The Cat Vanishes

by Louise Carson

  Gerry was disappointed. This woman was fishing as she herself had hoped to do. Gerry felt a bit ashamed, then decided to play. “I — we — found her.”

  The woman’s mouth dropped open. Jackpot! “No!” she breathed.

  “Yes. I was checking the house for the owner while she’s away and found Betty. In the basement.” The woman seemed stupefied by this amount of information so easily retrieved. Gerry pushed. “Did you know her? Did she have any enemies? Old grudges? People she fired?”

  The woman drew her chin back. “Well, I, hardly, yes, I suppose.”

  Gerry faked a move. “Oh well, if you don’t want to tell me —” and turned away.

  The woman fell for it. “I work there. Sometimes. When things get busy. In the kitchen or waiting tables. Or even as chambermaid if the regular one is sick.” She drew back, satisfied, and added, “I’m not sure I want to work there anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  The woman leaned in. “Well, it’s usually the husband, isn’t it? And he’s still there.”

  “Do the Parsleys live at the inn?”

  “Yes. They’ve got an upstairs bit and a downstairs bit, round the side. It’s the kids I feel sorry for.”

  Gerry could see no sign of sympathy in the woman’s face but agreed anyway. “And Phil? How does he seem?”

  “Oh, he looks shocked; all thin and pale in the face, though he’s a big beefy man. But he would, wouldn’t he, if he did it? Afraid of being arrested!” As if that proved his guilt, the woman nodded, looking triumphant.

  “And you don’t know of any enemies, at the inn or elsewhere?”

  The woman snorted. “Elsewhere? The Parsley Inn was Betty Parsley’s life. Just a waitress somewhere else she was when Phil found her and brought her home, and suddenly she’s running the place. Not that she wasn’t a good manager. Made it pay. And kept those kids of hers out of trouble.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what’ll happen now. To my job. Inn’s closed.”

  “It’ll reopen,” Gerry reassured her.

  “I hope so.”

  “Were you at church last week?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Did you see Betty talking to anyone in particular?”

  “Can’t say as I did. You think her killer was at church?” The woman sounded horrified and looked furtively around at the last few stragglers, chatting with the minister.

  “Oh, I was just wondering who the last one to see her was before —”

  “I talked to her at the party.”

  Gerry got excited. “The party Sunday night? What time?”

  The woman nodded. “About eight. I was in the kitchen and she told me to get Ralph to bring up more boxes of liquor and beer.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yeah. He was smoking a joint out back in his pickup, as usual, but he did what she wanted.”

  “And did you see either of them after that?”

  “Her — no. Him? He wouldn’t normally come through the kitchen with the alcohol. There’s another staircase. So, no.”

  Gerry decided to make her escape. “Well, thank you, er —”

  “Annette. Annette Bledsoe.” They shook hands and parted.

  Gerry adjusted her scarf so it covered her mouth and walked home, her eyes watering from the wind that blew off the lake. What had she learned?

  Not much, she was forced to admit. She wondered if the police had released Betty’s body for burial. It being the holiday period meant everything was much slower. That reminded her — her car needed to be at the body shop this week. She hoped it could be repaired in hours, not days.

  When she entered the kitchen, there was the sweet smell of cake baking and Prudence was just finishing cleaning the kitchen. Gerry sniffed hopefully. “What is it?”

  “You’ll find out later. I haven’t made it for years. I think I’ll send you out for a walk this afternoon. You’ve been hunched at that table drawing for days.”

  “Prudence, I’m not ten! And it’s windy today. Too cold. No, I’m going for a junk lunch and then I’m going to hang around the Catholic church.”

  Prudence looked scandalized. “Hang around St. Pete’s?”

  “I’m hoping to catch the priest after service, after his lunch. To ask about parish records. I think, if our bones weren’t those of a stranger, and we have no way of finding that out, they must have been a servant, a person without family. Do you want any lunch? I could bring it back here to eat.”

  “No, thank you,” Prudence said firmly.

  “Okay. See you.” Fifteen minutes later, Gerry was happily hunched over her burger and onion rings in a fast food restaurant booth.

  “Hey, Red, good to see you,” someone said lightly and slid into the seat across from her.

  She choked. “Don’t call me Red,” she managed, before drinking half of her root beer.

  He looked surprised and a bit taken aback. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were sensitive about your hair.”

  She looked closely at the twin. “Steve?” she said cautiously.

  He laughed. “Oh, you’ve met Ralph and thought I was him. Let me guess: he annoyed you.” He sighed. “I’m tired of apologizing for my brother, but anyway. Sorry if he did.”

  “No, you’re right. Why should you?”

  His order was ready. He brought it back to Gerry’s booth and gestured at the empty seat. “Is it all right if I — ?”

  She nodded, having taken an enormous bite of her hamburger. They ate in silence for a few moments.

  “Doing any curling lately?” he asked.

  “No.” She wondered if this was his way of asking if she was seeing anything of Doug. “No. I think if I do any curling in the future, it will be with women.”

  “Ah.” He finished his burger and attacked his fries. “Look, I heard you found the body at Fieldcrest and I just wanted to say —” He seemed to be searching for words. “I just want to say, I wish it hadn’t been you who found her.”

  Gerry was astonished. “Why on earth are you sorry?”

  “What? Oh. Well, you just moved here. You’re kind of young. It wouldn’t have mattered to that old lady who owns the place, if she found it.”

  “Cathy? Cathy’s not old. How old are you?”

  “Me? I’m thirtyish.”

  “I thought you were at school with Doug.” Gerry sounded bewildered.

  He looked sheepish. “Okay. You caught me. But he was finishing high school when I was starting.”

  “So you’re thirty-six,” Gerry said crisply.

  “Yeah. In a couple of months. Sorry. I just was hoping — I mean — I didn’t want to seem —”

  “Steve,” Gerry said, rising, “one of my best friends is in his nineties. Now that’s old.”

  He smiled and also got to his feet. “Yeah. That’s old. Look, can I call you sometime?”

  She hesitated. Then thought, why not? She nodded. He saw her to her car. She was checking her face for traces of condiments in her car mirror, when she saw him exit the parking lot in Ralph’s beat-up old pickup. She reassured herself. That wasn’t Ralph. Steve’s just borrowed his truck. Maybe they share it. But it made her think.

  She drove down the long bumpy road towards Lovering. It was one-thirty. Surely the priest would have had his lunch by now. She walked up the wide steps of the big old brick house next to St. Peter’s and raised and lowered the knocker twice. There was a pause. A dog barked briefly. The door opened. A short fat man stood holding a Jack Russell terrier. “Yes?” The terrier was struggling.

  “Oh, hello. You don’t know me, Father Lackey. I’m an acquaintance of Lucy Hanlan. Gerry Coneybear.”

  “You better come in, Gerry Coneybear, before this woman-eating monster gets the better of me.” Gerry stepped in, the priest closed the door and put down the terrier. It rushed to sniff Gerry�
�s legs, then backed away, appalled.

  “Are you a puppy killer?” asked the priest mildly.

  “No. But I have twenty-three cats,” Gerry explained.

  “Ah ha! That’ll be it, no doubt. And is that the problem you’ve come to me about? Are you a cat hoarder?”

  Gerry laughed. “No, no. Nothing like that. I won’t keep you long, Father. I’m curious about your parish records. How far back they go.”

  He looked interested. “Has your family been here long? Are you Catholics?”

  “Yes. And no, we’re not. Anglican. But Lucy said there was an influx of Irish servants in the middle of the nineteenth century. It’s possible they were Catholic, isn’t it?”

  “Let’s go into the study.” He led her through the wide central hallway to a large, high-ceilinged room at the back of the house. The terrier followed, still in shock.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Smitty. Now, your servant or servants may have been Protestants, in which case I won’t be able to help you. Sit down, sit down.”

  She sat in one of the armchairs in front of his desk. If these walls could talk, she told herself.

  Father Lackey drew a piece of paper in front of him and prepared a pen. “Now. Let’s be methodical. What exactly do you want?”

  So she told him about her cat finding the one bone and then the whole skeleton, the fact that the bones were old, and her reasoning about how they must belong to a servant or a stranger. She concluded, “And then it was just luck meeting Lucy yesterday and her remarking about indentured servants. Although our bones may be those of a regular servant.” She didn’t tell him about the bones haunting Prudence. Nor did she confide in their consultation with the psychic Mrs. Smith.

  All this time, Smitty lay next to his owner’s massive desk, where he could keep an eye on both the priest and Gerry. When she’d finished talking, he sat up and gave a single bark. Then he lay back down with his nose on his paws.

  The priest put down his pen, sat back in his chair and also appraised her. “Why do you want to know who this person was?”

  Gerry blinked. “He, or she, was found on my property. I feel responsible. He’ll have to be buried eventually, and I’d like that to be in the appropriate place. Is that enough?”

  “Yes. That’s good. Now, if you’d like to give me the pertinent dates, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Gerry hesitated. “The police haven’t given me a date for the skeleton, but based on when the woodshed was constructed, which we know, I’d say from about 1850 on? So 1840 to 1890? They said the bones were at least 100 years old.”

  The priest nodded. “St. Pete’s was here. Oh, not the present building, but the parish was in existence. It’s quite interesting. The priest would have had several congregations and have travelled from one to the other on Sunday.” He smiled. “Now, we’re spoiled. One church and instead of a horse I have a car for visiting.”

  “Does Smitty visit with you?”

  “Sometimes. But he usually waits in the car.” He rose and held out his hand. “Well, my dear, I will spend a few pleasurable hours looking up possible candidates for your man under the floor. Or woman.” He gave her a quick shrewd look. “You think it’s a man, don’t you?”

  She took a deep breath. “Yes, I do. It’s a feeling I and my housekeeper have. It’s a man.”

  “All right. I’ll look up both genders, though. You never know what you’ll find.”

  Driving home, Gerry pondered the little priest’s final words. Indeed, what would he find in his centuries-old records? “Probably nothing,” she told her reflection in the rear-view mirror.

  When she entered the kitchen, the cake smell had dissipated and something lay under a tea towel on the counter. “Prudence?” Gerry called idly, lifting a corner of the towel.

  “In here and leave that cake alone. It’s setting.” Gerry walked through into the living room. Prudence had all Aunt Maggie’s old recipe books out on the table. She handed Gerry a list. “These are the cakes that would look spectacular with cats jumping over them. I’ve made one today because I have a fondness for it, but don’t expect me to make one every week.”

  “Cool! Which one did you make?”

  “The Battenberg.”

  Gerry’s jaw dropped. “Have you been peeking at my work?”

  “You left it on the table,” Prudence defended herself. “I used to make it with Mother and later with Maggie. How did it go at the church?”

  “Very good. For a start. He’ll look into it. Er, when will the cake be ready?”

  “I’ll make the tea.”

  The Battenberg in the cookbook showed a checkerboard of two chocolate and two vanilla squares of cake sandwiched together, so Gerry was surprised when Prudence exhibited her cake. No fewer than twelve pink and white squares alternated delightfully. “Fancy,” breathed Gerry. “I’ll have to change my text. Pink is much prettier than chocolate. And is that marzipan icing?”

  Prudence put a slice on Gerry’s plate. “Yes. Apricot jam holds the sections together.”

  “It tastes great. Thank you so much. Maybe I’ll try to make one of the cakes on this list.” Gerry noticed a couple of old photo albums on the table. She drew them near her. “Find anything?”

  Prudence had inserted slips of paper to mark interesting pages. She opened the topmost book. “This is from around the time of Albert Coneybear’s marriage to Elizabeth Parsley.” The photo showed the pair: the man standing, looking at the camera; the woman seated, looking at a point off to one side.

  Gerry reached for the family tree. “So, the 1890s then. There’s that grim mouth again.” She pointed at Elizabeth’s face. “The same as in her portrait. It’s hard to tell people’s colouring from looking at sepia-tinted reproductions.” Then, after checking a few dates, she added, “So you couldn’t have known Margie, but did know Elizabeth.”

  Prudence nodded. “I told you. My great-aunt. She was reserved. Like me.” Gerry left that comment alone as Prudence turned to the next place in the book. “Here’s Margie.”

  The contrast couldn’t have been greater. It was another courtship photo. Again the man stood while the woman sat, but Jonas Petherbridge had a hand on Margaret Coneybear’s shoulder and she’d reached up to cover it with one of her own. Both stared happily at the camera.

  Where Elizabeth was small and pale, with blond or light brown hair, Margie’s darker skin, hair and eyes crackled with energy you could still feel over 100 years later. And she’d been a big woman — filled the chair. Gerry tapped the photo with a finger. “I like her,” she mused softly. “Are there any later ones of her?”

  Prudence laid that album aside and opened another one. She pointed. “There. A family party at The Maples in —” She carefully removed the snapshot from its position and read the back. “1932. So, this is Margie, her son Jonas, and his wife Sarah Muxworthy. Maybe Margie was already living here with Elizabeth. That’s her. Her husband Albert was long dead.”

  Gerry perused the family tree. “As were two of her children. That’s sad.”

  Prudence replied crisply. “People expected to bury some of their children back then. There’s your Great-uncle John and his wife, Mary Parsley — no kids. I vaguely remember him and, of course, she lived until I was in my twenties. She was my mother’s twin.”

  Gerry stared. “So the Parsleys run to twins, do they?”

  Prudence nodded. “Not excessively. Once a generation. No more. Mother was very upset when Mary predeceased her.”

  Gerry waited respectfully for a few seconds, but, no more information forthcoming, changed the subject. “Again, it’s hard to tell people’s colouring from black and white photos, plus, they’ve all gone grey in this one.”

  “Yes, but look at Margie’s son Jonas — dark hair and eyes like she had.”

  Gerry thought. “Uncle Geoff was dark, wasn’t he? Who
’s this?” She indicated another couple in a different picture.

  “That’s your grandparents — Matthew Coneybear and Ellie Catford — before they were married.”

  Gerry peered at the tiny faces, especially Matthew’s. “He’s not dark. Fair, I should say.”

  “Yup. He was. A handsome man, too.”

  Gerry smiled. “Did you have a crush on him?”

  “He was my Uncle Matt. He used to pick me up and spin me around by the arms. My father never did that.”

  Again, Gerry waited in vain for explications. A knock at the door surprised both women. “I wonder if Andrew’s cake radar has gone off,” Gerry joked over her shoulder, then peeked through the kitchen window. “No car.” She went to the door. “Cathy!”

  15

  Cathy looked exhausted. “Come in! It’s so good to see you! Merry Christmas!” Gerry hugged her friend, then helped her slowly disrobe. “How’s Charles?”

  Prudence brought another plate and cup and served Cathy. “Charles is sleeping at home,” Cathy replied. “We’ve been on the road since four this morning. Is this Battenberg cake?” She took a mouthful. “Where did you buy it?”

  “Prudence made it.”

  “Professional quality,” murmured Cathy the caterer, who herself was renowned for her baking. “I should be sleeping but I had to come over and talk to you about Betty Parsley. Gerry, how ghastly. Maybe just another small piece, Prudence. The airport and airplane food was atrocious.”

  “We were both there,” Gerry said, “and Prudence was the one who held it together. I got all teary.”

  “Well, what a shock. I’m so sorry. I had no idea she was using the place for —” She halted. “Anything.”

  “Did you give her a key?” The possibility had just occurred to Gerry.

  “Well, I do catering for special events at The Parsley, and sometimes, if I’m not at home, I let Betty pick up the food. It’s convenient for us both. We’re not, we weren’t friends.”