy she could barely make it up the steps. Inside the house were couches and coffee tables and pale blue walls. “This place is wild.”

  “Don’t forget to take your shoes off,” Mom called.

  “Do I have to?” Bee plopped down on the polished wood floor. “It takes forever.”

  “You could wear other shoes.”

  “I don’t like other shoes.” Moo had bought Bee two pairs of high-tops after Bee begged and pleaded and made a video. It was always a big decision, which combination to wear. The indigo (left) plus violet (right) was her favorite, and Moo’s.

  “Come on in. I’ve got hummus and ginger ale.”

  “Ginger ale?” Bee padded into the kitchen. It was huge and shiny, like in a magazine. “But Moo says soda equals sugar equals poison.”

  “Well, Moo’s not here.” Mom grinned at her, looking around the kitchen with a loaf of bread in her hand. “These people weren’t rich, you know. But her father was a doctor way back when. The living room used to be his exam room.”

  Bee dragged a carrot through the hummus. “Are there ghosts?”

  “You wish. Anyway, one day the woman was cleaning out a cupboard and found an old drawing. Like, really old. Pen and ink.” Mom taught art history. She could talk about ink for hours.

  Bee waited, carrot in hand. “And?”

  “And it turned out to be by Michelangelo.”

  “Wait—Michelangelo? The Michelangelo?”

  “Yep. And they sold it. Guess how much.”

  “I dunno. A million dollars?”

  “Six point five.”

  “Six point five what? Million?” Bee dropped the carrot. “Six point five million dollars?”

  “You don’t remember Moo talking about this? So they sold it and fixed up the house, and now they’re on vacation in Hawaii.”

  “Wait a minute.” Bee retrieved the carrot. “How did a drawing by Michelangelo get into a cupboard in nowhere New Jersey?”

  Mom put broccoli in the fridge. “They think the doctor got it as payment back in the forties. So much art was being smuggled out of Europe during World War II—”

  “It was stolen?” Why hadn’t anyone told Bee this story?

  “No one could prove it. Moo was one of the specialists they brought in.”

  Bee peered around the kitchen. “Maybe there are a couple more hidden somewhere.”

  “Don’t even think about it. You’re on your best behavior, understand? These people are being very nice about letting us stay here.”

  “I’m always on my best behavior.”

  Mom’s cell phone rang. “Hey there,” she said, putting it on speaker. “How’d the meeting go?”

  “Un tempo sprecato.” A waste of time. Moo always switched to Italian when she was mad. “I’m already at the train station. Hey, Bombo, you like the house?”

  “It’s great. Especially the water.” Bee took a gulp of ginger ale, grinning at Mom. Mom grinned back.

  “You take your shoes off inside, okay? And you do not climb the trees.”

  “It was only one tree and it wasn’t that high.”

  “You gave me a heart attack,” Moo scolded.

  She’s Italian, Mom mouthed, shrugging at Bee. “Moo, as fascinating as this conversation is, I’ve got a speech in three hours.” Mom was going to a conference—that’s why they were in New Jersey. “I’m still thinking about changing the last picture. . . .”

  Bee skittered out of the kitchen. She’d been listening to speech talk for months. “I’ll be outside.”

  “Hey, Bombo,” Moo called, “tonight we make pizza, maybe?”

  “Yes!” Bee punched the air. “You’re the best, Moo.” She bounded out, settling on the swing to lace her high-tops. A porch swing—how cool was that? She could spend all day out here, drinking ginger ale and reading every book in her bag. She grinned, rocking. She should send a picture to Nonna and Pepe. And tonight was homemade pizza!

  She leaned back to look at the house. Why green shutters? If she owned this place, she’d paint the shutters pink or orange—one of Michelangelo’s colors. That was a pretty amazing story. Imagine going through a cupboard and finding a drawing worth millions of dollars. That was fun art history. Not Mom’s kind about speeches and ink.

  She studied the house. Not orange shutters, she decided. Maybe violet, like her high-tops. You never saw purple on houses even though it was such a great color—

  A crash jolted her upright. “Peep peep peep peep!” A bird was in trouble, somewhere close, off to Bee’s right.

  Slowly she crept toward the sound: off the porch, past a shrub, into the yard next door and a tangle of tall grass. . . .

  A cat hunched under a bush, a fluttering spa
rrow in its jaws. “Hey,” Bee cried, batting aside the branches. The cat glared at her and leaped away. But Bee leaped, too—she didn’t play kickball for nothing—and caught the cat’s tail. “Let it go!” Off the bird flew in a blur.

  The cat spun and scratched at her, but Bee knew a thing or two about cats. Pepe had barn cats that were meaner than snakes. She’d spent whole summers keeping them away from the chickens. She gripped the cat. “You shouldn’t even be outside. Do you know how many songbirds get killed every year by house cats? Three billion.” Bee had done a report on it. Cat owners never thought about birds.

  The cat glared at her. Its fur was yellow like a lion, and its eyes were yellow, too, with black edges. Kind of Goth, or Ancient Egyptian. At least it was no longer scratching.

  Bee backtracked across the yard and banged open the front door. The cat hunkered in her arms, whining a low growl.

  Mom sat in the living room with her laptop, phone to her ear. “I’m just not sure that’s a strong enough visual. . . .” She flapped her hand at Bee. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “That’s not our cat. What, Moo? I missed the rest of that.”

  Bee glared down at the cat hanging like a sack. “But it was killing birds.”

  “Take it outside! How about this one?” Mom asked, tapping her laptop.

  The cat stared up at Bee. “Mrow?”

  “Don’t try to charm me.” Bee stomped out the door. She couldn’t just let it go. This cat’s owner needed to learn how dangerous cats were to the environment.

  She marched toward the neighbor’s house, her jaw set.

  She almost lost her nerve. The place next door didn’t look like a picture in a magazine—more like an illustration in a book. A scary book. The grass was higher than Bee’s shins. Paint peeled off the shutters. “I’m doing this to save lives,” she hissed as she rang the doorbell.

  “Mrow,” the cat grumbled.

  “It’s your own fault.” Bee rang the doorbell again.

  “I’m coming,” a voice warbled. The lock clicked. “May I help you?” An old woman held the door with one bony hand. She gripped a cane with the other.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Bee began, “but house cats kill three billion songbirds a year—”

  The old woman stared at the cat. “Juno?” she whispered.

  “Three billion,” Bee repeated. Maybe she had the wrong house? “Cats kill for fun, not because they need to eat—”

  “Is it really you?” The woman reached toward the cat. “All those years he hoped you’d return. . . .” She looked up at Bee and screamed. “Tu!” she cried in Italian. You! Her hand shot out.

  Bee jerked back. The cat bolted out of her arms.

  “Cosa stai facendo qui?” The old woman clutched Bee’s T-shirt. What are you doing here? And then, in English: “How did you get out?”

  Chapter 10

  Miss Bother’s Friend

  Bee clung to Mom. “It was scary!” She hadn’t cried like this in years.

  Mom rubbed Bee’s back. “It sounds terrible.”

  “She just kept yelling in Italian. And then she started coughing, and all I could think of was Nonna and Pepe.”

  “Don’t worry, Queen Bee. They’re both strong as bulls.”

  “Let’s go back to Brooklyn right now. I’ll grab the ginger ale and you get your laptop—”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Bee looked up. They were on the couch, with Mom’s stuff all over the coffee table. Through the window Bee could see the old lady tapping her way up the front walk. “Run!” Bee cried.

  “Shh. Besides, we won’t have to run very fast.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Mom stood, giving Bee a pat. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  “Yeah: we shouldn’t have come here.” Bee pressed herself against the living-room wall, listening to snatches of conversation: So dreadfully sorry and I did not mean. . . . And Mom saying it was okay and that she understood and that she’d be delighted.

  The door shut. Mom returned to the living room. “What do you know? We’re invited to tea.”

  Bee flopped onto the couch. “Are you crazy?”

  Mom laughed. “Apparently you gave her quite a shock.”

  “She gave me a shock. Seriously, it was horrible—”

  “You look like a friend she had when she was a girl. And the cat looked like a pet of her father’s. . . . Ready?”

  “Wait—now?”

  “She’s already put on the kettle. I said I have a speech tonight but she was pretty insistent. It’ll only be for a few minutes.”

  Bee crossed her arms. “I’m not going.”

  “Suit yourself. But who knows? You might find Miss Bother interesting.”

  “Miss what?” That was a weird name.

  “Miss Bother. Her father was a big art dealer back in the day.” Mom grabbed her purse. “They say he’s the one who gave the Michelangelo drawing to the doctor. That’s what Moo told me, anyway.”

  “They say? Why don’t they just ask Miss whatever her name is?”

  Mom cocked an eyebrow at Bee. “Miss Bother. She refuses to answer.”

  And so Bee found herself in Miss Bother’s living room, on a lumpy couch that smelled of mothballs and oldness. Paintings signed H BOTHER hung on the walls. A little table held an old-fashioned phone with a twisty cord.

  Miss Bother offered a plate that shook in her grip. “A cookie?” Her voice was so old that it quavered.

  “Thank you.” The cookie crumbled in Bee’s hand. The teacup looked held together by stains. “Did your father paint those pictures?”

  “Oh, yes. He loved art, my father. He loved to make it, he loved to collect it, he loved to share it. Especially the art of Italy. We spent much time there.”

  “Me, too,” said Bee—in Italian, to demonstrate. “I live there every summer.”

  “What a gift. My father insisted I maintain my Italian.” Miss Bother turned to Mom. “Do you speak it?” she asked in English.

  Mom put down her teacup. “Lucky Bee is fluent, but I’m still learning.”

  Bee studied the paintings. They were kind of sweet, like kindergarten artwork on a fridge. She didn’t see anything worth millions of dollars. “Did your dad,” she said, trying to sound casual, “you know, ever own a Michelangelo?”

  Mom shot her a glare, but Miss Bother only smiled. “My father found art in odd places. Many of his stories I myself don’t believe.” She took a sip, staring out the window. “Sometimes he’d recommend the buyer hold onto the piece for a while. Let the questions fade.”

  “So he actually did have that Michelangelo drawing?” Bee was being rude; she knew that. But she really wanted to know.

  Miss Bother gazed at Bee, her eyes bright. “We have not been acquainted long, young lady. But I believe you are capable of solving any puzzle.” She turned to Mom. “You are visiting the university?”

  Mom gave Bee a warning look. “I’m speaking at a conference tonight, in fact.”

  Bee peered at the photographs on the side table: a girl and a man on horseback somewhere out west. The two of them in front of the Eiffel Tower. In a gondola in Venice.

  “My father and I,” Miss Bother explained. “He adopted me when I was ten. He promised he’d never leave me, and he never did till the day he died.” She waved a bony arm at sketches of a kitten. “And that is Juno. He always hoped she would come back. He made special accommodations.”

  Bee scanned the photos. “Where’s your mom?”

  “Bee!” Mom hissed. Mom could hiss anything. But Bee got questions all the time about her dad and where her dad was and who was her dad.

  “I’m afraid I have no memories of my mother. But my father made the two of us a family. He saved my life, you know. I had diphtheria, and he rushed me to the doctor—the doctor who owned the house you’re in now.” She pulled down her collar. “Do you see this scar? The doctor had to make a hole so I could breathe. That’s how swollen my throat was.”

  “
That’s horrible.” Bee was absolutely doing her next science report on diphtheria.

  “It was. . . .” Miss Bother’s voice trailed off. “Forgive me. I must confess I invited you here for a reason.” She struggled to stand, and Mom jumped to help. “You’re too kind.” She tapped into the dining room, to a painting of a peacock hanging over the fireplace. It might have been a peacock. It had H BOTHER at the bottom. “If you could”—she nodded to Mom—“there is a latch on the left side. Pull the frame, please.”

  Mom felt for the latch, and the picture swung out from the wall. Bee gasped in delight. She adored secret hiding places! There was another picture behind it. A drawing.

  “I’m afraid I can’t reach it anymore. It’s so nice you’re here—I haven’t seen my friend in years.”

  Mom stumbled backward. “Bee, it’s you.”

  Bee’s jaw dropped. She was looking at a drawing of herself. A drawing of Bee with shoulder-length curls. The girl even had the scar from the can opener, and a mole. “It’s me.”

  Miss Bother nodded. “Now you can understand my surprise.”

  “But—” Mom struggled. “I’ve never seen this before. Have you?”

  Bee shook her head. No way. The girl in the drawing looked so sad!

  “The pen work is stunning—it looks sixteenth century,” Mom said. “Oh, and Undici anni. . . . What’s that? ‘The age to say?’”

  “It means eleven years,” said Bee. Mom’s Italian was so bad. “Hey, just like me.”

  “Her birthday was last month,” Mom explained to Miss Bother.

  “Well, happy birthday, Beatrice.” She pronounced Bee’s name the Italian way, with the extra chiming syllable. “I must get you a gift.”

  “That’s okay.” Bee didn’t want anything, except maybe this drawing. The drawing was super cool. “It’s so beautiful.” Not that she wanted it. But. “Moo will totally flip over this.”

  Miss Bother sighed. “You have heard, I am sure, about my neighbors? So many years they spent getting their treasure approved. How lucky they were that Michelangelo took the time to sign his sketch.” She glanced around at the sagging drapes, the worn carpet, the paint peeling from the ceiling. “I am very happy for them.”