“It’s gorgeous, Doug! Original, too. I’ve not seen anything quite like it.”
They admired the piece as it glowed, various colours alternating on and off. Gerry saw his canoe pulled up on the lawn. “That’s yours, isn’t it, Doug?” When he nodded, she asked, “Do you ever go out in it late at night in the rain? I thought I saw someone near my house a few weeks ago.”
“Wasn’t me. But I may know who it was.”
8
“Gerry, my dear, how are you?”
“Fine. Who is this, please?”
The voice at the other end of the line paused, its cheeriness temporarily checked. “It’s your Aunt Mary,” it snapped, then resumed the initial friendly tone. “I’m calling to see if you’d like to come over for a little BBQ we’re having this afternoon. Just the family. For Labour Day. From two o’clock on.” And before Gerry could accept or refuse, the voice said, “Bah-ee!” and hung up.
“How bizarre.” Gerry hung up. “Well, I don’t want to go. Do I have to go, Princess?” They were on the newly repaired back porch, Gerry reading, Marigold reclining on the floor. “It might be a distraction from the terror I’m feeling at the prospect of teaching my first art class in three days!” The cat started at the intensity in her voice. Gerry put the book aside.
She had five people who’d committed to the class and sent her a deposit. Her art show was three-quarters finished. She was hard at work on her next garden painting commission, and had begun discussions with a major greeting-card company to produce a line featuring Mug the Bug. Financially, things were improving.
But: the Hudsons still hadn’t repaired the house’s septic system; she still had one cat, Lightning, that was hostile; she didn’t know if or when someone might begin disposing of the cats; and now she was afraid to go to a family BBQ in case she found herself outnumbered by hostile relations.
She phoned Andrew. “Are you going to your mother’s this afternoon?”
“Of course. It’s a tradition. Labour Day BBQ.”
“Can I come with you? Maybe — ” she bit off what she had been going to say, that maybe his family would back off if he stuck close to her. She compromised with, “I’m a bit nervous about being with your mother and Margaret.”
He laughed. “I’ll look after you.”
She hoped he would. “Maybe I could pick up some wine on the way?”
“All right. See you a bit before two. I’ll drive.”
Gerry had a few hours to kill, so, after feeding Marigold, decided to tackle the fourth wall in the gallery. She’d been studying and researching the art at The Maples — the paintings that, presumably, her family had purchased from professional artists over the years. She went up to Aunt Maggie’s office where her typewriter was and began typing up the cards she intended to mount on the wall near each piece. The little cat noiselessly followed her and sat on the desk.
A few Victorian-era landscapes or rather, seascapes, of the old country, some rather nice studies of young girls by an early twentieth-century painter, and work by local Quebec artists of the lake, the river and the house itself, seen from the water, made up the collection, or at least what she’d selected for this show. She had kept the few non-representational pieces for another time. She knew many people found abstract art off-putting.
After the typing was completed, she realized she had to decide how much she was going to charge for her Mug the Bug posters, the only things actually for immediate sale. And she’d need a big sign for the wall where she intended to display the portraits of Cathy’s, Mr. Parminter’s and the Shiptons’ houses, to indicate to prospective clients that they too could possess such representations of their own buildings.
“Oops! Is that the time?” She’d heard the downstairs clock chime one. “Time to make myself beautiful.” She patted Marigold and jumped into the shower.
“Will there be a lot of relatives there, Andrew?” Gerry looked at his long thin face as he concentrated on the road, and wondered again what the troubles Cathy had mentioned him having could be.
“Let’s see. Margaret and the boys, of course. The Shaplands won’t be there because of Doug and Margaret. And Mother offended Dad’s family long ago, so no Petherbridges. Which leaves the Parsleys, and maybe Cece and Bea.”
“Oh, good. If they’re there, I’ll have someone to talk to.”
“Yes. Cece is the family lawyer, so even Mother doesn’t cross him. And the Parsleys are so prominent, she likes to keep on their good sides.”
He sounded so matter-of-fact describing his mother’s self-serving behaviour that Gerry decided commiseration would be rude and just changed the subject. “I’m looking forward to seeing their lovely home again. It’s been years since I was there.” She stopped, remembering how Aunt Mary hadn’t liked Gerry’s mother, and wondered if the woman had any friends.
“It’s Mother’s pride and joy. Dad would have been happy to stay in his family home where we all grew up, but Mother wanted something bigger, showier, so they built this one near the golf club.” As he spoke, they pulled into the long circular drive.
The house was white stucco with dark brown, mock-Tudor beams stuck on the outside walls, and a matching Tudor-style roof. Broad steps led up to the front door, which was double-wide and studded with bolts holding large flat hasps. The front garden was formal. Pairs of shrubs accentuated a pathway that led to a large fountain in the centre of the lawn.
They walked around the side of the house through a trellised gate where late roses and clematis twined up and over. A vast expanse of lawn was broken up by a huge pool, where Margaret’s two oldest boys were swimming, with a lot of decking across the back of the house.
“Andrew!” cried Mary enthusiastically from her spot on a canvas-roofed swing chair. Margaret was seated next to her, and across from them, to Gerry’s relief, were Cece and Bea.
Andrew kissed his mother and his sister and greeted the Muxworthys.
“And Gerry,” added Mary with somewhat less enthusiasm. Gerry gave everyone a kiss. Cece climbed out of the chair to give Gerry his spot.
“Shall I take drink orders, ladies?” he asked.
“I’ll help you,” said Andrew. “Dad in the house?”
“Watching his golf,” said Mary. Both men disappeared into the back of the house, only Cece reappearing with their drinks before rejoining the rest of the men inside.
“We won’t see them for a while,” snorted Mary. “Cheers.” She set the swing in motion.
Gerry sipped her wine. “You have a lovely home, Aunt Mary.”
“It’s not bad,” Mary admitted in a bored voice. “Not bad. The best Geoff could do, I suppose.”
Margaret looked a bit embarrassed and Gerry almost felt sorry for her. As the swing went faster, she gamely carried on, finding it difficult to drink her wine without banging her teeth against the glass. “Do you garden yourself or have help?”
“Oh, help, you know. But just because I have a gardener doesn’t mean I don’t know about plants.” She spoke tartly, then tried to recover her poise. “For example, those are foxgloves, and Shasta daisies, that’s datura, and next to the aconite are hollyhocks.”
“I’ve seen all of those in Aunt Maggie’s garden,” Gerry replied politely. Plants were safe. They could talk about plants.
“Well, sisters, you know. We’d share plants. A cutting of this, some seedlings.” She put out a foot and a hand and the swing braked sharply. They all protected their drinks. “Margaret, get us some snacks, there’s a love.”
Margaret rose to do her mother’s bidding. “And while you’re in there, you might like to make a salad or something, to go with the meat.”
Margaret, with a face that threatened an angry remark, silently went away. “I’m useless in the kitchen,” Mary tinkled. “Absolutely useless. Bea, how are you? How’s the condition?” Mary had switched to tones of empathy so false-sounding
Gerry caught her breath.
Bea replied mildly. “Some days are good. This is one of them. I’m happy to be here.” And saluted her hostess with her drink.
But Mary wouldn’t leave it alone. “Such a serious condition, potentially, I mean. I mean, you’ve a long way to go.” She switched her gaze to Gerry. “And Cece is so good to her. We all marvel. Was a time we thought he might be interested in Margaret, but then she met Doug and he met Bea.”
She’s got no filters at all, thought a scandalized Gerry. Margaret picked that moment to rejoin them with a bowl of chips and some dip. “Thank you, honey. You’re so good to me.” Mary rewarded her daughter with a bright smile. “Bring Mum a fresh drink, darling.”
And so it went. No Parsleys ever showed, and Gerry could only admire their decision.
Uncle Geoff finally appeared and grilled some chicken, some meat. “No shrimp?” Mary commented as her husband brought her a plate. The boys jumped out of the pool and the rest of the men came outside. Gerry was glad to see David, took him aside for a moment.
“How are you?” He mumbled something. “Your dad told me you like to canoe on the river when you’re sleeping over at his place.” She said nothing about the scare she’d received when he’d taken his midnight tour past her house. “You know, you can canoe over to see Bob anytime,” she began to say, but remembering her skinny-dipping, amended that statement. “Actually, I might be working, so better phone first, but most days I’m there and Bob’s always there. Are you going back to school this week?”
He nodded and at this point his brothers called him away. They’d only briefly addressed her all afternoon and she imagined there was pressure on them and him to maintain Margaret and Mary’s coolness.
With relief, she turned to Andrew, who was balancing a plate piled with steak, corn on the cob and potato salad. “Is that for me?” she teased.
“Why? Do you want it?”
“No, I’m kidding. I want chicken, I think. Hey, do you call leaving me with Margaret and your mother looking after me?”
“You had Bea there and I think you’re tougher than you look.”
“You’re right. I am. But I still want to eat my dinner with you, so guard this chair. I’ll be back.” As she was serving herself from the buffet set up on the deck, she overheard Margaret finishing a thought.
“…probably wrote them herself so she can get rid of the animals in the future.” Gerry turned and stared at her cousin hard. Margaret, who’d been talking with her mother, turned a bright crimson and ducked into the kitchen. Gerry followed. Mary laughed and turned away to talk to somebody else.
“Margaret, were you speaking about me just now? About some letters, about Aunt Maggie’s cats?”
“No,” Margaret said stubbornly.
“Because, if you were, I’d be very interested to know how you know about them.”
Margaret was silent, opened the fridge as if looking for something. Gerry gave up and went back to eat with Andrew. Her cheeks felt hot and she had tears in her eyes but Andrew appeared not to notice. “Good?” he asked, pointing his knife at her plate.
“What? Oh, yeah. Delicious.”
After everyone had eaten, the event just kind of petered out. Andrew drove her home, they quietly said good night, and a shattered Gerry thankfully let herself into her home, fed her cats and crawled into bed early with a book and a cup of tea.
9
Monday morning, it was as if the cats knew Gerry was exhausted. They let her sleep in an extra half hour before Bob began kneading her leg with his sharp little pins and Marigold became restless.
Gerry opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Could yesterday really have happened? Was there a rumour that she, Gerry, had fabricated the poison pen letters as a way of preparing for the sudden demise of the cats? And, if so, had her cousin Margaret started the rumour?
She stroked Marigold with one hand and played with Bob with the other. “What happened here, guys, to create so much bad feeling? Even now Aunt Maggie is dead.”
The cats stretched and Bob ran to the door. “I know, I know. Tummies first,” said Gerry, dragging herself down to her chores.
Though it was Labour Day, Prudence was coming, as they wanted to do some baking for the art class on Wednesday. Correction: Gerry had assumed Prudence would do any necessary baking, while Prudence had indicated it was a fine opportunity for Gerry to learn how to bake herself. Gerry fed the cats and had just tidied up when Prudence arrived, lugging two bags of baking supplies. “Cookies and squares,” she announced. “Easy to make and they’ll keep in tins.”
Gerry ate her toast as she watched Prudence lay out her purchases. “All the wet ingredients in one bowl. All the dry in another. Whisk.”
“Why couldn’t I serve store-bought cookies again?” a disgruntled Gerry asked.
“Cuts into the profits, number one. Number two — you have the pride of the Coneybears to maintain.”
Gerry whisked the wet ingredients, then paused. “Oh. I should have whisked the dry first.”
“Just wash the whisk and dry it well.”
“Prudence, speaking of the pride of the Coneybears, I haven’t had a chance to look at the family genealogy again. Where do you fit in? Aren’t you part Coneybear?”
“No, I’m mostly Catford and Parsley, as far as I know. My mother, Constance Parsley, married Edward Catford, who was your grandmother Ellie Catford Coneybear’s brother.”
“That’s right. I’d forgotten Gramma Ellie was your aunt. So you and Aunt Maggie are, were, cousins. Which makes you my…second cousin?”
Prudence smiled. “Something like that. Are you ready to mix the dry into the wet?”
Gerry was excited. “Ready? Ready? Yes, I’m ready!” She dumped the dry mixture into the wet and began whisking. Flour spurted everywhere. Patiently, Prudence removed the whisk, replacing it with a wooden spoon.
“Here, my dear, this will work much better.”
Gerry beat the mixture until it was nice and smooth and fluffy. “What are we making, by the way?”
“Chocolate chip cookies,” said Prudence, dumping in a whole bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips. “Recipe’s on the bag. Easy, ain’t it?”
When cookies were cooling on racks, and a pan of blondies (“A kind of butterscotch brownie.”) was tantalizing with its warm smell, Gerry vented about Mary’s BBQ. “It was horrible, Prudence. I never want to see those two women again.”
They each took a cookie and a cup of tea and went to sit on the back porch.
“See them only a few times a year, I guess. When you absolutely can’t avoid it.”
“You mean like Christmas and other holidays?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, all I can say is, don’t be surprised if you hear I have the twenty-four-hour flu this Christmas — whoa, Marigold! What are you doing?”
The cat had pushed Prudence’s teacup over, so the tea sloshed into the saucer and onto the table. Gerry ran to the kitchen for some paper towels and a wet rag. When she returned, Prudence was examining what remained of her tea. She had a strange look on her face. “Gerry, look!”
Gerry peered into the cup. “A wasp! It’s still struggling. That wouldn’t have been very nice to drink. How did that get into there?”
Prudence seemed distracted as she opened the screen door and threw the wasp into the garden. It sat on the flagstone path, presumably dripping tea and catching its breath. Prudence seemed distracted. “Oh, there must be a hole in the screen somewhere. The wasps go a bit mental at summer’s end. But — ”
“What?”
“Shush. I’m thinking.” She looked at Marigold, still on the table, now grooming a paw. “She did this once before, Gerry. The awful morning I found your aunt.”
“She tipped over a teacup?”
Prudence nodded. “I already had a bad feeling when I arrived. T
he garbage hadn’t been put at the curb. I did that, then went in the house. I called for your aunt. She usually had the coffee on by the time I arrived and sometimes had already fed the cats. I went through into the dining room. The cats were all sitting very quietly on their chairs. That’s when I knew something was wrong.
“I ran up the stairs, calling, but there was no reply. Bob ran away. He’d been at the door of Maggie’s room. I went inside and…there she was. The four usual cats were still at the foot of the bed. Marigold was lying curled in the curve of Maggie’s belly, but when I started shouting and shaking Maggie, Marigold jumped to the night table, looked me in the face, put out a paw, and knocked over the teacup.
“I must confess, I shouted at Marigold. ‘Stupid cat! What did you do that for?’ And I took a swipe at her. Then I ran downstairs and called Andrew and he called the police. They all arrived — the firefighters, and the emergency workers. But she’d been dead for hours. It was obvious.”
“Let me make you another cup of tea,” Gerry gently suggested.
“Later. I’ve never told anyone this before, except Mother, of course, and Mrs. Smith. An ambulance came and took Maggie away, and I was so shocked I just did what I always do. I fed the cats, cleaned out the cat boxes. And then I went upstairs and changed the sheets. I wiped up the spilt tea, but before I washed the teacup, I happened to notice what was left of the tea. It was a pale greenish yellow. And Gerry — ” she turned her face to look urgently in Gerry’s eyes — “she hadn’t put any milk in it.”
“So?”
“So she always took milk and sometimes sugar. I looked in the fridge and there was milk there.”
“What about herbal tea? Some people don’t add anything to them.”
“She hated herbal teas, only drank black tea, well-brewed.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“I was in shock, I guess, at the time. And the cause of death was said to be heart failure. She was cremated and buried and by then it was too late to accuse someone…”
The Cat Among Us Page 9