“You don’t have any pets, do you, Uncle Geoff?”
“Mary doesn’t like animals.” Mother began to purr, kneaded his pant leg.
Gerry spoke gently. “What is it, Uncle Geoff?”
He raised distraught eyes to look in her face. “Is it true? Do you and Prudence think your Aunt Maggie was murdered?”
“We have little evidence, Uncle Geoff, at least what the police would call evidence, but yes, we do.”
“Mary says you said it had to be one of the family.”
“Yes.”
“But that’s grotesque! That means one of us is a monster!”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Geoff, but too many little things have occurred that, taken together, can’t be ignored.” She told him about the teacups, the plant, and how the one cat was involved. She finished by saying, “And that’s why I can’t go to the police. Imagine me saying, ‘One of my cats thinks its late mistress was murdered. We have the weapon. We just don’t have the motive.’ I’d really be the crazy cat lady at that point.”
He cleared his throat and coughed. “I loved her, you know. Maggie. Oh, not romantically. It’s always been Mary for me. But I know Maggie was the better person. I wish I could have loved her instead of Mary. How different things might have been. Oh well.” He slowly scooped up Mother and put her on Gerry’s lap. “I’ll be going now. You be careful, dear. If what you suspect is true, and that person knows you suspect it, they may try to hurt you.” He seemed about to say something more. “I’m sorry.”
Gerry cuddled Mother in her arms as she accompanied her uncle to his car. Impulsively, she kissed his cheek through the open car window and was astonished to see tears come into his eyes.
After he left, Mother jumped down. Gone to look for Ronald, thought Gerry. Yes, where is Ronald? Not glued to Mother’s side as usual. And then she and Mother saw him, rolling on the lawn with Bob and the boys. Mother paused halfway there, assessed the situation, sat, groomed, then walked away. Ronald, it seemed, had grown up.
Wednesday, Gerry made an early start: did the cats, had her coffee, and was grating carrots by the time Prudence arrived with the usual bag of baking supplies. As she took out cream cheese, a tin of pineapple and a sack each of shredded coconut, currants and walnuts, she seemed her usual self. “I hope you checked that grater for bits of aconite.”
“You washed it,” Gerry gently argued back. “But yes, I did. How are you?”
“Well. You?”
“Fine. Fine. I went into town yesterday, to clear my head. Looked at some art.” Gerry peered down at the recipe Prudence had laid on the counter. “Four cups of grated carrot? Really?”
“It cooks down.” Gerry kept grating. The extended pause told her that if Prudence was ever going to confide in her about her mother, her husband, it evidently wasn’t going to be today.
Gerry sifted the dry and whisked the wet ingredients, folded in the extras at the end: pineapple, nuts, coconut, currants and, of course, the mountain of carrot. “This is going to be a big cake.”
“That’s why we need this.” Prudence bent down and unearthed an enormous Bundt pan from one of the cupboards. She buttered and floured it before Gerry poured the batter. “Stop. That’s enough. We’ve enough batter for a loaf as well.” She prepared that pan and the cakes went into the oven. “It’s a dense batter, so low and slow for a long time.”
“Carrot cake with cream cheese icing. Yum.”
“You can make the icing now but I’ll frost the cake at the last minute. It has to be cool — ”
“Or the icing will melt,” Gerry finished Prudence’s sentence.
“You won’t need my help pretty soon,” she remarked mildly.
“Oh, but what about pie, Prudence? And scones? And then Christmas is coming, so mince tarts, fruitcake — ”
It was Prudence’s turn to interrupt. “Okay, I get it. You want to add master baker to your list of accomplishments. Meanwhile, you should put on your art teacher hat and go get ready.”
Gerry brought the six lawn chairs outside and set them in a row on the flagstone path, facing the back lawn, the wild flower garden by the shore and the lake.
The lawn gleamed wetly under a late September dew, and the garden charmed with purple asters, goldenrod, some late Queen Anne’s lace, and orange bittersweet. The lake reflected the chicory blue sky and the tall pines on the far shore lent solidity to the scene.
Lucky students, she thought. And lucky me. That accomplished, she entered the gallery, started taking paintings and posters off the wall. She was pleased to have sold a few of the Mug the Bug prints and one of her flower miniatures, and she set those aside, along with the paintings owned by Cathy, Mr. Parminter and the Shiptons, for delivery.
Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow, she thought. Or on the weekend. She looked around for Marigold and found Lightning. Gerry crouched, then sat against a wall in the dining room, let her hands lie open either side of her. The other cats in the room watched with yellow, sleepy eyes. “Come on, Lightning, I won’t hurt you. Come on. How on earth did Aunt Maggie ever get you into a cat carrier to go to the vet? Maybe you trusted her.”
Lightning sat, making a weird noise that alternated between high-pitched yowling and a low growl. If she’d had a tail, it would have been thrashing. As it was, her stump twitched as she prepared to spring. Gerry tensed. She let the cat wind herself up and stayed perfectly still. Then, Lightning just stopped. She sat up, licked a paw, and walked away. Progress?
It proved to be the best class yet. Entranced by the location, the students, while they may not have produced great art, thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Prudence brought the cake and tea out mid-afternoon and it was with great difficulty that Gerry shooed the students back to work. She overheard Doris remark to Gladys, “I just want to lie in a lawn chair and bask in the sun.”
Gerry instructed them to purchase coloured pencils for the next class and they left, demanding she produce copies of the carrot cake recipe next time. She put away the chairs and fed the cats. As usual, Prudence had left for home during the last part of the class. Gerry peeked out the kitchen window, saw the baby carriage was gone, and sighed with relief. The world was back to normal.
She called Cathy and arranged to go over there for supper, prepared a cheque and sliced some carrot cake; was arranging it on a pretty white plate covered in pink roses when a gentle tapping on the kitchen porch door brought her to attention. She peered out and saw Andrew. Well, at least he didn’t use his key and just walk in! “Andrew.”
“Gerry.” As she paused in the doorway, he looked uncertain. “May I come in?”
“Do you have keys to this house, Andrew?”
“Yes. I — ”
“Would you mind going home and getting them, please. I’m not having anyone else — ”
He held out a key ring with three keys on it. “Maggie liked to know a neighbour would be able to get in and get the cats out if there was a fire and she wasn’t here. Also, I used to feed them when she or Prudence couldn’t.”
Gerry felt ashamed but took the keys anyway. “Would you like some carrot cake?” she mumbled. “I made it.”
He smiled. “Maybe another time. Or could I take a piece home for my dessert tonight?”
She wrapped it in waxed paper. “Did you want to talk to me? Everyone else seems to.”
He nodded and they went through to the next room, sat in the rockers by the fireplace. Marigold dragged herself into the room and sat between them, looking at the empty grate.
“Gerry, I’m very concerned that you may be putting yourself in danger. What if Aunt Maggie really was murdered, as you suspect? By going around talking about it, you’re alerting the murderer.”
“I only told your mother and sister. They told you and your father, I suppose? I can rely on Prudence to be discreet.”
“My mother’s been telling her friends
that you’ve got this crazy idea and that you think one of our family did it. You know what small towns are like. I had a customer come up to me in the store today and ask if it was true.” His face took on a distressed look, his brow furrowed.
Gerry spoke shortly. “Well, what’s done is done, Andrew. In fact, the more people who know, the better. Maybe someone will come forward with more information.”
He was silenced temporarily, then seemed to make up his mind. “About that. About coming forward. I should tell you how the Scottish lady came to be buried in your yard.”
“You?”
He nodded and sank down, put his head in his hands, holding his forehead. Marigold turned. She appeared to be looking at a point beyond the top of his chair. “The morning Prudence found Maggie, she phoned me first and of course I rushed over. When I got to the bedroom I could see she was dead but I touched her anyway to make sure. I must say I didn’t notice any teacup on her bedside table, spilled or otherwise, but I did notice the Doulton figurine because it was on the floor next to her bed. That didn’t make sense. Did she keep it on the bedside table or the mantel? I picked it up, thinking to put it with the others downstairs, and put it in my suit pocket.
“After they took Maggie’s body away, I went home and was surprised to find the figurine. I don’t know why, but I felt ashamed, as though I’d stolen it. I put it in among my collection and, when I inherited Aunt Maggie’s pieces, considered the matter finished. After all, it now belonged to me.
“But it bothered me. What if Prudence, who must have dusted Aunt Maggie’s bedroom, remembered the thing was missing the day she died, then saw it at my place? Or you saw it there and told her? Oh, I was confused. I knew your side yard was due to be torn up so I went over one night, lifted a bit of sod and put the figurine there. I couldn’t bear to break it but I thought the Hudsons would. They break everything else.” Gerry nodded, thinking of her fence. “And you might even think it was old and nothing to do with Maggie. Do you understand?”
“Almost,” Gerry said slowly, wondering at his delicacy of feeling about a china figurine, one among many. “That’s why the third clue doesn’t fit.”
“What?”
“The china lady was the third sign, after the teacups, but before the plant, well, the plant sign was repeated.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, about signs.” He sounded bewildered.
“Don’t worry, Andrew,” Gerry said triumphantly, pushing the bit of cake into his hand and him and it out the door. “You’ve just exposed a red herring!”
Cathy had made pancakes for supper, the big thin kind, and fried mushrooms, then filled the pancakes with the mushrooms, chopped ham and grated Swiss cheese. There was even onion gravy to pour over. Gerry quickly handed over the cheque for the catering and some cash for the supper, and got down to business. “This — ” she said between mouthfuls, “is — so — good.” Charles thumped his tail in agreement. He’d already had his custom pancakes — ham and cheese only — mushrooms and onions not being on his list of favourite foods — but was hopeful Gerry might get careless with her cutlery and flick him some extra.
Cathy lifted her wineglass. “To a successful event!”
“To a successful event!” Gerry echoed, and drank. Then, putting down her glass, she queried, “Cathy, did you ever recall what Aunt Maggie had been afraid of or worried about? Remember, we were talking about it, before your operation?”
Cathy continued eating. “You know, one little thing came to me. It was just two words. “The boys.” She mentioned “the boys” two or three times. I thought she was referring to those three cats — what are their names? — named after Second World War leaders. Winston, Franklin, and, who’s the other one?”
“Joseph,” Gerry replied slowly, “after the Russian, Joseph Stalin. They met at Yalta towards the end of the war.”
Cathy laughed. “Yalta! That was the joke! That the three world leaders — the cats — held their meetings at Yalta down by the pool. I love it. You don’t think it means anything, do you?”
“No.” Gerry voice sounded distracted. No, she thought, because I don’t think those are the boys Aunt Maggie was referring to. She made a note to herself to think about “the boys” later. Meanwhile, Cathy was stuffing more of the pancakes with sliced strawberries and whipped cream and Gerry settled in to enjoy the rest of her evening.
PART 4
ART
First Cat looked at the one they called Lightning and blinked slowly. After a few seconds, Lightning blinked slowly back. Then both cats turned their attention to the fireplace in the living room.
This was the room in which Maggie Coneybear had spent most autumn and winter evenings, by a small fire, surrounded by some if not all of her cats, who were drawn to the warmth and fascinated by the flickering flames, all of them postponing the moment when the fire would fade and Maggie would ascend to her cold and distant bedroom, there to switch on the electric heater and hunker down under numerous quilts overlaid with cats.
Here they were close to the kitchen, handy for late-night forays into the tub of cat kibble, or, for Maggie, to brew a last cup of tea, nibble a few cookies.
Her feet appeared first, the soles facing the cats, toes pointing upward, as though she lay in bed. Then the legs slithered down and out of the fireplace chimney, until, with a bounce, the rest of her followed. She gave herself a little shake and stood between the cats.
First Cat stood, stretched stiffly, then wound herself around where ankles should have been. Finding no contact, she gave a frustrated little “mew.”
Lightning bristled and hunched her back but the woman appeared to merely laugh and shake an admonishing finger. Lightning calmed down and sat, waiting.
The woman toured the room, seemed to admire the autumn bouquet on the table, the garlands of red, yellow and blue corn hanging in the windows. There was a pale blue bowl full of polished red apples on the mantel and she made as if to pick one up, only to see her hand pass right through it. She shrugged and moved through the passageway that led to the formal dining room. The crystal and china in the cabinets that lined the walls of the passageway tinkled as a late truck lumbered past the house.
In the dining room she greeted the cats; wafted from one towel-lined chair to another, spending extra time looking at Mother, who dozed, alone. She winked at Bob, who winked back, and shook her head affectionately over the sleeping pile that was made up of Winston, Franklin, Joseph, and now, little Ronald.
She prowled around the room examining everything; disappeared for a moment through the wall of the gallery, only to re-emerge, smiling.
She floated from the big dining room into the foyer, checking high and low, looking for something.
First Cat and Lightning followed, mystified, as she entered the new woman’s studio. Her hands passed over the various art supplies scattered on the work surface, passed over with seeming pleasure.
Then she glided with certainty to one spot in the room and pointed. First Cat walked over near the object and jumped onto the sofa. The woman became more insistent, indicating with her hands what she wanted done.
First Cat tried, reached, and fell back, exhausted, onto the sofa. Lightning jumped up beside her, leapt onto the back of the sofa and easily accomplished what First Cat could not. First Cat lurched out of the way as the object fell.
The woman clapped her hands together with pleasure, made soothing gestures at First Cat and congratulatory ones at Lightning, before she passed through the outside wall of the studio. By the time both cats had run outside, she was dissipating among the remaining leaves on the apple tree, and then she was mist between them and the stars.
15
Gerry spent Thanksgiving with Cathy and Prudence at Mr. Parminter’s house. The women made the feast while Mr. Parminter provided a selection of wines. Prince Charles and Graymalkin observed an uneasy truce inside the house,
while Bob and the boys and others of Gerry’s bunch could be seen lurking outside, smelling turkey, and casting evil looks at Graymalkin, who, after enjoying his Thanksgiving dinner, performed an extensive grooming ritual by the sliding glass doors, then lay down in Mr. Parminter’s warm kitchen for a nap, taunting the cats outside.
“I don’t want to feed them here,” said Gerry, “in case they start coming over even more than they already do.”
“We must divide the leftovers,” Mr. Parminter replied, “and you shall have extra turkey for all the furry ones. Isn’t that right, Charles?” Charles, who’d eaten extremely well, even for him, burped as Mr. Parminter reached down to stroke his head. They laughed.
These are the only people I trust, thought Gerry. That’s sad. That’s why I need to sort this mess out with the family.
There had been no Thanksgiving invitation from Mary or Geoff. Since their talk at her house, Gerry felt that Andrew was keeping his distance, limiting contact to a wave or a smile from across the road. Of Margaret and the boys, there had been no news. Even Doug seemed to be holding back, gardening or cutting the grass when Gerry was absent.
She wondered if he was over there right now, quietly edging the perennial beds. The first few night frosts had taken the annual flowers and tender vegetables. The perennials were brown and seedy. She’d noticed they hadn’t been cut back, the way she’d seen being done in other local gardens. People called it “putting the garden to bed”— a nice image. In her mind she drew a long coverlet, stretching from the lake to the house, slowly unrolling until it reached some comfy pillows nestled at the foundations — all the plants tucked in for their long winter sleep.
“That would be snow,” she said aloud, chiding herself for her foolishness. Prudence and Cathy exchanged a look of amused fondness at Gerry’s absent-mindedness. Mr. Parminter appeared to have heard only part of her speech.
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