The Cat Vanishes

by Louise Carson

  THE CAT VANISHES

  A MURDER AT THE MAPLES MYSTERY

  LOUISE CARSON

  DOUG WHITEWAY, EDITOR

  ALSO BY LOUISE CARSON

  NOVELS

  In Which: Book One of The Chronicles of Deasil Widdy

  The Cat Among Us

  Executor

  NOVELLAS

  Mermaid Road

  POETRY

  A Clearing

  Rope: A Tale Told in Prose and Verse

  © 2018, Louise Carson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by Doowah Design.

  Cover icons courtesy of Noun Project.

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for our publishing program.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Carson, Louise, 1957-, author

  The cat vanishes / Louise Carson.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77324-028-2 (softcover). — ISBN 978-1-77324-029-9 (EPUB)

  I. Title.

  PS8605.A7775C39 2018 C813’.6 C2018-905154-X

  C2018-905155-8

  Signature Editions

  P.O. Box 206, RPO Corydon, Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3M 3S7

  www.signature-editions.com

  For Gray and Pumpkin,

  who didn’t make it

  CONTENTS

  PART 1

  OLD BONES

  PART 2

  AND NEW

  PART 3

  OLD FRIENDS

  PART 4

  AND TRUE

  Daylight entered the basement from one cobwebbed window where a few empty pots, some hand tools and a bag of soil on a dirty bench indicated a gardener had once been, and maybe still was, in residence, but that any gardening was for the time being in abeyance.

  The only other light that broke the gloom came through cracks in the stone foundation where ancient mortar had crumbled and fallen away; where, doubtless in summer, spiders and beetles, earwigs and ants crept through.

  Now that insect life was, like the garden, temporarily stilled, the cracks admitted only thin slivers of white light and cold drafts.

  The ancient furnace crashed on. As it heated, warm air began to blow out of vents all over the house.

  Water ran down some of the basement walls, oozed up through cracks in the floor, puddled. In one corner, a sump pump wheezed on, pumped half-heartedly for a few seconds before switching itself off.

  Old furniture, covered in fine green mould, waited for someone to rescue it. A pile of lumber against a wall bloomed with mushrooms. A few crates of wine rested on a metal rack near the foot of the stairs.

  Daddy longlegs, year-round residents, spun extravagant filmy creations, undisturbed. And, in one damp recess, something moved.

  Part 1

  OLD BONES

  1

  Wasn’t Christmas supposed to be all feasting and merrymaking? Getting together with friends and family? Especially the latter? Gerry Coneybear shivered, thinking of her fractured family: her parents dead for years; Aunt Maggie murdered last spring; Uncle Geoff a recent suicide; Cousin Margaret committed to a mental hospital after her “breakdown”; and the rest of the family not speaking to Gerry.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Sometimes Cousin Andrew, who lived across the street, waved as he got into or out of his car. He was busy closing down the furniture business he’d shared with his father, Geoff. There had been a Petherbridge’s furniture store in Lovering for at least three generations that Gerry knew of. And Andrew had his newly widowed mother, Gerry’s Aunt Mary, to worry about. Her house was up for sale, as she’d never be able to maintain it — financially or practically — without Uncle Geoff.

  The only other member of Gerry’s family who was giving her any attention was Prudence Crick, her second cousin, still coming to clean The Maples three times a week. Not that Gerry was a messy person. Well, she was, a bit, in her bedroom and maybe in the bathroom. No, Prudence came so frequently because of the cats.

  How many were there now? There had been the original twenty. Then Stupid — er, Graymalkin, as Gerry’s neighbour Mr. Parminter had renamed him — had migrated next door to live with Mr. Parminter, and Marigold, the leader of the pride, had died. So, eighteen. But then Mother, a kindly feline, who couldn’t resist a sad story, brought home five black and white kittens, their eyes barely open, a few weeks ago. So, twenty-three.

  Gerry looked down at her feet, where the large banana box she’d gotten from the grocery store housed the kittens, all fast asleep against Mother’s vast marmalade-and-cream striped side. Gerry could hear Mother’s purr: steady, contented. How old did kittens have to be before you could give them away? She’d enjoyed feeding the little things warm milk from an eyedropper, but was thankful they’d graduated to tinned cat food. No more getting up twice in the night to top them up.

  She shivered again in the drafty room, this time from cold. Time to get more wood. She reminded herself that when she sold the painting by Paul-Émile Borduas that had been hanging innocuously on a wall of her Aunt Maggie’s house, she’d be able to afford all the insulation she needed.

  She put her empty coffee cup on the mantelpiece above the fireplace and walked from the living room into the large formal dining room where a few cats dozed on towel-covered chairs, then through the foyer and turned left, towards the back of the house. She yanked on the door that led to the screened-in porch. The door tended to stick where snow blew into the frame, melted by day, then froze at night. She stepped out onto the porch.

  A delightful, vine-covered paradise in the other three seasons, in winter the porch had little to recommend it. Snow sifted through the screens and made small windswept drifts across the grey-painted wooden floor. Though it was morning, the sky was overcast. More snow, Gerry thought glumly, as she reached down for an armload of wood.

  Six trips later and she’d finished transporting the pile of wood from the porch. She made up the fire, carefully placed the screen in front of it, and gently pulled the banana box a little further away from the hearth. Such was Mother’s trust in Gerry that she barely opened her eyes.

  When Gerry went into the kitchen, some of the cats that had been keeping her and Mother company by the fire followed, crowding around the shallow tub of kibble under the room’s tiny table.

  Gerry looked at the top of the fridge, where she still half-expected to see Marigold majestically eating her chopped chicken, far above the plebeian throng. A lump came into her throat. Well, the little cat had been sixteen. She’d had a good life, even if she was…a bit intense.

  Putting her coat on over her robe and pajamas, Gerry went out into the kitchen porch for her boots. Only Bob, of all the cats, followed her outside.

  He walked on the cleared surface of the driveway, then lurked under Gerry’s little red car as she removed the padlock from the shed and slid the massive door aside.

  Thin grey light tried to enter through two small windows at either side of the long building. Gerry switched on the lights, bare bulbs in the ceiling. “Better than nothing,” she mumbled, stooping for wood.

  A large rectangular piece of plywood was hidden behind the pile. Gerry’s family tree was painted on it and only the original couple’s names were visible at the moment, at the top of the tree: John Coneybear and Sybil Muxworthy, Gerry’s great-great-grandfather and -mother. “A lot of good you guys did me,” she muttered. “Gave me a family onl
y so I could piss them all off.”

  Bob had noiselessly entered and sprung up onto the woodpile. Six cords, stacked and ready. She’d already used up half of one of the cords and it was only December.

  Bob’s fur bristled. As he was a shorthaired tuxedo cat, he looked pretty funny; only the fur along his spine and tail actually increasing in volume. “Oh, Bob, do you fluff up like that to keep warm?” A piece of wood fell off the row farthest from Gerry. “I guess I’ll get that piece in spring, eh?” But she spoke to the air, for Bob had dashed out of the shed.

  She took her armload of wood and walked along the shovelled path behind the house. It led to the screened porch, inside which a blue tarp had been laid that autumn, so dropping logs wouldn’t chip the paint.

  That had been Prudence’s suggestion. She knew all the ins and outs of the centuries-old house Gerry had inherited less than a year ago. Sure, Gerry had visited the house and her Aunt Maggie when she was a child, but that hadn’t prepared her to own and maintain it. She sighed. My, she felt blue.

  After traipsing back and forth about twenty times, Gerry made sure Bob wasn’t in either the shed or the back porch and closed the doors. Bob was bounding like the Arctic fox hunting mice Gerry had seen on a recent TV nature show. Straight up in the air, then nose and front paws buried in snow. “Bob, are you coming in? Bob?” Gerry made the classic cat-calling sucking noise with her lips. No response. “Fine! I’ll see you later.”

  She entered the side porch, dropping her boots, mitts, hat and coat there, and went to make another coffee in the kitchen. “Now, where’s my mug?” She wandered back in front of the warmth of the fire. She clutched her head with both hands. “Agh! What’s happening? I’m only twenty-five and I’m wandering around in my robe and slippers looking for things! Right!” She decided against the coffee, ran upstairs, washed and dressed.

  Coming back downstairs, she ducked into the toilet where six cat boxes were lined up. Tuesday wasn’t one of Prudence’s days. Gerry removed the night’s evidence and flung the plastic bag out onto the back porch. It could go into the garbage later. She had to get out of the house!

  She grabbed her keys and wallet and started her car. Not yet cold enough that it had to be plugged in at night; that would be in January and February, she’d been told. As the defroster blasted cold air onto the front and rear windshields, she thought longingly of warm beaches, tropical breezes, water the perfect temperature. She got out and scraped ice off the windows. She was in a hurry. But where could she go?

  She decided on Lovering — downtown Lovering. Technically, she lived in Lovering, but along a quiet residential road that followed the contour of the Ottawa River as it wended its way from somewhere in Ontario down to the St. Lawrence River.

  Population 5,000, Lovering consisted of all the people that lived either side of the river road, or on a few side roads that led to tentative developments in erstwhile farmland, or in Lovering proper, which boasted some restaurants and cafés, lots of gift and antique shops, a convenience and a grocery store. Oh, and a library and five churches.

  She passed St. Anne’s Church and its little graveyard on her way to the village. Too many of us buried there, she thought gloomily. As she accelerated up a slight hill and around the curve, her tires slid alarmingly.

  She decreased speed for the next curve, and the next. The houses of Lovering, many built close to the road, looked charming edged with snow and decorated for Christmas. Gerry’s artist’s eye took over and her mood had somewhat improved by the time she arrived at her destination: the Two Sisters’ Teahouse. The coffee was excellent and a bottomless cup. She parked in front and sighed. If only she had a friend to meet with. Never mind. The teahouse had hired a window artist to spray white stars and snowflakes on its front windows. I suppose they use stencils, thought Gerry.

  She took a small sketchpad and some pencils out of the glove compartment. She’d doodle some ideas for her cartoon strip — Mug the Bug — which ran in several newspapers and provided her with a major portion of her income.

  “Coffee, please, Jane,” she requested of one of the sisters who owned the teahouse. “And —” She looked hungrily at the contents inside the display case. “Is that cheesecake?”

  “Lemon,” said Jane, a short, pleasant-looking woman with cropped brown hair and glasses. “Made it last night.”

  Gerry nodded. “Mm.” She walked to the shelves and chose a cup and saucer — white bone china with yellow roses — and left it near the coffee station. That was the deal at the Two Sisters’: you had to choose your own cup.

  Gerry sat at a table facing the front windows. She gazed blankly at the few flakes falling from a cheerless sky. Jane brought the coffee and cheesecake and Gerry absently ate her breakfast.

  Winter had never affected her this way when she’d lived in Toronto. She’d had her father to be with for Christmas Day and any number of friends to hang out with over the holidays. After her father died, she’d had a few Christmases where she felt a bit depressed, but again, friends had been there to buoy her up.

  Of course, her father had died of natural causes, not been murdered in his bed at home as had been Aunt Maggie. And Uncle Geoff had shot himself in the woods. And Margaret had — well, lost it. It was all very sad.

  That must be it, Gerry mused. Geoff’s funeral made everyone forget about Andrew’s birthday, which should have been an excuse for a party, and now all of Gerry’s friends were away for the holidays and —

  “You all ready for Christmas?” Jane’s cheery voice broke into Gerry’s mood. “One day to go!”

  “Huh? Oh. Yeah. You?” As Jane rattled on about having so much baking left to do and cleaning the house at the last minute before the hordes of relations descended on her for the feast, Gerry thought of the little pile of gifts hidden in her own cupboard.

  One for Prudence, of course, as well as some cash stuffed in a card. One for Andrew. One for Doug, a distant cousin on her Gramma Ellie’s side and Margaret’s ex-husband. One for one of their sons — the friendly one, David. Gerry was no hypocrite. Doug and Margaret’s eldest sons — James and Geoff Junior — had either ignored or been rude to Gerry since she’d inherited Aunt Maggie’s house. She’d be damned if she’d give them gifts.

  Neither was there anything for Aunt Mary, Gerry’s father’s last sister remaining alive. Gerry believed Mary was most of the reason why Margaret had become what she was. There was no love lost on either side.

  As she’d predicted, it had begun snowing. She looked down at her empty plate in surprise. Had she even tasted the cheesecake?

  Jane refilled her cup. “Delicious,” Gerry complimented her as she cleared the plate. Jane smiled and Gerry began doodling.

  Her cartoon creation Mug was an infinitesimally small speck on the page. He was having his own struggles with winter. Gerry had him on an adventure in the far north, dealing with a dog team, polar bears, ice floes. It felt a bit flat to her and she gave up, resting her chin in her palm

  Of all her local friends, and they weren’t many — after all, she’d only lived in the area for seven months — only Prudence had stayed in Lovering for Christmas.

  Cece Muxworthy, Gerry’s lawyer, had surprised his wife Bea with a trip to Jamaica. When they left the week before, Gerry had given them their presents: a bottle of fine red wine and a miniature painting of one of Bea’s orchids. Bea had given Gerry a container of frozen stew and a cream scarf with matching hat and gloves, and the promise of “something fabulous” from Jamaica.

  Gerry’s aged neighbour, Mr. Parminter, had been picked up by a relative and, complete with Graymalkin in a cat basket, had been driven off to spend Christmas in Montreal.

  In a way, Gerry envied him more than Bea and Cece. To be in a big city, all lights and music for the holidays; to be part of the crowd busily shopping, dining. To visit museums and galleries. To be able to buzz out with friends, have a few drinks, and the
n buzz home by cab, without worrying about the weather and the condition of the roads.

  But perhaps the defection of her friend Cathy Stribling, owner of Fieldcrest, the local B&B (and a most excellent chef), with her basset blend Prince Charles, to Arizona of all places! hit Gerry the hardest. It turned out Cathy had a sister there. And bookings at the B&B had been steadily dropping as fall turned to winter. So Cathy gave Charles a tranquilizer, popped him into a crate, and hopped on a plane, taking a tranquilizer herself. “Because, my dear, I worry so much about Charles down in the baggage compartment: if he’s cold or hungry or has to pee. I just go off to sleep and when I wake up we’re there.”

  With Fieldcrest empty and Cathy away, there would be no delicious shared suppers, no snoring Prince Charles flumped by the fire, no cozy chats about Lovering and its inhabitants, past and present. Gerry sighed and drank her coffee. She really ought to —

  The bell over the entrance tinkled as someone pushed on the door. Gerry looked up and inwardly cringed. Actually, she wasn’t sure she hadn’t outwardly cringed as well. Of all the people —

  Aunt Mary, looking cool and self-possessed, hesitated, then ignored Gerry and proceeded to the counter. She pointed at a few items, which Jane popped into a box. Gerry relaxed — a little — and unabashedly eavesdropped. Well, it was impossible not to.

  “Just a very quiet Christmas, of course,” Mary was saying to a sympathetic-looking Jane, “but one has to do something for the boys and Andrew.” Jane said a few words in a low voice. “What? Oh. Yes. It’s for sale. But I’m told that houses rarely move in the winter, so I might be there till spring. Or summer.” She paid but didn’t leave, put out a hand, as if to steady herself on the counter.