Ladies Courting Trouble

by Dolores Stewart Riccio

  “Oh Great Isis!” Heather cried. “You mean no one’s been looking after Buster? We’re going to have to get into the Luckey house immediately. Patty, I want you to go right over to that executor and demand the key. Poor deserted cat may be wasting away in that big old place.”

  “Well…I…” Patty’s expression was desperately uncertain. She looked around, possibly for her husband. No help in sight.

  Not one to delay when an animal’s welfare was concerned, Heather put her arm through Patty’s and simply marched her over to the small man with the brush mustache, who listened and nodded and smiled encouragingly.

  “The house is open this evening for out-of-town relatives, and refreshments have been laid out in the dining room,” Patty said when they rejoined our huddle. “Mr. Shortsleeves says to go on over there and search for ourselves, it’s perfectly okay with him. He says no one has seen the cat since the Luckeys were taken ill. He’s been in the house himself, of course, and those cousins, the heirs, and a woman who was hired to clean the place and set up for the reception after the funeral tomorrow. He thinks maybe the little bugger ran away.”

  “I don’t believe it. We’ll find him,” Heather said grimly. “And a Maine Coon cat is hardly a ‘little bugger.’”

  “Maybe you’ll want to give the kitty a good home, Patty,” Phillipa suggested, with a sly wink in my direction. “You have lots of room in that big parsonage, and a cat can be such a comforting companion. As foster mother to an abandoned waif myself, I should know.”

  “Great idea!” Heather beamed approvingly.

  “Oh dear, no. My goodness, Wyn would be hacking and coughing, I’m sure. His bronchial tubes are so very delicate. And that’s the very cat that scratched Wyn when he was blessing the critter. No, no, I couldn’t do that,” Patty said.

  “Yes, better not,” I agreed. “Mrs. Pynchon would be quite upset if you started to take homeless animals into the parsonage. And there would be nothing she could do about it, either. With Wyn working on his book about Saint Francis and needing a bit of inspiration, Mrs. P. wouldn’t dare interfere. After all, Wyn already has a publisher—didn’t you tell me that Beacon Press is interested? Having Wyn as pastor could turn out to be quite a feather in the church’s cap. Yes, if you took in the Luckeys’ sweet cat, Mrs. P would be flummoxed for sure.”

  “Flummoxed? Mrs. P.? And nothing she could do about it?” Patty seemed to be turning this notion over in her mind.

  “Nothing,” I declared, “no matter how high her blood pressure rose with the frustration of holding her tongue.”

  “Well. I suppose Wyn could give it a try. See how his allergies react and all. And if Buster would refrain from spitting and scratching. But I’ve never had a pet to take care of. I’m not sure I’d know what to do.”

  “Oh, a cat’s no trouble at all.” Phillipa smiled brilliantly at Patty. “That’s what these friends of mine assured me when they thrust Zelda into my care.”

  “Let’s move it, ladies. I’d like to search the Luckeys’ before the family gets back to the house.” Heather walked briskly toward the door, her chestnut braid swinging, and all of us followed like sheep. We hadn’t meant to barge in on the Luckeys’ relatives’ domain, but now that we’d been summoned to a rescue operation, what else could we do?

  The Luckey sisters’ house was a three-story Victorian of the haunted-mansion architectural style. It had twin turrets, several odd chimneys, and long double-windows that looked like sad eyes. This would not be an easy search.

  The hired helper had already set up coffee and tea for the cousins, and when we arrived, she was in the midst of laying out glasses around a decanter of sherry. Heather helped herself to two glassfuls in quick succession before directing us to separate for the search. Deidre paused to explain matters to the surprised woman, whose name was Mrs. Pigeon. She shook her head—no, she hadn’t seen the poor kitty anywhere.

  We reconnoitered in the front hall beside a looming oak coat-tree with beveled-glass mirrors that warped every image. Surely it was bad luck even to glance in them. My face looked spectral, and it was clear that I needed to do something about my hair, which was hanging in my eyes like Scruffy’s.

  Phillipa looked over my shoulder. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall…Who’s the spookiest of all? Do you think it’s about time for a visit to my hair salon, Cass?”

  “My very thought. As long as it’s not Gloria’s Crowning Glory.”

  “You girls go on.” Deidre pushed us aside and ran her fingers expertly through her curls, leaving a few attractive pixie wisps on her forehead. “I’ll stay to give Mrs. Pigeon a hand laying out refreshments.” Then, in a stage whisper, she added, “Someone ought to check for brownies, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. “Or anything chocolate. Or suspect in any way. What a catastrophe that would be!”

  “I don’t know where to look,” Patty whined. “And I don’t feel right about poking around in the Luckeys’ house without their permission.”

  “They’re dead, Patty,” I reminded her. “But I know what you mean. It does seem so intrusive.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Heather. “Will you gals stop admiring yourselves in those weird mirrors and get cracking? Think about that poor, bereaved cat dying somewhere in this mausoleum because no one cares. Patty, you check in the bedrooms and bathroom—and I charge you to open every drawer, cabinet, and closet. Phil and Fiona, you search the parlor and the library, particularly behind any heavy pieces of furniture. In case the relatives return from the wake, you two have the kind of presence that no one will question. In fact, they may not even see Fiona if she gets herself into that invisibility glamour. I’m going up to the third floor. Cats can get in anywhere, but sometimes they can’t get out again. And this place is cubbyhole-heaven.”

  “What about me?” I was beginning to feel left out.

  “I’m saving the best for last. I want you to check around in the cellar. Ask Mrs. Pigeon if she’s seen a flashlight anywhere that you can use. I have one in my bag, but I’ll need it if I have to go on up to the attic. All right, everyone check her watch. It’s seven forty-five on the nose. Try to meet back here at eight-thirty.”

  Mrs. Pigeon didn’t have the faintest idea where the household flashlight might be, but after I assured her again that we were here at Mr. Shortsleeves’s behest, she didn’t seem to mind my looking in the kitchen drawers. I found a rusted flashlight in the junk drawer that every large old kitchen seems to have—along with small-appliance parts, rubber bands, metal rings of dubious origin, and assorted small tools. The battery was a bit weakened, but, after all, the cellar had a light. I might not even need the flashlight.

  But I did. The cellar light dangling on a cord was a 40-watt bulb trying to do a 125-watt job in that cavernous old cellar, whose strange turns, odd partitions, and variety of wall surfaces suggested something out of Edgar Allan Poe. I stumbled around from one cobwebby corner to another, and, not being a fan of spiders, turned up the collar of my jacket, wishing I had a scarf to cover my hair.

  That poor cat! I finally found Buster in what must have been the old coal room. I’d had to swing the door open. Perhaps he’d accidentally imprisoned himself, or he’d sensed his companions’ tragedy and hidden from possibly perfidious strangers. Not much light, but the faint flashlight beam caught those two gleaming, baleful eyes behind an overturned galvanized-tin pail.

  “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” I called soothingly. The cat’s eyes slitted with suspicion.

  “Okay, Buster, let’s get a move out of here,” I ordered firmly. The cat statue peered at me unblinkingly in the dark.

  “How long since you’ve had a square meal and a lick of water, hey? I bet Mrs. Pigeon can find you a nice can of kitty salmon,” I coaxed.

  Buster hissed. It was a mean hiss with real claws behind it. And he was a big, burly cat, a tabby with a long sweeping tail curled around his paws in a most dramatic and regal pose. His hair-tufted ears kept moving as if collecting sound
s from all directions. His stare was calculated to intimidate; nevertheless, I moved in closer. Why hadn’t I thought to bring the gloves I keep in my Jeep? I stretched out a tentative hand toward the cat. Buster gave a cat scream and executed a warning slash through the air, like a fencer testing his rapier. I snatched my hand back out of harm’s way.

  I really didn’t want to have to call Heather down here for help. Besides, Buster might disappear into another hiding place while I was gone. I thought about how well I communicated with Scruffy. But I’d never really talked to a cat before. Or more to the point, listened to what a cat had to say. Well, I would give it a try.

  Closing my eyes, I attempted to empty my mind and move my consciousness into Buster’s brain. When animals communicate with humans, they speak in pictures that can be read as words. With Scruffy, of course, when he takes on that alpha-dog look, his stance jaunty and his ears perked, it’s more of a real conversation. (I won’t go into the discussion of whether animals think or not. Every Wiccan knows the answer to that one, and we don’t have to implant electrodes in some chimp’s brain to test the theory.)

  So there I was crouched in the old coal room with only the rapidly fading beam of a weak flashlight, trying to move myself into the mind of a strange cat. Softly, I murmured, “Why don’t you tell me what you’d like to do, and I’ll try to help.”

  My caretakers have gone away. Maybe they’re not coming back. Wooooe, wooooeeee, it’s so hard to find good caretakers.

  “Yes, they have gone. And I’m sorry to tell you, they’ve journeyed to Summerland forever. But I’ve found another caretaker who will make you comfy in a home of many rooms with all the scratching places and hidey-holes you could wish for. Her name is Patty, and I know she’ll minister to your needs quite adequately.”

  Patty? Ow, ow. Silly little name. Will the new caretaker cater to my wishes and whims? I also require a soothing belly rub from time to time.

  “You can call her Patricia. With patience and persistence, Patricia can be well trained, I’m sure. I’ll tell her everything that you require.”

  I want to bathe myself now. I wouldn’t want Patricia to see me like this.

  “In a crisis, it’s sometimes necessary to forgo one’s toilette. Right now what you need is a proper dinner to keep up your strength.”

  Ha! A great nocturnal hunter need never go hungry. I am adequately fed on mice and beetles I myself have captured in this dark place. But as a change of pace, I would enjoy a dish of poached salmon with egg sauce or a broiled chicken liver with bacon.

  “Wouldn’t we all, Puss. I’ll see what the kitchen has to offer. Can I give you a lift up the stairs?”

  Buster crept forward, and in a sudden burst of confidence, leaped into my arms. At my age, it’s not that easy to rise from a crouch with a twenty-pound cat hanging on you.

  Ugh! What is that disgusting smell?

  “Dog, probably.”

  Why don’t you get rid of him, and then you can be my caretaker. I will call you Tabitha—a decent human name.

  “Actually, my name is Cass, and you’re Buster.”

  If a cat can be said to snort in derision, Buster snorted. Listen, Tabitha, my name is Loki of Valhalla. And I want you to make it clear to Caretaker Patricia that I will no longer answer to Buster.

  “Yes, of course, your lordship.” I freed one hand to stuff the flashlight in my pocket and trudged upstairs with the cat.

  Mrs. Pigeon screamed when she saw us. Fiona and Phillipa came running from the living room. Naturally, this spooked the poor deserted cat, who hissed, jumped out of my arms, and darted away into the parlor.

  “Oh the dear wee, timid little thing,” cooed Mrs. Pigeon. “What’s its name?”

  “Loki of Valhalla.”

  Hearing the ruckus, Heather loped down the stairs with Patty following breathlessly. “I heard a cat down here. You got Buster?”

  “Almost. He’s dashed into the parlor somewhere.”

  “Look behind the piano,” Fiona suggested. She was right, of course. When it’s a matter of finding, you can’t do better than Fiona. Phillipa, Heather, and I edged the heavy old upright away from the wall. I wondered how Buster had managed to wedge his plump self into that narrow space.

  “Come now, Loki of Valhalla,” I said. “It’s time for your new caretaker Patricia to pledge you her loyalty.”

  Patricia? Wooooe, dear me, I look such a fright. I haven’t even had time to groom my ears.

  “Patricia will understand about your ears. She’s a bit disheveled herself, after looking for you in all the bedrooms.”

  “Oh, Great Goddess,” Phillipa said. “I believe Cass is now conversing with that mangy Buster.”

  “Shhhhh, will you, Phil!” I warned. “And it’s not Buster any more. It’s Loki of Valhalla. Come on now, dear Loki, we are all waiting eagerly to greet you.”

  Loki backed out with infinite slowness and no lack of grace.

  “Your lordship, Loki of Valhalla, allow me to present Patricia, your new caretaker. Patricia, this is Loki, who’s agreed to accept your hospitality on trial. Do you happen to have any chicken livers in the fridge?”

  “Chicken livers?” Patty shook her head in a bemused fashion, an oily lock of brown hair falling over her broad white forehead. “Right now, I don’t think there’s much of anything in the refrigerator. Do you think that Dick Devlin might declaw Buster…eh, Loki…before I bring him home? I have all that parsonage furniture to worry about—they notice every little scratch. And where will the cat be relieving himself? Outdoors, I trust.”

  Heather sighed deeply. “Patty, I know you speak out of ignorance, so I won’t hold it against you that you would imagine that my husband allows any cat in his care to be declawed, thus leaving him with no defenses. And you must never allow Buster to roam outdoors, where he will surely become lost, injured, or diseased. Cats must be nurtured within the house always. And Goddess knows, you have acres of rooms. Come on now, I’ll drive you and Buster home, and on the way we’ll stop at our place for a litter box and various other supplies you’ll need. Just like having a baby left on your doorstep, isn’t it? All kinds of things to learn. I think Dick has some pamphlets you should read.”

  “Maybe I should call Wyn. It’s not like me to bring home a guest without consulting his wishes.” Patty looked uncertain, but Heather put a strong arm around her shoulders for reassurance.

  “Most men love surprises, my dear,” Fiona said. “Gives them a chance to roll with the punches, so to speak. Have you ever thought of becoming a redhead? They say redheads really put fire into a marriage.”

  “I’ll bring Loki,” I hastened to volunteer before Patty got any more agitated. “You’ll recall that he isn’t a great traveler? I think he and I can communicate well enough to get him over to the parsonage. Maybe.”

  “If the herb business ever fails, Cass, you could probably make your living as a pet psychic.” Phillipa hummed a few bars of “Talk to the Animals.”

  Loki hissed and circled around my leg. Ow, ow…I am not going to go anywhere in that horrid belching box, Tabitha.

  “Oh, yes, you are.” I scooped up the cat firmly in my arms. With hasty good-byes all around, I headed out for the Jeep and plunked Loki in the back. Then I opened the folding divider that screens the back of the Jeep from the seats, a kind of doggie gate I never use for Scruffy, and took off without further conversation. Suffice it to say, I learned some interesting feline oaths on the way over to the parsonage, along with having to endure much spitting, screaming, and loose fur flying inside the car. Fortunately, it wasn’t a long trip.

  When I arrived, though, I had to wait for Heather and Patty, who had stopped off at the Morgan place for supplies. Except for the porch light, the parsonage was dimly lit, the only bright lamp being upstairs in Wyn’s study. I smiled, listening to the swearing cat, thinking of what a Saint-Francis sort of challenge the pastor had in store.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, I was truly tempted
to let the answering machine deal with Patty when she called before my coffee was ready, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to desert a novice pet parent.

  “I don’t know how I let myself get talked into taking in this insufferable creature,” she began at once. “Cass, you have to help me get rid of the beast. It started in at four this morning pacing back and forth, hollering and nipping my toes. I gave it a tin of that nice cat food Heather Devlin gave me, and it turned up its nose in a most insulting way. It has ignored its litter box and done the most disgusting mess in Wyn’s study. I have never smelled the like in my whole life.”

  “Calm down, Patty. You’re just going through a minor period of adjustment. You’re going to grow to love Loki, you’ll see. Where did you put the litter box?”

  “Never! It’s never going to work out. Wyn had to go over to the church to finish up his sermon. He’s beside himself. He says I should certainly have consulted him, it’s not like me to go ahead and make a major decision like this without our praying together over it. I put the litter box in the third-floor bathroom.”

  “Yes, dear, I understand. Try to remain calm. Would you check and make certain that the third-floor bathroom door is open and that Loki knows it’s there for his convenience?”

  After quite a bit more in that vein, Patty cried into the phone for about twenty minutes. Foisting Buster on Patty was Phillipa’s idea, I thought, and I am going to get her for this. Then I had a brainstorm. When I finally got Patty to hang up, by promising to stop by with some savory tidbits for the new king of the parsonage, I called Deidre.

  “Hey, Dee…do I remember correctly that you are on a school committee with Mrs. Chester Pynchon?”

  “That old dragon! Yes, and what do you want with her?”

  “I want you to call her up and complain that the Gethsemane parsonage is infested with cats.”

  “This will help?”

  “It’s drastic, but worth a try. The reverend is giving Patty a bit of grief over the new cat. Loki, a.k.a. Buster, is liable to end up at Animal Lovers unless Patty has an irresistible impulse to hang on. Such as a chance to turn up her nose at Mrs. Pynchon.”