Probable Claws

by Clea Simon

  As I passed the Weeks Bridge, I realized I hadn’t called anyone back. Well, they’d all assumed I’d see them tonight and I would. But things with Bill were still tender. I would call him, I decided as I left the river and started back up Flagg Street toward home.

  ***

  Bill wasn’t answering either his cell or his office phone, but that was no surprise. From all the buzz, tonight’s benefit was likely to be the biggest event the small club had seen. And if he had to deal with a fractious cat and some petty theft as well, he was probably running around crazed. I thought of Francesca and their plans for a meeting. Maybe I should stop by, I thought as I showered.

  Musetta was lolling about on my sweaty T-shirt when I returned to the bedroom. “Are you claiming me? Or marking yourself with my scent?” She looked at me upside down, drunk on the pheromones, one fang exposed. “Or are you simply a perverse little kitty?”

  I reached to pet the smooth place between her ears and she grabbed my hand, pulling it toward her open mouth. “Oh no, kitty. We’re trying not to do that remember?” She didn’t care and bit me anyway, and I had to laugh. She didn’t break the skin and the way she was staring at me, upside down, had a knowing look, like she was testing just how far she could go. I distracted her by reaching down with my left hand to rub the velvet of her nose—and extricated my right hand from her grasp. She gave up willingly. It was all in fun.

  She followed me into my office as I toweled my hair. Sure enough, one of my pitches had bounced back already so I spent the next fifteen minutes trying to find a better email address for the new food magazine. Could they have gone out of business already? Just to cover my bets, I made a small change in the story pitch and sent it off to an editor at a national magazine whom I’d had a back and forth with. She liked my writing and had almost gone for another idea. The ball had been in my court last fall, and I’d dropped it. Tacking on a quick personal note—“Hope you remember me! Sorry it’s been so long”—I sent it off. Maybe losing the Mail wouldn’t be all bad. Maybe it would spur me on to greater things.

  And maybe Lee Wellner would get my column. The thought dampened my post-run high. Would he end up with that staff job, too? Come to think of it, would he end up taking the shelter story to the Mail ? Tim and that money guy had sure been interested when I’d told them about the poisoning at Violet’s. They’d be suckers for a good conspiracy piece. Of course, if Lee was writing it for them, he’d need more than an anonymous source.

  I called Violet. Caro answered. “Hey, Theda. She’s at the practice space. They’re headlining tonight and she wrote a new song. She’ll probably be going straight over to the Last Stand.”

  “Thanks, Caro. I’ll try there. By the way, has she been talking to any press that you know about?”

  “She’s gotten a ton of calls.” Caro sounded both happy and surprised. “I thought it was all planned sort of fast, but, there you go. Word got out.” That wasn’t what I’d meant, but I’d have to wait to get Violet alone.

  Tess wasn’t home either, and I was beginning to get the idea. Everybody but me was busy working on tonight’s event.

  ***

  I’d hit the grocery store on the way home. Why did pancakes only make me hungrier? Feeling somewhat creative, I used my one good knife to pare off shreds of that hardened parmesan. Layered over bread, with a good grainy mustard and a slice of turkey ham, it had the makings of a kind of sloppy croque monsieur. “Julia Child, forgive me,” I said as I popped it into the toaster oven. The smell drew Musetta, and I offered her a stray shred of cheese. She sniffed it and walked away. “I know, you think human food is gross.” I flashed back to the previous night and Patti’s beachball of a cat. “And I’m so glad.” By the time the sandwich had heated, I’d opened a jar of marinated artichoke hearts and a diet root beer, a feast all to myself.

  I pulled the paper over as I sat down to eat. I’d been avoiding the Mail for the last few days, but some neighbor had brought the big Sunday edition up to my apartment and I’d have tripped over it if I hadn’t taken it in. Still, it looked like a flat time bomb. What dared I read? Sports was an option, but there’s really only so much pre-season Sox coverage a non-fanatic can take. Business went the same way. If I had no income, I didn’t need to know how to invest it, and none of the books in the review section dealt with music or cats.

  With a feeling of dread, I reached for Living/Arts. At first, it wasn’t bad. As I worked my way through the first half of the sandwich, I read about a new recording technology. While I used the bread crust to soak up the last of the artichoke dressing, I browsed a piece on dance music. And then, as I took a swig of root beer, I saw it. An Allston Onramps story with Ralph’s byline. I choked, spewing root beer all over the band photo. Was he taking over my beat? Mopping up the paper, I did some quick math. The Sunday section pre-prints, which means the article had to have been written early in the week and assigned even before that. Piers might have mentioned it, but, then, I’d never gotten around to telling him I might write about his band. Ralph, however, knew better. I’d seen the fat little rat at the Casbah just last night, and he’d not said a word. Not to me, anyway. Though he’d been happy to badmouth me to Tim.

  I chewed on my sandwich. Maybe this was all about the new job, as Ralph had said. Maybe he was scared and felt he had to prove himself. But if that was the case, why had he been talking with Lee? There was something going on here that I didn’t understand. I finished my sandwich still hungry, and with too many questions unresolved.

  I should have left it there, but I’d put half the artichokes back in the fridge. Two minutes later, I was eating them out of the jar and skimming through news. It was a tiny item. I’d probably have missed it if it hadn’t been for the root beer. A spot had soaked through to the front section, making a big blotch right next to a the one-column, two-deck head: “Shelter denies changing no-kill rule.” The reporter had talked to Dr. Massio, formerly of WellPet and now acting chief veterinarian of the Boston City Shelter. He’d confronted the vet about the “recent and highly touted new policy ending the euthanasia of healthy animals.” Massio, to his credit, had responded that he was still trying to get his feet under him. He said he would try to follow in his predecessor’s footsteps, and referred to Rachel as “my dear departed colleague and a close friend.” But the reporter had sounded skeptical, choosing words like “deny” and “claim” that the copy desk should have caught and changed. Either someone had been sloppy in the editing, or the reporter had been able to make his case for such a slant, perhaps explaining that a bigger story was in the works. I skimmed down the last paragraph to the end. A story this small had a tagline, rather than a byline putting the reporter’s name on top. Sure enough, there it was: LEE WELLNER.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I stormed down to the Last Stand with a head of steam. Lee I could understand. I didn’t like him, but he was making his own mark. Ralph was another story. He had a staff job, and the unspoken rules said that he should leave me my small bit of territory. But here he was not only poaching on my beat, but doing it before I was fired. Maybe even before he had slandered me to Tim. Who knows whom else he’d been talking to about me. Lee? That would certainly explain the short freelancer’s attitude. It was time to stop thinking of Ralph as a harmless old house cat.

  Speaking of cats, I had to find out what was up with Ellis, too. I’d been resistant to the idea of a club cat, afraid that any resident feline would end up as Bill’s pet and become yet another obstacle between us. But biting was a bit much. Could the big cat have a health problem that was making him irritable? Violet had said the cat had been in and out of her shelter too fast for her to check for any history or shots. Maybe that thick fur hid a wound, an old bite from a street fight, that was driving the cat nuts. Maybe he was diabetic. Maybe he simply needed a quieter home.

  A block from the club, I was distracted from my thoughts by a familiar figure. “Tess!” I hurried to catch up. But the face that turned toward me wasn’t my fri
end.

  “Oh hey, Theda.” Francesca looked preoccupied. “People say we look alike.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” I searched for something to say. Somehow asking if she’d had brunch with Bill didn’t appeal. “Hey, is everything okay?”

  She had turned away, and I had the distinct impression that she was holding back tears. “The usual.” She forced a smile. “But there’s no time for regrets.”

  “I heard about your pet. I’m so sorry.” She turned to me and blinked. “Your cat? Bill told me you’d lost a cat.”

  “Shiva.” She sniffed.

  “Shiva, sorry.” The Hindu god of destruction was also the deity in charge of bad habits. A good name for a cat. “Bill told me it was distemper?” I thought of the foster program that Rachel had outlined, and wondered if whoever took over the shelter would continue it. “Was Shiva a kitten?”

  “No, Shiva was eight years old and healthy as a horse. I make all my pets’ food myself.” Another one like Bunny. I wondered if they’d met. “But it wasn’t distemper.” Francesca sniffed again, her voice growing hard. “Shiva was killed.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that, and, besides, we’d reached the Last Stand. Francesca threw the door open and I followed her in. She kept walking without looking back, so I let her go.

  “Little blow up?” Piers was stocking the bar and watching Francesca retreat into the back room.

  “I guess so. I was only asking about her cat.” I shrugged off my jacket, still stunned.

  “Bad idea.” He reached for my jacket and stowed it behind the bar. “She got a little nutty there for a while.”

  “Did someone really kill her cat?” I had a hard time picturing it. “Was it poison?”

  “No.” He shook his head and reached down to lift a rack of glassware. “That cat was sick. It was her whole natural food thing, if you ask me. But I’m happy to be out of it.”

  “So, why?” I shook my head, not sure how to even phrase the question.

  “Ask her.” He turned to take an empty into the back. “Or better yet, don’t.”

  “Theda! Glad you’re here.” Violet waved from a booth holding up a marker and some blank paper. “Wanna copy out sets and times?”

  “Sure.” I looked around. Ralph would be here later, I was sure. But right now, it was all friends. “Hey,” I held up a blank piece of printer paper. “You didn’t get any other comments back about threatening letters, did you?” She shook her head and pushed the master list across to me: four full bands, three acoustic acts to play in between.

  “No, nothing. But I’ll put out some more feelers.”

  I grabbed a marker and started copying. Tess was going to open the night and then join in the closing jam, after the Violet Haze Experience set. “You seen Tess? She called and left a weird message.”

  “She’s not due for an hour yet. Though I wouldn’t mind if she got here early.” Violet looked around. “What was the message?”

  “She was apologizing for running off yesterday.” I leaned in a bit. “To be honest, I’m a little worried about her.”

  Violet looked serious. “I hear you. But keep in mind that we’ve all been worried about you, too. She might just have a lot to catch up on. You know she was doing some work for Bill, here?”

  “The bookkeeping?” That was fast. I’d only suggested it yesterday.

  “No, odds and ends. Cleaning up and helping set up for the bands.” Violet broke into a grin. “She might look skinny but that girl can lift a Marshall stack. Not that Bill would have any use for a Marshall stack, mind you.”

  “I didn’t know.” Seems I’d been missing more than I thought.

  “Yeah, that’s why I was hoping she’d show early tonight. I’ve got a lot of musicians to load in, and she’s only got her twelve-string and a capo.”

  “If you see her, let me know?” I went back to the list. “Is Bill around?”

  She looked up and I followed her gaze. My boyfriend was shuffling in backwards, pushing the door open with his shoulder. I jumped up to help.

  “Your leg.” He had his arms around what looked like a new soundboard. “What’s this?”

  “I’m fine, Theda.” He lowered the large case to the bar as gently as if it were made of glass. “And this is the latest in mixing.”

  “I thought Neil did most of that with the laptop.” A computer hooked up to the club’s antique soundboard not only made mixing easier, it was loaded with songs for between sets, too.

  “Oh, you digital people. When am I going to convert you to the warm, living sound of analog?”

  I opened my mouth to protest and shut it, smiling. If Bill wanted to become an audiophile and lug tube equipment around, it was his club. “Must be a jazz thing.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “You mocking me, babe?”

  “Never.” I kissed him, laughing. “Hey, what’s up with Ellis?”

  His smile faded. “Not good. Francesca said she was going to try something, but I don’t know.”

  “Rescue Remedy?” More holistic medicine, but the floral drops did have a reputation for calming anxious felines.

  “You’d have to ask her.” He worked his fingers under one end of the long, black box and looked backward, over his shoulder. “But first, want to help me get this into the back room?”

  I reached around to grab the other end. “Lead on, boss.”

  ***

  Two hours later, Tess still hadn’t shown. I’d done enough lifting so that when someone mentioned getting pizza I was happy to volunteer. Besides, I had to swing home and see to Musetta.

  “She’s going in for her tooth cleaning tomorrow,” I told Bill as I collected my jacket from behind the bar. “So I’ve got to put her food and water away.”

  “Poor kitty.” I could tell he was on the verge of a crack about her weight and shot him a look. “And poor Theda, deprived of a cat for another night.”

  “Yeah.” The memory must have hit us both at the same time. “It’s going to be weird.”

  “You’ll be okay?” He wasn’t talking about Musetta.

  I nodded. “Violet’s going with me.” I hadn’t told Bill that Musetta was going back to the city shelter clinic, that she’d be seeing the vet who had temporarily taken over Rachel’s job. He had enough on his mind. “And tonight will be a good distraction.”

  “Fair enough. Go spend some time with your little muse. But have that pizza back here by seven. Things will start to get crazy before eight, and I don’t want a riot of hungry volunteers.”

  ***

  Easier said than done, considering that Musetta was in a mood to play. But I called in the order—two veggie, two everything, and one sausage and pepperoni—and tried not to feel too guilty as I removed my cat’s food and water dishes.

  “Sorry, kitty. Extra treats tomorrow.” I kissed her on the head and made my escape, those curious green eyes staring after me. Tomorrow would be odd, I warned myself as I headed over to Petruccio’s. But I’d be able to pick Musetta up by early afternoon. And maybe with the start of the new week, somebody would have found out something that would get me off the hook. I wanted Rachel’s killer found, but having to worry about my own freedom wasn’t helping my thought process.

  At least one place still welcomed me. Cries of glee and a few “what took so longs?” greeted me as I walked into the Last Stand, five pies held high. By then, a crowd had gathered. Piers’ bandmates were hauling in amps. Sasha, who would cover the bar while Piers played, was loading the cooler, and Reed was helping Neil set up the new soundboard.

  “Where are those cords?”

  “Coming through!”

  “Which one’s veggie?” The hustle of prep work, laced with pizza, lifted my spirits. My kitty would do all right without me for one evening. Lifting an “everything” slice, I went in search of Violet.

  “Vi? Pizza’s here!” I called, savoring the hot cheese. Even the anchovy tasted right. “You want me to bring you one?”

  “Can you make it two?�
� She was sitting in a back booth, going over the set lists with Francesca.

  “Wait, is that dairy?” Francesca eyed my slice. I nodded and tried to look guilty. “Well, I should have known to cook. Do you have one without meat at least?”

  “Sure thing, coming up.” I wheeled around and grabbed three more slices. I might as well keep the girls company. “But what’s up? I thought we finished the set lists.”

  “We did.” Violet was a lefty but managed to grab a slice with her right while she kept writing. “But we’ve got to reshuffle everyone. Tess was going to open, then play again between Piers’ band and mine. But she hasn’t shown up yet and she’s not answering her phone.”

  “Tess is missing?” I stood up, ready to run out of there. The last time our friend had gone AWOL, I’d found her on the floor of her bedroom, unconscious from an overdose. “Shouldn’t we go look for her?”

  “No, no, really.” Francesca waved me down. “She’s fine. She’s just got some stuff going on.” I sat back down and waited. “In fact, I bet she’ll make it. But just in case.”

  “Francesca’s going to do the opening set.” Violet handed me a list. “I’m thinking maybe we won’t have anyone play between the other sets, though Reed volunteered.” She looked doubtful, and I nodded in silent agreement. Would solo jazz sax be appreciated by this audience? “So, wanna write up the rest of these?”

  I hesitated. “Maybe I should swing by Tess’, just in case. I’m parked right near by.” I could still picture her as I’d found her, lying so still. “It won’t take more than twenty minutes.”

  “Could you just do these three, first?” Violet pushed the marker into my hand. “I’ve got to get soundchecks started and then you’re free.”