Scheduled to Death

by Mary Feliz

  “He’s getting the cats and their litter box organized.”

  I followed Max up the stairs and was delighted to find a built-in window seat and cupboard on the landing. Above the seat, the top of the windows held stained glass. Late-morning sun shining through the glass wisteria vines spilled lavender and green splotches of light on the stairs. The house was doing its best to charm each one of us.

  As we turned the corner at the top of the stairs, Brian crested the top of a second staircase, lugging a cat carrier in each hand. Back stairs? Just like Downton Abbey! I took one of the cat carriers as Brian held it out. Holmes, our grumpiest cat, growled his disgust with the lurching trip from the car.

  “We’ll get you settled as soon as we can, Holmes,” I said, trying to comfort the four-year-old orange tabby. “Brian found you a great hidey-hole.”

  “I did!” Brian said. “I swept out the closet and put Dad’s old sweatshirt on a shelf in there.”

  I knew that Holmes’s partner, Watson, would be the first to explore. A small female, Watson had large splotches of white in her orange coat, including one on her face that made her look as though she’d had a comic encounter with a dish of whipped cream.

  It would take time, but if we kept the cats contained to one room for a few days, I was sure they’d settle in. I hoped the same would be true for the rest of us.

  Max carried the ladder and bucket down the hall. “David? I’ve got the ladder so you can get started on the bulbs.”

  “In here, Dad,” David called from the bathroom at the end of the hall, his voice echoing off the tiles. “Look at this toilet! The tank is way up there and you pull this chain to make it flush. Gravity! How cool is that?”

  David perched on the curved edge of a voluminous claw-foot tub. He stepped from tub, to sink, to toilet, and jumped down.

  “This house is great, Mom,” David said, beaming. “There’s a desk that turns into a bed—the bed comes out of the wall—in the next room.”

  David would be starting high school next week. He’d been reluctant to leave his Stockton friends and seemed wary of starting the next chapter of his school career without them. His enthusiasm for the new house was a welcome change from his sadness over leaving the old one.

  Holmes howled and the normally quiet Watson joined in. I put a hand on David’s shoulder to stem the flow of questions, surprised anew at how fast he was growing. He was almost as tall as I was. I straightened my posture and turned to Brian.

  “Did you get their litter box set up?”

  Brian nodded.

  “Food? Water?”

  “Yup.”

  “And the closet is secure?” I didn’t want the cats escaping and freaking out before they’d had a chance to learn they were home.

  Brian nodded and rolled his eyes like the young teen he was becoming. “All checked out and ready to go, Mom.”

  “Perfect, go for it, then.”

  He disappeared into the bedroom with the two complaining cats and shut the door behind him.

  Max’s new work phone rang with the doom-filled Darth Vader’s theme. Apparently we had cell service.

  “Hey, Jim,” Max answered the phone. “Yup, just arrived, thanks. Really? You’re kidding, right?” Max looked at me, covered the phone, and mouthed, “Be right back.” He walked down the hall with his head down.

  Uh-oh. Something was wrong.

  I turned to David. “Can you open that window? It’s still a bit whiffy in here.”

  The window screeched and stuck, but David muscled it up.

  “Can you flick that light switch?” he said. “This should be working.”

  I pushed the old-fashioned two-button switch. Nothing. I hoped the problem was as simple as a few blown fuses.

  From the bathroom, I could hear tension in Max’s voice as he paced in the hall and talked to his new boss on the phone. “Okay, Jim, I see. Let me talk to Maggie and I’ll call you back . . . yes, tomorrow. . . that’s right . . .” Max looked up at me, grimaced with a What can ya do? look, and ended the call.

  I lifted my eyebrows.

  “I’ll fill you in later,” Max said. “I need to check out the fuses and see if we can get some lights on in here before it gets dark.”

  I headed down the back staircase, delighted to find that it ended in the kitchen. I assumed the narrow, utilitarian stairs had been planned as a way for children and staff to go about their business without disturbing the serenity of the living room. To me they seemed as much fun and as full of possibility as a secret passage to Narnia. I was a self-proclaimed gluttonous reader, prone to quoting from both children’s and adult literature without warning.

  My next step was lunch. It was time to grab the cooler from the car and dust off the back porch to set up our sandwiches and drinks. Belle joined me on the walk to the car. She butted her nose into the back of my knee. I scratched behind her ears.

  * * *

  I grabbed the cooler from the backseat with my right hand, tucked a nested set of pet dishes under my arm, and grabbed a bucket of cleaning supplies with my left hand. Loaded up, I headed back to the house.

  “Maggie!” Max called from somewhere inside the house. I picked up the bucket and struggled to open the kitchen door, giving it my shoulder and some muscle.

  “I’ve got lunch,” I called to Max, thinking he must be in the next room. “There’s a cold beer with your name on it.”

  “Maggie!” Max said, clomping up the basement stairs. He flung open the door at the top of the stairs and a dreadful smell wafted up. I gagged as Max yelled “Call 9-1-1!”

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  photo: credit: Dylan Studios

  Mary Feliz, author of the Maggie McDonald Mystery series, has lived in five states and two countries but calls Silicon Valley home. Traveling to other areas of the United States, she’s frequently reminded that what seems normal in the high-tech heartland can seem decidedly odd to the rest of the country. A big fan of irony, serendipity, diversity, and quirky intelligence tempered with gentle humor, Mary strives to bring these elements into her writing, although her characters tend to take things to a whole new level. She’s a member of Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and National Association of Professional Organizers. Mary is a Smith College graduate with a degree in Sociology. She lives in Northern California with her husband, near the homes of their two adult offspring. Visit Mary online at MaryFeliz.com, or follow her on Twitter @MaryFelizAuthor.

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