The Cat Came Back

by Louise Clark

  She looked around. The layout was much the same as the Fisher landfill she had visited yesterday, with the guard post by the gates and a parking lot to one side. The prefab house was gone, though, and there was no one around protecting the property. Only a chain with a padlock kept the gates locked.

  And why should there be security? From what she could see, earth covered the refuse beneath. Natural decomposition was causing the escaping gas, which was more than enough to keep sightseers away. Landfills were supposed to be monitored to ensure that no contaminates escaped into the ground water, but monitoring didn't mean checking on a minute-by-minute basis. A Fisher employee could come up once a week, or once-a-day, whatever the law required, take a sample, and leave. They wouldn't be expected to remain here.

  The cat was howling now. She scooped him up, held him close. Once again she rubbed her cheek against his. "I'm so sorry, Frank."

  He licked her cheek. Me too, babe. Me too.

  * * *

  They reached home mid-afternoon. When contacted, Noelle opted to stay at Mary Petrofsky's house until dinnertime. The cat disappeared into some private safety zone. Frank had been silent and miserable on the return drive, and Christy respected his need to be alone. She suspected that knowing he was dead was one thing, but coming face-to-face with the reality of it was another, quite different, one. A period of quiet reflection would certainly be called for.

  Christy wondered if she should contact Detective Patterson and ask to have the landfill searched. She could imagine the conversation. Patterson would ask how she'd concluded that the landfill was where Frank had been killed. Christy would respond that she'd visited the site and her cat had identified it. She could already hear the annoyed click of the phone as Patterson hung up. Even if she could convince Patterson—a big if—the landfill was out of the detective's jurisdiction. She'd have to organize the operation with other police forces, and for that she'd need hard evidence.

  What Christy really wanted to do was to talk to Quinn, about the landfill and what it meant to their case, but more importantly, so she could share her feelings with him about the discovery. But when she knocked on his door there was no answer. With a resigned sigh, Christy went home to start dinner.

  By the time Noelle came home, the cat had emerged from his hiding place. He was curled up on the sofa, saying little, participating not at all. He even ignored the shrimp Christy gave him for dinner.

  "What's the matter with Daddy?" Noelle said as she dug into the spaghetti Christy had prepared.

  Christy dropped her loaded fork. "Pardon me?"

  "Come on, Mom. You know Dad's come back to us in Stormy. He says you can hear him like I can."

  "You can hear Dad talking?"

  "Sure." Noelle scooped up spaghetti. A noodle slithered through her teeth into her mouth like a thin, pale worm.

  Christy picked up her fork again. "What do you talk about?"

  "All kinds of stuff. I tell him what I do in school and he tells me about when he was a kid. I think I've got a better school than he did."

  "Not necessarily better, honey, just different," Christy said automatically. Noelle was eating with great enthusiasm, no evidence of distress as she talked about her father. "It doesn't bother you that Daddy is a cat?"

  Noelle cocked her head and screwed up her face as she thought about that. "Maybe. I'd like Daddy to be Daddy again, you know, so he could hug me and stuff, but he cuddles in my lap and purrs and that's cool too. And he spends more time with me now. I like that. So what's wrong with him? He didn't even say hi when I came in."

  Christy ate some spaghetti and wondered how to tell Noelle that her father had just found the place his body was buried. "Dad's had an upsetting day. He needs to deal with some big problems. He'll be okay."

  Noelle slithered more noodles through her teeth. As Christy was trying to decide if it was worth chastising her about her table manners, the girl said, "It must be tough living in a cat. I bet there are lots of things you want to do, but can't. Can I go outside after dinner, Mom?"

  Christy needed some time to deal with her daughter's revelations. "Okay, but not for long. It gets dark early at this time of year. I don't want you out after dusk."

  Noelle polished off the last of her supper, downed a full glass of milk in one gulp, and departed before her mother could change her mind. Christy finished her dinner more slowly, then she cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. Finally, she could put off a conversation with the cat no longer.

  "Frank," she said, going into the living room.

  The cat opened wary eyes. Yes?

  "How long have you been talking to Noelle?"

  Since the beginning.

  "Does she... I mean..." Christy couldn't quite bring herself to ask the main question, not yet. "What do you talk about?"

  Her experiences, her fears, what my life was like when I was a kid, what I remember of my parents. Personal things. Why? Is she upset about something?

  "No! No, she's fine. It's just that I had no idea you could talk to her, so when she told me tonight it came as a surprise."

  The voice grunted. The cat stood up, stretched, then jumped off the couch, heading for the bowl of shrimp.

  Christy followed. "Frank, have you, well, told her that you're dead?"

  The voice sighed. Yes.

  "And... did she accept that?"

  I think so. I told her God had sent me back to help her understand why I was gone, because he knew I loved her and because God loved her. I think she liked that. It was a comfort for her.

  Christy leaned against the counter as the cat devoured the shrimp with obvious enjoyment. "Do I need to worry about emotional scarring because of this?"

  Why?

  "Not every little girl has a father who lives in a cat and talks to her telepathically."

  The cat paused to digest before consuming the rest of the bowl. Good point. Look at it this way, though. This experience will broaden her mind and encourage her creativity. You're not going to tell me to stop talking to her, are you?

  "No." No, she couldn't do that to either of them. She hoped that Noelle would have the sense not to blurt out the secret to her teacher or one of the trustees. No one would believe she was speaking the literal truth. "Frank, she's worried about you, so don't clam up on her because of today, okay?"

  The last of the shrimp disappeared into the cat's mouth. I won't. Thanks for the supper, babe. Shrimp are the best.

  Christy sighed. "You're welcome."

  * * *

  When she dropped Noelle at school on Monday morning Mrs. Norton eyed her strangely. Christy told herself that she was being paranoid, but as she hugged Noelle good-bye, she whispered, "Have you told anybody that Daddy lives inside Stormy the Cat?"

  Noelle drew away, looking at her mother with a disconcertingly adult expression. "No, of course not! Who'd believe me?"

  Who indeed? Then why had the teacher avoided her gaze, while staring at her when she thought Christy wasn't looking? Something had happened. If it wasn't the story about Daddy being a cat, then what was it?

  She found out when she opened the morning paper. There, on page three, was an old picture of her holding a glass of wine and staring goofily into the camera. It had been taken not long after she miscarried the baby that had been the incentive Frank needed to ask her to marry him. It had been a bleak time for Christy. They hadn't been in Vancouver very long, the trustees thought she was a gold digger, and Frank's Aunt Ellen had told her it was a good thing she lost the baby, because Frank wasn't ready to be a father and Christy wasn't capable of raising a Jamieson on her own. Lost and hurting, Christy had drunk too much and partied too hard.

  The dark period had only lasted a few months, but it never seemed to go away. The press liked to use pictures of her from those days, when her hair was long, blond and tousled, holding a glass, laughing as if nothing was wrong in her life. They always referred to her as a party girl or blond fluff, or a hot chick. Throughout the summer, whenever the embezz
lement of the trust was mentioned, so was her party girl image. Now, here it was again, with a massive headline that screamed, Wife of Ice Cream King Heir Gone to Dogs—Or Cats?

  Brianne Lymbourn's death had already been in the news, but until this article Christy's name hadn't been linked with the death. The reporter who wrote this piece had not only made the connection, but he had also interviewed Aaron DeBolt. The way Aaron told it, Christy had barged into his apartment, carrying a manic cat in a shopping bag. Christy, he said, had been obsessed with finding Brianne so she could have it out with the woman who had stolen her husband. Aaron claimed he had been polite, supportive and helpful, but Christy was so far gone in her hatred that she had screamed obscenities at him, setting off the cat, which had jumped out of the bag and lacerated Aaron so badly he had to go to a hospital emergency room.

  If the interview with Aaron wasn't bad enough, the reporter had also learned of Christy's visit to the Kamloops police detachment. The police declined to comment, so the reporter was free to suggest that Christy was being interviewed as a suspect in Brianne's death.

  By the time Christy finished the article she was shaking. There was no byline attached to the story, just the awful headline and the enormous, out-of-date picture. So who had provided the info? And who wrote it?

  Anger began to seep through the shock. Anger at having her life judged and found wanting. Anger that no one had asked her for her side. Anger that someone believed she could be libeled without fear of repercussion.

  She busied herself making a pot of coffee. "Damn reporters," she muttered as she poured coffee into a mug with a picture of Noelle on the front. She read the article again, felt the anger grow, let it simmer. She wanted to be angry. She had a right to be angry. The article had violated her privacy. Someone had betrayed her trust. She wanted to know who so she could tell them exactly what she thought of them in the rudest way possible.

  The doorbell rang.

  It was Quinn. Her heart leapt at the sight of him, then sank when she saw the paper he held. "Come in," she said, stepping away from the door. "I've just made a pot of coffee."

  He lifted his hand. "Christy—"

  She turned her back and headed up the stairs. He followed.

  In the kitchen his eyes flicked over the open paper, then back up to Christy's face. "You've seen the article."

  She made an abrupt slashing motion with her hand. "Quinn, how could someone write something like this?"

  He put his paper by hers. "The facts are essentially correct."

  She glared at him, then turned to a cupboard to haul out a mug. Her hand was shaking as she poured. "The spin isn't. And the spin distorts the facts." She thrust the cup at him.

  "Perhaps." He accepted the mug and sipped, watching her over the rim.

  "Perhaps! You're defending him?"

  "Or her—"

  "Then you know who the author is? I can't believe it's a woman. It sounds so much like a man!"

  He put the mug down then held out his hand, palm forward. "Whoa! I don't know who wrote this. I can guess, and I can find out, but at this moment I don't know for sure."

  She glared at him, her temper steaming full blast. She wanted clear, defined answers. She wanted a name and a person she could rail at, someone to vent her anger on, someone to hand her pain to. Right now reporters were about the lowest creatures on this earth, as far as she was concerned. They were all equally unethical, all equally relentless.

  She wanted a reporter to wale on. Luckily, one was standing right in front of her. "I suppose you're the one who leaked the details about our Kamloops visit."

  She thought he paled. "What?" Then his eyes narrowed as anger rushed in to rescue him. "Say that again. I dare you to say that again and mean it."

  She thrust out her chin, balled her fists. "Someone betrayed me. Someone close to me."

  "And you think it was me?"

  She raised a brow, saying nothing, letting her expression speak for her.

  "Why?"

  "You're a reporter, Quinn. I don't trust reporters."

  He was white now, his eyes ice-blue chips of fury. He dumped his coffee into the sink and slammed the cup onto the counter in a savage gesture. "Fine. Hear this, lady. I didn't betray you. I didn't write this article. I don't know who did, but I'll find out, and when I do I'll make you take back those words."

  He didn't slam out of the room. He walked quickly and lightly, closing the front door behind him with nothing more than an ordinary snap.

  Christy slowly released her balled fists. She turned to the counter and put her elbows on the granite surface, then she dropped her head into her hands and began to sob.

  Chapter 23

  When she went to pick up Noelle after school, Christy was ready to deal with the teacher. She planned to explain that the reporter had not interviewed her and so most of the story had been based on old information and speculation. She hoped Mrs. Morton would buy it.

  She reached the school a few minutes after the bell had rung. Usually Noelle was waiting at the door, chatting with those of her classmates who were also waiting for a parent to arrive. She'd run to Christy then leap into her arms and give her mom a big hug in greeting.

  Today the usual crowd hung around the doorway, but Noelle was nowhere in sight. When Christy neared, Mary Petrofsky pointed to the classroom. "She's in there. With the lady who came to see her today."

  "What lady?"

  "The one from Social Services," Mary said. Her eyes gleamed with excitement. "We had the principal as our teacher all afternoon so she could talk to Mrs. Morton and Noelle."

  Christy stared at the little girl in horror. "The lady from Social Services spent the afternoon talking to Mrs. Morton and Noelle?"

  Mary nodded. She was clearly enjoying the importance of being the bearer of news.

  Christy looked at the door. It gaped open, a dark, dangerous cavity leading into a cave full of danger. She didn't want to go through that door, to face the possibility that the unnamed Lady From Social Services might take her daughter away from her. She wanted to turn around and walk away, to go back to her townhouse and hide inside, as if that would somehow eliminate this problem, as if it had never happened.

  She smiled at Mary, thanked her, and then walked through the door as if it was a perfectly normal day. Inside she found Noelle sitting at her desk looking mutinous. Her hands were linked together in front of her and she was saying hotly, "Of course my mommy will be here. She picks me up every day!"

  Anger flooded Christy. How dare they pressure her daughter that way! At the same time pride brought a bright shine to the dark emotion. Noelle's defense of her in the face of two powerful, adult authority figures showed just how much the girl trusted and believed in her. Her daughter's courage steadied Christy for what was to come.

  She walked straight to Noelle's desk without acknowledging either the teacher or the social worker. "Hi, kiddo," she said, bending down for a hug and a kiss. "I was talking to Mary Petrofsky outside. How come you're sitting in here instead of waiting in the schoolyard like you usually do?"

  Noelle hugged Christy tight. "Mrs. Morton said I had to wait here. She doesn't believe that you pick me up every day."

  Christy looked over Noelle's head. She raised her brows, shooting the teacher a haughty look. "Mrs. Morton doesn't come outside to watch you guys until you leave, so she doesn't always know which child is picked up by a mom or a dad and which ones go to daycare or home on their own."

  "These children are not in kindergarten!" Mrs. Morton said. "We teach them independence. They are old enough to wait outside on their own."

  "Exactly." Christy allowed a small, humorless smile. "Noelle knows I will be there to pick her up every day. I may occasionally be a few minutes late, but I'll always be here. I believe she was trying to explain that to you."

  Mrs. Morton had the grace to color. "After reading that article, I did wonder if perhaps... I was going to watch today and for the next little while, to see if, well, everythin
g was all right."

  I'll bet you were, Christy thought. She let it go, though. Getting into a fight with her child's teacher wouldn't help. Instead, she looked at the woman beside Mrs. Morton. She appeared ordinary. She was, perhaps, overweight, but not excessively so. Her hair was short, cut so that it could be cared for easily and her clothes were practical—shoes that were well broken in and had flat heels, inexpensive slacks and a polyester shell beneath a tailored jacket. Her purse was a briefcase made of some man-made faux leather product. In her hand was a clipboard, stacked with papers. Christy glanced at Mrs. Morton again. "Will you introduce us?"

  Mrs. Morton flushed. "This is Joan Shively. She's from the Ministry of Children and the Family."

  "She's been asking me questions, Mom." Noelle sniffed, tears very close.

  Christy hugged her. "What kind of questions, kiddo?"

  "About what it's like living at home. The kind of stuff you do. How you look after me. I didn't like it."

  "Ms. Shively is trying to make sure that you're treated the best you can be," Christy said, giving Noelle another hug. She looked at Joan Shively over the top of her daughter's head. "Don't worry about it."

  Joan Shively said briskly, "Your mother is right, Noelle. We only have your best interests at heart. Mrs. Jamieson, I would like to see where Noelle lives. If you show me your car, I'll follow you back."

  Christy allowed herself a thin smile, although she was seething inside. "That would be rather difficult, as I walked over. It's not far, and I don't believe in driving kids when it's possible to walk."

  Joan Shively shuffled through the papers on the clipboard, then wrote something down. "What about security measures?"

  Truly baffled, Christy said, "What security?"

  Shively pointed to Noelle, who was still huddled against Christy. "For your daughter, Mrs. Jamieson. I gather she's heir to a fortune. There's always the possibility of kidnapping."