The Lucky Cat Shop

by Debi Matlack

  The Yellow Submarine was open early for breakfast so I wandered over. Ernie meowed plaintively from behind the security glass, silent mouth opening and closing in distress at having been abandoned in favor of food. More than a few of my fellow business owners had the same idea so we lined up at the door. Promptly at seven the door opened and Carrie welcomed us with a beaming smile.

  “Come in, come in! Seat yourself or you can order to-go at the counter.” I had stuff to do at the shop, I wasn’t up this early just to be nosy, though that did play a part in my early arising. Heading to the counter, I paused to look up at the menu board. It was tricked out with psychedelic paints and the selections had names like Magical Mystery Tuna and Maxwell’s Slivered Ham(mer). The breakfast menu was entitled Here Comes the Sun and I chose a sandwich consisting of eggs, ham, peppers and tomato called Good Day Sunshine. As I paid, I asked Carrie, “How hard was it to choose the right song title for the meal?” She laughed like I had just told her the greatest joke known to mankind.

  “My husband and I were huge Beatles fans and we used to make a game of applying the titles to everything around us.” She looked around her with pride tinged with a sadness that flickered through and was gone. “Steve would have loved this place.”

  I took the food as she handed it over. “I’m sure he would have.” What the hell else was I going to say? Just because I was the town crank didn’t mean I wanted to be that way all the time. But the nut doesn’t fall far from the tree. I was proof.

  As I sold things, I had to find more stuff to replace it with. That’s when I discovered the joy of estate sales. At least it was fun in the beginning, until I ran into my first disgruntled former owner.

  The sale was in a nearby town, in their oldest, most affluent neighborhood. The area had seen better days, but the same couple had lived in the house since the Kennedy administration. The house was full of furniture, old tools, luggage, and a library jammed from floor to ceiling with books. The selection was picked over, and as I read the titles, I knew why these had been left behind.

  As I perused the books, wincing at the content of some of them, I wondered just what kind of person the deceased was. Not a very nice one, from what I could see. Many of the books were downright xenophobic, declaring that all other races should return to their countries of origin. Granted, we’re in the South, and some prejudices die hard. But the politics of this home were frightening, something along the lines of white supremacy or Aryan Nation with a little conspiracy theorist thrown in just to spice things up. I considered peeking out the back window to see if there was a fallout shelter next to the cypress trees. The river at the back of the property was full of alligators, serving as a moat perhaps?

  Another belligerent title, declaring the Confederate position in the Civil War as morally right had me speculating if I was going to find a Nazi banner among the linens and towels. I’d already found numerous Rebel flags. Not unusual in these parts, but in an elderly, well-to-do man’s home? That tended to speak more of a deep-rooted bigotry than testosterone-laden redneck enthusiasm for an outdated symbol of autonomy.

  “Everyone goes back where they came from, indeed,” I muttered under my breath. “You’d have been waiting in line for a boat too, dude. At least the Indians walked here from Asia.” I wondered what he would have thought of the anthropological Out-of-Africa theory. My money was on spontaneous human combustion as the most likely result.

  Now uncomfortable, I backed away from the books. I wasn’t willing to risk finding a pseudo-historical volume detailing a conspiracy for Custer’s murder at the hands of the ‘savages’ in order to find a rare volume of something not offensive to almost everyone. As a matter of fact, the entire house started to give me an uneasy vibe. I found out why when I turned toward the door.

  A thin, stooped, elderly man stood there, his reddened, rheumy eyes glaring at the strangers in his house with undisguised malice. He tottered after a woman carrying a porcelain figurine of an Irish Setter. I bought that for my wife in Spain, put it back! The woman, unaware of his protests, paid the cashier and went out. The old man spied another would-be thief and bore down on him like a freight train. Leave that alone! Goddamn parasites! I bet you all were lined up at the door when you heard I was dead, to find out what Old Man Crauley had hidden behind these walls! Most of his targets were oblivious, but a few shivered and looked around uneasily without understanding why.

  He saw me staring and rushed at me, face distorted with rage. Something wrong with my books? Goddamn liberals, want to feed everybody, love everybody, why can’t we all just be friends? Goddamn crybabies! His tone was mocking and vicious. I glanced around to make sure there wasn’t anyone to overhear. Six months ago, he would have terrified me. Now he was just annoying.

  “I guess I don’t need to ask why you’re still hanging around after you’re dead. I suspect you don’t like your ultimate destination.”

  What are you trying to say? That I’m going to Hell because I think America should belong to Americans? His voice echoed and his image shifted color to a red-orange tone. Just like flames. I’ve been a member of the Methodist church since I was a boy. I’ve been washed in the blood of our Lord—

  “Jesus Christ, yeah, yeah, I know the drill. My grandfather was a staunch Baptist. I also know that your ass warming a pew once a week doesn’t guarantee you a damn thing when you die. If you’re still an asshole after you’ve died, then you were a thousand times worse alive. It’s not just getting dunked in the water or asking forgiveness that saves your soul, it’s what you do and how you treat people.” The old man’s expression and aura morphed from the moldy green of indignation to scarlet rage to self-righteousness the plum color of a fresh bruise that hid a deep fear. “I don’t know what happened to you to make you this way, but I’m sorry for it. Unfortunately, you’ve run out of time to do anything about it.” His eyes went wide and he paled to a foggy grey.

  A step sounded in the hallway and one of the estate sale people peeked in. “Everything okay?”

  I glanced up and smiled. “Yes, thanks. I was wondering, would you take fifty for all the books?” He glanced at the half-empty shelf, pursed his lips and nodded.

  “Sure. Need a box?”

  “That’d be great, thank you.” I handed over the money and he vanished down the hall.

  The newly darkened spectre of the angry old man loomed over me, trying to intimidate me. What do you think you’re doing? Those are mine!

  I didn’t intimidate so easily any more. “Kindling.”

  Chapter 10

  I stumbled down the last steps and into the store. Someone was knocking insistently on the door. At three in the morning. Wrapping my robe more securely, I peered at the man that stood on the other side of the store window. I had no clue who he was. The reassuring weight of Poppy’s pistol bumping my leg through the pocket of the robe made me bold enough to open the door to the extent of the steel security latch and lean against the frame.

  He was tall, blond, and pale, dressed plainly in jeans and a blue plaid shirt. Something about him set off deep internal alarms, clanging in the reptilian portion of my brain, marking this one as an apex predator. I paid attention but didn’t let my prey-animal status show on my face. Or I tried not to, anyway. Since my recovery, the things I became aware of that had previously been hidden to me grew more and more disquieting. Poppy was proud of what I’d done to fix up the store. He told me so. Associating with esoteric creatures my new-found talents apparently attracted would probably start him to rolling in his grave.

  Bad idea, little girl.

  Yeah, I thought he’d object. The cold spot just behind my right shoulder radiated disapproval, as a matter of fact. Too bad, old man. There I was, a grown woman, and I was still defying the man who raised me, even though he was dead. I’d probably live to regret it. If I was lucky.

  My attention back on the solid man standing in my doorway, I pointed to the sign in the window. “We’re closed.”

  He was unconce
rned with my sarcasm. A velvet drawstring bag swung gently from one hand. “I have an object I’d like you to evaluate.”

  A deep sighed welled out before I could stop it. “Again, let me draw your attention to the fact that the store is closed.” How did my psychometry ability broadcast itself into the ether? Could supernatural creatures smell it somehow, or were they all incessant gossips? I visualized a shadowy convenience store, selling flea control, industrial-strength sun-block and several blood types in a 32 ounce refillable cup. A news stand by the counter held a stack of tabloids bearing the headline: ‘Newly Discovered Psychic! Open All Hours!’ That would be my luck.

  One corner of his mouth drew up in a ghost of a smile, though the expression remained exclusive to his lips. Those grey eyes, almost colorless, were as hard and cool as the glass they resembled. “I work nights.”

  “I don’t.” Though I had a pretty good idea why he ‘worked nights’. I was willing to bet he’d burst into flames in sunlight too. At least I think that’s what happens to vampires. Television shows and endless paranormal novels all had their own opinions so I couldn’t be certain without further personal experience. I wasn’t sure I wanted any more personal experience.

  “You will be well compensated for your time and the inconvenient hour.”

  Okay, that got my attention. The business I got kept me and the store afloat, but sometimes things were a bit lean, the money I made very often going right back out the door to pay for inventory and overhead. And while it had been the scene of a murder and an assault with a deadly weapon that had almost become a murder, which was good for some curiosity-seeking foot traffic, notoriety didn’t pay the bills. I’d spent a lot of money fixing the place up, using a substantial portion of the trust Poppy had left. I was stuck with the place since I couldn’t sell it and I’m not gonna lie, things got tight some weeks. The prospect of extra money coming in made me seriously consider risking my life again by inviting this man and his object in. But there it was, dangling over my head, the sword of Damocles, cloaked as an invitation I might make. I had a nodding acquaintance with the risks entailed in allowing a vampire to enter freely, thanks to the aforementioned movies and novels. What were my options? “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You can’t know.” The first touch of humor lit his eyes and he tilted his head to one side. “But, you have my word.”

  Yeah right. “Again, how do I know if your word is any good? People lie all the time to get what they want.”

  An insulted frown flickered across his face. This expression incorporated his entire face, including his eyes, which narrowed at my impudence. “You’ll come to understand that my word is my bond.”

  I was getting annoyed myself. “You’re insinuating that we’re going to be best buddies, but right now, I don’t know you from Adam.”

  A quiet chuff that I took as amusement preceded his answer. “Funny you should use that phrase. My name is Adam. Adam Bell.”

  Three o’clock in the morning seemed as good a time as any for a random introduction in my pajamas. “Maeve—”

  “Kavanaugh. I know. I knew your grandfather.” The cold spot at my shoulder intensified, offsetting the muggy night air flowing through the barely-open door from outside. Well, well, well, old man, you kept your cards close to the vest, didn’t you?

  I tried to warn you.

  Adam went on. “Additionally, I have information that may prove useful to someone with your new... sensibilities.”

  That was intriguing. “Oh? How about a preview?”

  His gaze went over my shoulder and he flashed a quick smile. “Woodrow is a protective man, even now.” He addressed the air behind me. “I promise I won’t hurt her, now or ever.”

  The cold spot warmed a little and I felt the old man’s presence withdraw the tiniest bit. He means it. Don’t mean you should trust him, though.

  The surprises were coming so fast I was working hard to keep up. When I looked back at Adam, he was gazing at me with an air of quiet expectation. With a resigned sigh, I released the latch and stepped back. “Won’t you please come into my store?” I didn’t see us becoming boon companions anytime soon, but he intrigued me with his mysterious object and hints of knowledge about my condition, abilities, whatever whitewash you want to cover it with.

  He inclined his head graciously and stepped across the threshold. As he did, I felt a tiny tingle up my spine that I tried my best to ignore. As he followed me to the back room, he commented, “That was clever phrasing, by the way. I think you’ll be fine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Inviting me into the store, but not your home. Well done.”

  Prey being complimented by the predator. Maybe there was hope for me after all. “Thanks.”

  In the storeroom, I unlocked the narrow door to my secret space, though it was getting a lot less secret by the second. Now inside the small room, the walls were painted a soft blue, the biggest wall covered with the nearly completed Tree of Life. Hey, I was never going to get to art school, but my creative energy had an outlet at last. The branches and roots were interwoven, roots probing outward into the globe of the Earth, burrowing creatures taking shelter among them. The branches were laden with fruit and symbols of all kinds, birds and beasts all peering from among the leaves. The sun rose on the left, indicating East, and the full Moon hung low in the West. Where the stairs brought the ceiling down, a low table served as an altar, a small blue bottle in a voluptuous female shape held a spray of wilting flowers, a worn silver letter opener lying next to it, standing in for an athame. And, for my pièce de résistance, I had finished the tile floor, the Tree shape echoed underfoot, various warding symbols from various belief systems worked into the border. The things you could find on Google.

  “I underestimated you. You seem well prepared.” Yet I had no idea what I was doing. I stopped just inside the door. Adam still stood in the storeroom. I smiled at him.

  “You’re not invited in here.” I turned back toward him, my hand extended. “The object?” He handed the bag over by its silken cord and I nodded toward the wall. “There’s a chair over there if you want to watch. I can’t say that there’s much to see though.” Not waiting to see if he found a seat or not, my chair waited in the center of my circle, straddling the tree’s trunk halfway between root and branch. Poppy’s presence was gone and my mind was mercifully free of whisperings and rambling thoughts. I faced the yellow tile that indicated east and opened the bag without touching what was inside.

  To my surprise it was an old Bible, small, leather-bound, worn, just the sort that someone would carry to church on many, many Sundays. I glanced back at Adam who started to speak until I raised my hand to stop him.

  “Not yet. I want to find out what I can first.” He nodded and leaned back in his chair just outside the doorway. I took a deep breath and put my hands on the cover.

  I smelled warm air and the aroma of closely-packed bodies, sweating, some but not all clean and recently bathed. Cotton fabric, well-kept wood and old books combined into an aroma that shouted Sunday morning. There was a widespread rustle, the dry whisper of dozens of paper fans being utilized to fend off the searing threat of Hell, or heatstroke during a fire and brimstone sermon on an August midmorning. They were emblazoned with a full color image of Jesus walking on the water on one side, an advertisement for a local funeral home on the back. Some things never change.

  “But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only.”

  A round-faced man stood in front of the congregation, varying one moment from youth to old age, but his voice never lost its clarity. The hands on the Bible before me were older when the preacher was young, growing older still, then gone, replaced by young hands, covered in prim white gloves, resting on the skirt of a sky blue calico dress. The owner of the young hands was bored but keeping up outward appearances. She was about sixteen and stayed that way, the preacher was now old and the roundest he’d been; I was no lon
ger seeing time fluctuate. As before, my perspective was kissing-close to my main subject; I was damn near in her back pocket, once in awhile actually seeing out of her eyes. Let me tell you, to call that sensation disconcerting is like comparing a single tear to the Pacific Ocean.

  The service concluded, the congregation meandered their slow way out of the little wooden church. The landscape seemed vaguely familiar but I didn’t try too hard to figure it out, concentrating on the young lady who held the Bible. My subject greeted a few friends then started across a field alone. Pine woods loomed on her right side and she followed the tree line, her mind wandering.

  “Cora!”

  She knew the young man who called her from the woods. Fully immersed in the vision, I saw a nimbus of light around her. Her aura’s blues and greens shimmered wildly, then went dark and still. I didn’t like where this was going, not one bit. She kept walking.

  “Cora, ain’t you gonna talk to me?”

  “Got nothin’ to say.” Her tone was teasing. I was desperate to warn her even though this scene had played out long ago. You’re playing with fire, little girl. He doesn’t want coy. He wants you. Or at least part of you.

  “Well, I got plenty to say. Why don’t you come here and let me tell you?” His aura flickered like the flames the colors resembled. Deep muddy reds, oranges, even pinkish, its unhealthy glow reflected the nature of the soul inside. How I knew this I wasn’t quite certain, but I was sure I was right. He wanted her with an unwholesome fervor. Cora was prey, pure and simple.

  “Mama’s at my sister’s house so Granny’s home by herself, I gotta get back.”

  “Aw, c’mon, just a few minutes?”

  “I ain’t supposed to talk to you.”

  “Why not?” An edge sharpened his words and she sidestepped away from him.