The Lucky Cat Shop

by Debi Matlack

  “Hey Maeve, you feeling better?” Relief flooded me and I felt as weakened by it as I had by alarm. I sat down in the chair in the living room, hearing the echo of football games, NASCAR, sitcoms, PBS nature shows, and cartoons.

  “Yeah, I’m good now. Just… I just wanted to let you know and say thanks.”

  “What for?”

  “Why am I letting you know or why the thanks?”

  “Maeve, you’re my annoying little sister and I love you. It’s my job to look after you, especially when you look like the aftermath of three days of bar-crawling. Not my first rodeo, by the way.”

  “Kiss my ass,” I said with affection. “Last time I try to be nice to you. I am living in your house, eating—”

  “—my food, wallowing in my a/c. I know. Just part of the job ma’am.” Some papers crinkled on his end.

  “Sorry to bother you at work.”

  “No problem. I called Donna at the shop, told them to just carry on like they have been, that you’d be around when you were up to it.”

  “I appreciate it. I’ll let you get back to work.” Something in me wanted to tell him what was happening to me, but I had no idea how he’d react. Actually I did. There was no bigger skeptic in the world than my brother. He’d probably at best be dismissive and, worst case scenario, would have the rubber truck headed my way in record time. Anyway, over the phone was a bad way to declare such things.

  “Take it easy, Maeve. You’re pushing yourself pretty hard. It’s only been a couple of months.”

  “Yes, Brother Dearest.”

  “Bye.”

  The next day I was back at the shop. The visions and sensations from objects was always there, but I found that I could control the intensity some by concentrating on what I saw or ignoring it, kind of like dialing the volume up and down. If the signal was weak and I was distracted by something else, I could ignore it. I did, however, take the precaution of wearing gardening gloves while sorting through the remaining contents of the store.

  The best part of the cleanup and renovation was Poppy bemoaning everything I moved, each item I tossed out as trash, every pile of garbage I toted to the dumpster out back. I have to admit, I did enjoy tormenting him with the clear-out. I noticed some of the items that went to the dumpster were removed long before the truck arrived on its weekly route. Fine by me, it meant I could cram more in there. Things I couldn’t use but might still be useful to someone else, I started stacking along the sidewalk. A few weeks later I found a beautiful carved and painted plaque by the front door, made from an old warped 2 x 12 pine board I’d left out. ‘The Lucky Cat Shop’, in ornate script, rose above an etched background, while a Japanese maneki neko clutched a gold coin and waved a welcome from one end. There was no note or signature. Within ten minutes it swung gently from the chains above the front door.

  Most of the stuff was moved, contents unknown, to a self-storage unit outside of town, to be sorted through and dealt with in the fall, when it wasn’t so frigging hot. The most promising items were shoved into a ragged pile against the back wall, out of the way for now, for me to plow through and try to create an inventory for what was going to be my antiques/reclaimed/upcycled/whatever-the-hell-else-I-wanted-to-carry store.

  I had a wide selection of things I wanted to clean up for sale, mostly furniture and little knick-knacks. The storeroom ran across the entire back of the building and had been renovated first, because it was uncomplicated and the space and storage was needed to stage the rest of the process. An out-of-the-way corner was set aside for my workspace. A dropcloth, a set of crappy old shelves and some tools appeared and my first project after the key assemblage waited for me.

  It was a big china cabinet with chipped green paint. Goose turd green was what Poppy would have called it and I was in full agreement. After hours of sanding, I was coated with a liberal layer of dust in that color, but the piece was ready for painting. Vacuuming, tackcloth, a clean rag and a roll of painter’s tape later and I was worn out. Painting could wait.

  By the end of the week I had tried and rejected some ideas, learned a lot of things not to do when refinishing furniture, and was left with a decent looking result.

  The exterior was pale yellow, almost bone-colored, the better to show up against the red brick walls, my dear. I rubbed some dark wax into the details to give it that aged patina that was so in demand. The plan was to paint the interior red, but the foam brushes I used because I was too lazy to buy anything more complicated or expensive applied the paint in transparent layers, which allowed the wood grain to still show. Now the inside looked as if it were made of cherry wood. I stood a pale china plate in the groove along the glass shelf and the red interior set off the plate to perfection. New bronze hardware with red glass accents finished the job.

  “That’s a real nice china closet, Miss Maeve.” Hal paused on his way toward the stairs.

  “Thank you, kind sir.” He grinned at me and went on his way. Now that this had turned out so well, I was itching to do more.

  I had spent years staring at all the crap Poppy had accumulated and he’d never let me touch a single piece. Now, if there was no significant value in the furniture itself or it was too damaged, it fell victim to my modifications. Ratty dressers became new again with paint, decoupage, and hardware. A few badly damaged pieces morphed into benches with a storage drawer underneath, or, if the damage was worse on the bottom, hutches to be placed on a desk or joined with a coffee table, creating a new open-front buffet. I kept the road hot between the shop and the home center, buying lighting kits, crown molding, table legs, paint, broken tiles, you name it. A small round table and a crate of gorgeous floral, badly broken china went into the making of a bistro set. A series of old headboards became benches. Anything salvagable from otherwise unredeemable pieces were stripped off and sorted into categories. Drawer pulls, hinges, glass, small pieces of clear wood, luggage handles, anything was fair game. I even converted hats and old kitchenware into lighting and lamps. I was having a ball, unleashing all those years of pent-up creativity.

  The crew was flattering in their praise and some even bought pieces before we finished the store. I thought they were just being nice, but then their friends started showing up and I watched my opening inventory dwindle. I got selective about what I sold and kept working, spending my nights with Mike and Karen, looking up new ideas online. I began to understand a little of why Poppy collected so much stuff, the only difference was my transformation of said stuff into other stuff, not merely allowing it to accumulate. Poppy made himself scarce; I could only interpret this as resignation or acceptance of my choices.

  Chapter 7

  In between researching my next projects, I dug around online for information about the Pinehaven Killer. To my surprise, there was a network of speculative websites concerning our string of murders as well as blaming other deaths on the elusive and purely theoretical killer. After all, how could one person be responsible for deaths spanning nearly two hundred years? Actually, thanks to the unwelcome intrusion of the esoteric world into my quiet boring small-town life, I was beginning to believe that if not a single person was accountable, than perhaps a single… entity, might be.

  I knew I had evidence locked away in that trunk, but there was no way in hell’s half acre that I was going near that thing again. Honestly, what good would that kind of evidence do in Poppy’s case? It’s not like we could prosecute a ghoul or whatever. I’d have to content myself with what I could discover on my own.

  The new floor at the shop was being poured and polished and I was banished for a few days. Since I wasn’t satisfied with what the World Wide Web alone had to offer, I went to the library and spent hours digging through microfiche, newspapers, and local histories. Then I stumbled across, of all things, an account in a tabloid newspaper that rolled all the murders and accidental deaths into a neat, conspiracy-theory flavored package.

  The first deaths attributed to the killer happened in 1854. Beryl Sikes was killed by str
angulation near Ott’s Creek. Initially dismissed as a lover’s quarrel, it was only when her sister Pearl was found dead the following year that anyone investigated further. Their cousin, William Tate, died in 1885 when he was crushed by a log that broke free from a horse-powered block and tackle at the local sawmill. His daughter Jenny was the only one of his five children to survive into adulthood.

  Tragedy struck Jenny Tanner’s family when her youngest daughter Coraline was strangled and dumped in a sinkhole. Jenny’s mother, already in poor health, died soon after. Jenny’s other daughters survived long enough to marry, one dying in childbirth and the other killed in a house fire. Only her son and husband escaped the conflagration. This family had horrific bad luck.

  More deaths followed, but not all of them could be classified as murders or even the result of foul play. I was shocked to see my own name in the tabloid. The car accident that claimed my parents was speculated to be connected to this Pinehaven curse.

  ‘Mary MacAllister Kavanaugh was a descendent of the family that seems to be most affected by this tragic string of deaths. She and her husband Drew perished in an automobile accident while driving home from a birthday celebration for their daughter Maeve, clipped by a semi-truck hauling hay that failed to stop at an intersection.’ The hay came from Poppy’s own farm, where my family had just been, where Mike and I grew up with Poppy and Granny.

  I sat back in my chair hard, forcing a squeak from it that echoed around the quiet reference section. If anyone sent me a censorious glare, I didn’t notice. I was too busy staring openmouthed at the screen, stunned by what I’d just read.

  The memory hit me like a thunderclap. Holy shit… now I remembered.

  I’d just turned five. We’d visited Poppy and Granny, who surprised me with a small group of friends from my class at school, cake, gifts, and a trip to the lake. After we’d run wild all afternoon, Mom finally rounded me and Mike up and buckled us into the back seat. I think I fell asleep before the car ever started. I was awakened by what I imagined was a tornado, picking us up to dump us somewhere in Oz. We became airborne, flipping a number of times before coming to rest between the bank and the guardrail at Ott’s Creek. The only sound I remember is my own screams.

  So, the attack in the store was part of this longstanding curse? That was just crazy talk. Still, I felt like I needed to share this with Detective Jenkins. Eventually. The next time he called I’d definitely show him the articles. Until then, I stuffed all my photocopies and printouts into a manila folder. This was destined to join the other article shoved behind the counter at the store. Jenkins was going to think I was a nutjob for sure.

  The store was finished. The main body of the crew was kind enough to help me move the heavy pieces of furniture into place. Karen, Mike and I scrounged some cheap oriental-looking rugs from the flea market up the road and placed them throughout the big space. This created a series of islands and mock-rooms, all set with furniture, accessories and whatever else I thought looked good. I had also invested in some new merchandise, an integrated speaker system that played my choice of music from an MP3 device I kept under the counter, and a new computer, all set up to help me keep track of inventory and sales. My family, the construction crew and invited local business owners gathered one Friday evening around a few bottles of cheap champagne. I popped the top on a bottle, only to have it overflow onto the floor. I couldn’t help but laugh as a couple of the crew scrambled for towels.

  “It’s okay, guys, terrazzo can handle anything.” We filled glasses and I raised mine to the crew. “This place looks amazing. I couldn’t have found a better bunch of people in a million years and I am so grateful. Thank you.”

  We all drank to that and I raised my voice over the murmur just once more. “Everybody enjoy yourselves and tell your friends. I have to pay the bill on all this work somehow.” A general chuckle erupted and I took another sip, bemused that the massive undertaking had turned out so well. Something caught my eye and I looked up. Donna, my fabulous contractor, beckoned to me.

  “I want you to see what we’ve done upstairs.” I had almost forgotten about the upstairs. I remembered answering a few questions about color preferences and the like. The initial plan had been to create a living space as a potential additional source of income. There was plenty of space up there, that was for sure. A nondescript door set discretely midway along the side of the store gave access to the stairwell and I followed Donna up. I was surprised to see windows along the ceiling which made it feel more open. “Where did those come from?”

  She smiled at my reaction. “Those were boarded up. I was very excited to find them.”

  “I’m excited you found them too, it makes this a lot less cave-like than it used to be.” The old stairwell scared the hell out of me as a child, dark and dingy, with a single dim bulb dangling from a wire in the ceiling. Now, each riser was lit by hidden light rope and a big central fixture hung in place of the old naked bulb. The stairs led to a wide landing at the rear of the building, which turned right and ended in a large open space. A long wall topped with a chest high flat marble rail ran parallel to the stairs, the windows positioned above to flood the steps and the space beyond with light. I could already visualize a row of potted orchids living along that rail, provided Ernie left them unmolested and didn’t bomb the stairs with them.

  Horticultural musings suspended, I stared into a huge apartment, punctuated by brick columns. An open kitchen stood to one side, containing a large island and about a million cabinets. The door and drawer fronts were all made with weathered, reclaimed wood and the counters and central island were creamy marble. “Those were the original counters from the general store. We found them up here when we started clearing out.” She smiled, presumably at my gobsmacked expression, and pointed. “Living area, lots of shelves for your books and memorabilia, controls for the windows here,” she paused by the head of the stairs and pressed a button. Those miraculous windows were full of tricks. At her command they swung outward smoothly, letting in a fresh breeze through the screens. “Straight ahead, office area.” A desk and chair sat to one side of a wide hall, a soft chair, ottoman and table were in the other corner, creating a cozy reading nook.

  “Wow.” I could almost feel my jaw scraping the polished hardwood floor. She crooked a finger at me and chuckled.

  “But wait, there’s more.” Past the overstuffed sofas and upholstered chairs in the living room, through the kitchen, past the rustic bookshelves, down a short hallway, hung an iron-strapped door.

  “That’s the old door from the storeroom!” I had shoved that door aside many a time to come or go from the front of the store to the back. It had been cut down, cleaned and waxed and glided smoothly to one side on a roller rail set above the opening. “This is so cool.”

  “Here’s the best part.” A big tester bed piled deep with pillows actually had sheer curtains hanging from the cross-rails. Some of the nicer pieces of furniture now resided here and the next room was a bright airy bath, painted royal blue and white, complete with a clawfoot tub big enough to sink a cruise ship in. Back in the hallway, another set of stairs led down to the alley between my building and the barber shop next door.

  I was speechless, quite a feat. I settled for hugging the hell out of Donna. Wiping away happy tears, I stood back with my arm still around her and tried to take it all in. “I love it.”

  That night I collected a change of clothing and a few odds and ends from my brother’s house and spent the night in my own space. It was a weird feeling, like staying in a fancy hotel, except I felt very much at home. I still planned to have the store’s grand opening the next morning, but tomorrow evening was going to be spent gathering my things from Mike’s and Poppy’s. This apartment was mine and I intended to keep it that way. So much for income property.

  Curiosity brought people in, the ever-changing variety of my inventory seemed to keep them coming. Since I did have a lot of traffic some days, I decided to put a big community bulletin board next
to the counter where I kept the cash register. Anyone was welcome to post any kind of notification they cared to and at least my initial surge of customers guaranteed that someone would see it.

  One enterprising young man posted a picture of himself with his girlfriend, bearing the legend ‘Do you think she should marry me?’ with tear strips across the bottom with a web address. It led to a website with more pictures of the couple, an adorable biography, and a poll. So far, the opinion of the town was that yes, she should indeed marry him and waste no time about it. It was a very romantic gesture. I wished Mr. Joseph Drummond the best of luck with his quest for his bride.

  One morning a boy came in, on his way to the elementary school a few blocks down. He approached the counter slowly, looking around the store with wide eyes. His gaze fixed on me and became determined.

  “Ma’am, could I please put this up on your corkboard? Some kids had firecrackers and my dog got scared and ran away.”

  “Yes sir, absolutely.” I held out my hand and he pulled a slightly wrinkled flyer from his backpack. There were a few pictures of a red and white bulldog, chasing a ball, a good full-body shot that showed the stocky musculature and panting smile the breed is known for and one more image that tore at my heart. The biggest picture was of the young boy in front of me asleep on a rug with the dog lying beside him, the blocky head pillowed on his young master’s leg, keeping watch. I beckoned and took a couple of steps toward the bulletin board, bristling with notices.