The Cat Among Us

by Louise Carson

  “What are we making today?” she wearily asked.

  “I don’t have a name for them. They’re just ‘those wonderful squares you make.’ I always take them to funerals. They’ll give you a toothache, they’re so sweet.”

  “Sounds good. What do I do?”

  “You start with a shortbread crust. We’ll double the recipe and use this big pan.”

  As Gerry assembled the shortbread — brown sugar, butter, flour — and pressed it into the pan, Prudence remarked casually, “I was thinking I might use some of your aunt’s legacy to me to buy a little car.”

  “Oh, Prudence, what a good idea. Then you won’t have to walk that carriage along the road anymore. I was wondering how you managed in winter. Now what?”

  “We bake it. It’s the base for this.” She took two cans of sweetened condensed milk from her bag. “The magic ingredient. We’re going to make caramel.” They each took a can and dumped the contents into a pot, scraping out the cans with spoons, although some of the Gerry’s can’s contents somehow managed to make it into her mouth. They added butter, corn syrup and vanilla, and cooked the concoction over low heat for about five minutes, stirring continuously and watching for bubbles. Then they poured it over the cooked cookie base and baked it again.

  While they waited for it to turn golden brown, they did the dishes. “The only thing,” Prudence began slowly.

  “Yes?”

  “The only thing about getting a car is — I can’t drive!” They looked at each other and laughed.

  “I’ll teach you, Prudence.”

  “I have to take lessons from an accredited driving school.”

  “Well, I’ll let you practise on my car between lessons.”

  “Would you? That’d be great. I was worried about how I’d practise. Thank you.”

  The dessert came out of the pan smelling like candy. “It takes a while to cool,” Prudence cautioned.

  “You don’t mean — we’re going to ice it too?”

  Prudence nodded. “Chocolate.”

  Gerry phoned her students and reassured them that she would be able to teach them the following week. Andrew called to say the visitation would be Wednesday afternoon and evening. Cathy called as soon as she heard and invited Gerry to dinner that night. “No charge, my dear. Just some TLC from me to you.” Gerry hung up with tears in her eyes. Bea phoned to make the same offer and Gerry arranged to see her on the following evening.

  Gerry went over to Mr. Parminter’s after lunch to break the news personally, but he’d already heard. Someone had phoned him. All he could say was, “Terrible thing. It’s a terrible thing,” as he patted Graymalkin, asleep on his lap. Gerry asked him if he wanted to go to the visitation but he declined, accepting a ride to the funeral instead. She made him a cup of tea and went home.

  Prudence was icing the caramel. “They’re wicked hard to cut. I’ll do it the day of the visitation and we’ll arrange them on a plate.”

  “Don’t come to work on Wednesday, Prudence. I’ll cut the squares and pick you up in the afternoon and we can go together. They’re less likely to throw both of us out.”

  Prudence nodded. “I’ll just do the cats and then I’ll be off.”

  Gerry caught her hand. “Thank you. It really helped. The baking.”

  Prudence said no more, just looked pleased.

  Gerry was so tired she drove the short distance to Cathy’s house. Her friend must have been watching for her, because she opened the front door and welcomed Gerry in. “I thought we could have a drink and snacks in the living room first.”

  Candles glowed in the large, shabbily elegant room. Charles sprawled in front of a fire.

  “Don’t get up, Charles,” Gerry exhorted. He didn’t, but showed, by his tail whacking the floor a couple of times when she bent down and scrunched him between the ears, that she was welcome.

  “What you need is a g and t,” Cathy said, offering her one.

  Gerry collapsed in a comfy chair with a sigh. “Bless you. You’re a saint.”

  Cathy sat down across from her, Charles between them, and passed Gerry a little bowl of cashews. “We don’t have to talk about it unless you want to.”

  “Good. I spent the morning on the phone and Prudence and I baked some squares for Wednesday. I cancelled the art class. I feel organized but lost at the same time.”

  “You’re allowed. For supper we have roast chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans with little crispy bits of bacon and almonds. It’s all done. Just tell me when you’re ready.”

  Gerry jumped up, astonishing Charles. “Ready!”

  Tuesday morning she took more calls. Some of her clients phoned their condolences. Andrew called to say he thought the funeral would be on Saturday.

  She looked through her cupboard. The little black dress wasn’t appropriate. And the weather was too cool to wear the navy skirt she’d worn to Aunt Maggie’s funeral. She drove to a shopping centre and bought some black dress pants, black flats and an ivory sweater with little pearl buttons running down the front. As she drove home along the river road, dead leaves skittered in front of the car. The herons, wading by the shore, were long gone, flown to wherever herons went for the winter. Instead, hundreds of Canada geese floated, awaiting the signal that would send them south. Her windshield wipers flicked steadily at a few raindrops and by the time she got home, she was ready for a nap.

  She was late feeding the cats and she was late arriving at Cece and Bea’s for supper. “Sorry, sorry. I seem to be moving in slow motion.”

  “Delayed reaction,” said Cece, opening a bottle of red wine. “I heard from Andrew how you held it together, got him to the car, drove to Margaret’s. Well done.” He toasted her.

  She felt herself well up. “Not my dad,” she mumbled. “I knew how he must be feeling, that’s all.”

  Bea slid a box of tissues in her direction before remarking quietly, “Every death reminds us of all the other deaths.”

  “Who said that?” Gerry asked, wiping her eyes, thinking of her parents, Aunt Maggie, and now, Uncle Geoff.

  “Why, I believe it was Bea Muxworthy,” her friend replied, putting a serving of lasagne in front of Gerry. Gerry laughed shakily and blew her nose.

  The lasagne was just what she needed, as was the bowl of expensive ice cream that followed. They turned on the TV and watched a boring documentary about the American Civil War. Gerry fell asleep in the recliner while Bea and Cece snuggled on the chaise longue.

  “I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you, but you snore,” Bea teased, as Cece helped Gerry on with her coat.

  “Hah! She should talk. Talk about the night train!” Cece stepped outside with Gerry while Bea waved from the doorway.

  The drizzle had stopped and the stars showed themselves. Gerry took a deep breath. “You don’t notice fresh air after a while.”

  Cece closed the car door. She lowered the window. “Anything you need to tell me, Gerry?”

  She didn’t understand at first, then realized he was referring to Uncle Geoff’s death. “No. No. I don’t think so, Cece,” she said gravely. “But I really should make my will soon, don’t you think? Thanks for a lovely evening.” Soberly, she drove away.

  She spent the next morning with Mug the Bug, planning his next move. Halloween was coming. How could she incorporate that in her next few strips? Like most comic artists, she worked a few weeks in advance, to allow for holidays and illnesses. And deaths.

  After lunch, she cut the squares. Prudence had been right: wicked hard to cut. Fortunately, Prudence had taped a note to the plastic wrap covering them. Use the big chef’s knife and wash it after each cut. Even following these instructions, bits of caramel stuck to the knife. Obviously, Gerry decided, these were meant to be scraped off with a fork and then into the cook’s mouth. Stickily, she arranged the squares on a big tray and re-covered the
m, put them in her trunk. Then she changed and left to get Prudence.

  Gone were the salmon-pink geraniums from Prudence’s little house’s window boxes. Instead, she’d placed scarlet-leafed Virginia creeper. A family of robins were pecking at its grapelike fruit. They dispersed when Prudence came out her front door. “Makes them drunk,” she said, sliding into the front seat.

  “What?”

  “The fermenting berries make the birds drunk. Wild grapes are the worst. Once I saw crows falling off a fence, they were so inebriated.”

  Gerry paused, looking at Prudence. “You have just given me the mental image required for my next painting. ‘Drunk Crows.’” She put the car in gear and they drove slowly to Lovering’s small funeral parlour.

  Located in an old house, it was comforting to enter, as though they really were visiting Uncle Geoff at somebody’s home. They took off their coats, signed the book in the hall, and handed the tray to one of the young workers. “Parsley?” Gerry whispered. Prudence smiled a ghost of a smile and nodded.

  The coffin, bedecked with wreaths and bouquets, was in the main room. There were quite a few people milling around with a cup in one hand and something sweet in the other. Gerry and Prudence stood uneasily until Andrew came over, led them to where the rest of the family were.

  It was all very civilized.

  Aunt Mary stood. She and Gerry carefully kissed the air either side of the other’s cheeks, equally carefully refraining from touching; made little inarticulate sounds at each other.

  Margaret, sitting behind her mother, looked dazed, as though she’d been drugged. Her sons stood around her, looking frightened. Gerry said, “Margaret,” and, when there was no reaction, approached the boys. They permitted her to hug them. David clung.

  Andrew gave her a grave kiss on the cheek and thanked her for coming. And that was it.

  She and Prudence got themselves a cup of coffee and a square and mingled. Gerry wondered if Doug would come. The atmosphere was subdued. People spoke quietly as they greeted each other.

  After twenty minutes, they reversed the order of their actions: put down their cups, said goodbye to the Petherbridges, paused by the coffin, and took their coats from the young attendant.

  There wasn’t much to say. As Gerry drove Prudence home, rain began to fall again.

  When she got home, the answer to one of her questions was waiting.

  18

  Dear Gerry,

  This is what I wish you to present to the police, if there is ever any question about Maggie Coneybear’s death being suspicious.

  Geoff

  Since her sister inherited The Maples, my wife, Mary Coneybear Petherbridge, has made my life hell. She had been led to believe by her mother, Ellie Catford Coneybear, that the house would be left to Mary and Maggie equally. Perhaps this was my mother-in-law’s intention. In any case, when she died, this assumption was found to be false. Everything, except for a cash legacy, went to the younger sister.

  Mary brought up our children, Margaret and Andrew, to resent their Aunt Maggie. It worked with Margaret, not with Andrew. This resentment has poisoned our family life, both at home and in the community, as people were able to see for themselves what kind of a person Maggie was and Mary is.

  Nevertheless, my first allegiance has always been to my wife and children, so when I was told by Maggie that instead of leaving The Maples to Mary, she was going to change her will to leave everything to Gerry Coneybear, our niece, I felt I had to act to prevent this.

  My son Andrew will attest that sales at our store have been poor and we are faced with shutting down. My wife’s extravagant lifestyle has left us with a large mortgage, car loans and little cash in hand. We have also been supporting in part my daughter Margaret and her children.

  Unbeknownst to me, Maggie had either already changed her will and was, perhaps, trying to prepare me, or changed it shortly thereafter. I didn’t know that and went ahead with preparations to kill her.

  I’d always liked my sister-in-law and wished her to suffer as little as possible. I’d heard my wife talking about poisonous plants to one of her friends and noted which ones they were. I prepared the root of the aconite plant.

  The night my sister-in-law died, I heard my wife again discussing plants with her sister on the phone, this time recommending an herbal tea for insomnia. After she’d gone to bed, I drove to my sister-in-law’s house with the aconite.

  Though surprised to see me, she accepted that Mary had sent me with a remedy. I told her to go to bed and I would bring her the tea. I added a bag of black tea to the aconite to disguise the flavour.

  I placed the cup on her bedside table. She took a couple of sips, said it tasted funny and put it down. I joked about not even being able to make a cup of tea and left.

  At home, I went into my study, and turned on the TV. Eventually, I dozed off in my chair. My wife Mary found me there the next morning, when she came to tell me that her sister was dead. She was very excited and remarked, “Now we’ll get what we’ve always deserved.”

  A few days later, I admired her control when we found out everything had been left to Gerry.

  Gerry, I was going to kill you when I met you in the woods a few weeks ago. I’d heard from Cece Muxworthy that you hadn’t yet made a will, and knew Mary would inherit if you died without one. I reasoned that you’d hardly be likely to leave your estate to her when you got around to making a will. I’m sorry. But I’m glad I didn’t kill you. It was bad enough what I did to Maggie. And for nothing.

  To my wife, I can only say, “I hope you get what you deserve.” If they rule accidental death, you’ll get the life insurance. If the verdict is suicide, you get nothing.

  I plan to go up to the woods now, and end it that way. To my son Andrew, I’m sorry. To my grandsons, I love you. Be good men.

  Geoff Petherbridge

  “I don’t believe it,” Gerry said. She stood with the letter in her hand in the front hall. As she’d read, the envelope had dropped from her hand. She picked it up now and walked stiffly to the stairs and sat down. “Uncle Geoff kill Aunt Maggie? Kill me? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t kill for money, for a lifestyle!” She burst into tears and rocked herself, feeling miserable.

  She gathered the rest of the mail off the front door mat and plodded into the kitchen. Whatever happened, cats still needed to eat. “This has been,” she said to their expectant faces, “one hell of a long day.” She made tea and fed them, then wandered away into her studio.

  The late afternoon sun slanted in across her worktable and onto the rug in front of the fireplace. She switched on the electric heater and sat on the sofa, drinking her tea.

  She wondered what the verdict had been — accidental death or suicide — but maybe it was too soon for anyone to have decided. She flipped through the rest of her mail, handling the envelope Uncle Geoff’s letter had come in again. Wait a minute, her fingers told her. It’s too thick. She extracted another letter.

  Dear Gerry,

  This is what I wish you to show the police if Margaret is not brought under control, or if she ever endangers anyone again. I am not at present fearful for the boys’ safety, but you never know. Use this if you have to.

  Geoff

  My daughter, Margaret Petherbridge Shapland, poisoned her aunt, Maggie Coneybear. She admitted this to me at her house last Friday night after her mother had gone home.

  Margaret was very upset after a visit from you, Gerry, and Prudence Crick, during which you accused her of this crime. Her mother and I stayed with her all day. Her mother got tired and went home while I prepared to sleep on the sofa to watch over Margaret.

  But Margaret couldn’t sleep and seemed to want to talk. She claimed that her mother had assured her they would inherit The Maples this time, whenever Aunt Maggie died. When I asked her why she had done it, she said something about not wanting Mummy to h
ave to wait any longer.

  My daughter is a very disturbed person, made so by years of living with a capricious, demanding, and unloving mother. Those years have destroyed her, as they have me.

  I remonstrated with her, assuring her that while we have some debts we have enough credit to get by on. But I doubt she did it for the house and money, though she loves The Maples, and could always use more money, but rather as a bid to please her mother.

  She described how she looked up the poisonous plants, made her selection, and prepared the roots. Then she waited her chance. As she told you, Gerry, she went over to Maggie’s with an offering of herb tea, and when she left, her aunt was dying but not dead.

  I can’t bear to think of poor Maggie lying there, feeling ill, beginning to realize Margaret has poisoned her. And wanting to get out of bed, get to a phone, but being paralyzed; having to watch her life run out. I can’t think of it without a shudder, that it was my daughter, my little girl! who did this horrible thing.

  After Margaret told me all this, I made her promise not to tell anyone, especially her mother. I said her mother would be angry and hate her if she knew her daughter had murdered her sister. And I hoped it was true.

  When Mary told me her sister was dead, she was sad, but she was also excited to inherit her estate. It has been a disappointment to her. I love and pity my daughter. I am no longer sure how I feel toward my wife.

  That day we met in the woods, I was trying to get up the courage to kill myself. I killed the birds so it would look like an accident and Mary would get the life insurance. I’d already written a version of the other letter and left it in my desk. I meant to protect Margaret. I hope she gets the care she needs. I have indicated her need for this in a letter to Andrew.

  But you met me in the woods, Gerry, and I could hardly explain what I meant to do. I’m sorry this has been so unpleasant for you. I hope things improve for my family in the future. I know your future will be bright.