Mew is for Murder

by Clea Simon

  “Do they look healthy and well fed?” I asked, knowing full well that some hoarders will feed their cats before they put dinner on their own tables.

  “The cats? They make this area look like a ghetto!” She spit out the word. It didn’t answer my question, but her own gesticulations brought her attention to the thin gold watch that lay beside the bracelet. “My ten-thirty!” She disappeared inside. Just as I turned to walk on, her glossy dark-green door opened again.

  “If she’s a friend of yours, you tell her that I’m calling animal control again. You tell her.” She ducked back in before I could reply, but there was no doubt in my mind who the nicely dressed woman was talking about. All I questioned now was my own readiness to believe appearances.

  Chapter Two

  “A cat what? Is this another pet story?” My editor Tim hadn’t really been listening when I’d brought him my idea for an article later that day. It was a state of inattention I’d grown used to. The key, I’d discovered, was to make my pitch in fewer than twenty-five words. Words that, ideally, included “family,” “trend,” or something that he called a “youth angle.” Trying to sell him on a feature about an older woman who apparently lived alone was going to be a stretch.

  “Cat hoarder,” I repeated, slowly and clearly, as he paced around his glass-fronted office. “A person, usually a woman, who quote-unquote collects cats, so many that the animal control people have to clear them out.”

  “Is this a trend?”

  “No, not really.” I hedged. “Some researchers think it’s a form of mental illness, a variation on obsessive-compulsive disorder. They’re treating it with antidepressants, like Paxil.”

  Anti-depressants were hot, even if hoarders weren’t. Tim sat down and, picking up a pen, began to twirl it between his fingers. He was listening.

  I perched gingerly on the office’s one guest chair and made my pitch. “Do you remember the movie Grey Gardens, about the rich old sisters who had cats all over the place? Well, they’re an example. There was another outside San Francisco recently where they cleared out a hundred ninety-six cats before all was done. And I think it’s possible that we may have one right here in Cambridge.”

  “So she’s a crazy cat lady, that’s what you’re saying?”

  He seemed interested, but inwardly I winced. “Well, it’s more extreme than that.” I didn’t add that I’d been called a crazy cat lady in my day, usually when I had trusted James’ opinion of someone, usually some man, over anyone else’s. Unlike me, my wise old cat had tended to be right about which ones were keepers and which I should’ve thrown back. “It’s sad for the hoarder and can be really tragic for the animals. These people don’t realize what they’re doing. They think they’re saving the animals, that the cats are their family. But in reality shelter workers find cats dead and dying, sometimes even cannibalizing each other out of desperate hunger.”

  “Disgusting.” Tim paused for a moment, thinking of his budget of upcoming stories. Or maybe his upcoming lunch. “Disgusting animals.” He tossed the pen into an open drawer, dug through some papers, pushed some others aside. “Can you turn it around by next week? Stop by photo and see if they can send someone over.”

  I nodded and fled before he could reconsider. I had the assignment.

  The truth was, I didn’t know if the old woman was a hoarder. She might simply be a pet lover, fully in control of herself and her feline charges. I’d read enough on the subject to know that it’s the care and capability of the cat lover, not the number of animals, that makes a hoarder. Someone who can keep the litter boxes clean, the kitties and herself fed, and the heat turned on is doing fine, whether she has three cats or thirty, though personally I’d have added the requirement that anyone who sees herself as a savior of cats should also have the sense to have them neutered. But I’d been fascinated by the phenomenon ever since I’d read about that San Francisco case, and my neighbor would be a good focal point, whether she was a hoarder or simply an indulgent pet lover. If everything was copacetic, I’d have a happier story, one that explored cat-love and discussed the prejudices and the stereotypes. If she was a hoarder, well, maybe I’d save some cats.

  Before I began making judgments, however, I knew I needed to do more research. This being the computer age, that meant dropping by the Mail’s library on my way to photo. Since I was actually on assignment, I had every right to ask any of the staff librarians for help. But I was still happy to see Bunny in her carrel, surrounded by photos of her pets. Some of the librarians prioritized us freelancers at somewhere below “don’t bother,” and not only was Bunny—Barbara only to complete strangers—a computer whiz and a cat lover, she was also a longtime friend.

  “How you doing, hon?” The concern in her voice was real, but I couldn’t face the searching gaze behind the cats’-eyes glasses. Not at work.

  “I’m okay,” I muttered. “I need some research, if you can help me.” The built-in desk attached to the carrel was piled high with request forms. Bunny was the best, and everyone at the Mail knew it. “I’m looking for kittens in the news. Cat shelters in the area, unofficial or private.”

  Her round face brightened up and the rhinestones on her tortoiseshell frames positively sparkled. “Another cat? I know just the one for you. There’s a new rescue group…”

  “It’s for a story,” I interrupted. “There’s a possible cat hoarder in my neighborhood. I’m going to focus on her, but I want to get some background, you know, no-kill shelters, the myth of the ‘crazy cat lady,’ adoption statistics, kitten dumps. See if anyone has filed any complaints about strays in the Cambridgeport area.”

  “I’ll get right on it, hon.” Despite the mass of prior requests, I knew she would. “Anything I find I’ll email you at home.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but held herself back.

  “Thanks, Bunny.” I squeezed her ample shoulder and gave her a peck on the cheek, more for what she didn’t say than for what she did. “Love to Cal.”

  “Oh, him,” she harrumphed, shaking her brown curls dismissively, and I made my exit smiling. Clearly we’d have something else to talk about next time we chatted.

  Back up in the newsroom, I’d told Ralph about my assignment as a way of thinking it over. His cracks didn’t help, but vocalizing the idea did. Somehow talking about a story could make it all more clear. I was mulling over the angles, the follow-up interviews I’d want to do to give the story substance. Vets, shelters. I made a mental note to look up some of the national animal protection agencies as well, as I sorted through the unread mail that had piled up since I’d last come in. Since I’d had James put to sleep, I realized, tossing an invitation to a party three weeks past. It was good to be out, good to not rely merely on emailed articles and electronic submissions to keep my name alive in the public’s mind and pay my bills. It was even good to chew over a pending story with a colleague, or so I had thought until Bunny’s concern got me smarting and then Ralph had followed up with that crack about cat ladies. Clearly, I wasn’t completely ready to be out in society yet. Not human society, anyway. I remembered the fleece-like wool on that little black-and-white kitten and her perfectly round green eyes, and headed for my car.

  mmm

  The next morning I woke up ready to work on the story, if not exactly refreshed. The afternoon had proved fruitful. I’d spent some of it working on one of my money gigs, a story for a glossy bridal magazine that would cover next month’s rent and most of my utilities, too. And by the time I had my adjectives in order—sixteen ways to describe the season’s new bouquet styles, including four different words for “flower”—Bunny had emailed me a load of articles, some from competing papers, about the problem of stray cats, feral animals of all sorts, and the latest research on the mysterious condition of hoarding. I’d printed out all the pages on my rickety little DeskJet and lain down on the sofa to study and take notes. Since I was reading, and not writing, I could queue up the stereo, a good-quality sound system that had been one of the pe
rks of the Mail job. A little soup and some microwaved leftover lo mein accompanied by Professor Longhair’s rollicking piano, and I was back at it till the wee hours, reading in my PJs until my blurring vision cued me to put the papers down and kill the music, pull the woolly throw off the back of the sofa, curl up, and nod off.

  Sleeping on the couch wasn’t great for my back, but it was simple. It made the work-to-unconsciousness transition smoother and had become a habit. Not having James around had made going to sleep on my perfectly good queen-size bed unappealing. No one else was around to complain: I’d broken up with my sometime beau Rick that winter, or he’d broken up with me, perhaps, because he was the one who had taken the staff job as a music critic at a paper in Phoenix and left town, even if I’d been the one to decline his half-hearted invitation to tag along. I’d thought of him briefly as I finished off the bridal story, of the competitive spirit that had always kept us a little apart just as our shared career and love of offbeat guitar bands drew us closer. He’d never been completely supportive of my dream of writing full-time, just as he’d never really appreciated the old New Orleans sound that for me perfectly complemented its descendent, rock. Maybe he’d been the more realistic of the two of us about our competitive field, or maybe he’d just felt threatened.

  Waiting for the email to kick in and my editor to confirm that all my glowing prose had arrived sans computer gibberish, I’d wondered what would’ve happened if we’d stayed in the same city, if we’d have drifted toward the altar the same way we’d drifted into each other’s arms. Would I still have found the nerve to quit the copy desk? Would we have stayed together? The level of passion had never been so high as to make our relationship any competition for a full-time writing gig, albeit one halfway across the country, and as the email confirmation told me that my story had found its way to the right file, I told myself that it was probably just as well he’d taken the position and left—and that I had stayed in the city that felt like home to me. It was the cat I missed most, snuggling against me after I’d settled into bed, not the tall, somewhat distant man who’d sometimes shared it with the two of us. It was the memory of James that still made me stretch my arm out, feeling for that soft fur and the warm bulk of his presence. Sleeping on the sofa, I didn’t miss him so much.

  It also meant that I was up and showered fairly early for me, since the spring sun shining in my front windows didn’t allow for sleeping in. It couldn’t have been much after seven when I rolled out of the house, rotating my couch-sore shoulder to limber it up. Too early, I realized to drop by on a complete stranger. A quick stop at the neighhborhood coffeehouse, a funky independent upholstered with cast-off sofas and local art, beckoned. My circulation needed the jump-start caffeine could provide, and I could easily waste a half hour looking at the paper. Pulling up a stool to the Mug Shot’s long wooden counter, I grabbed the morning’s Mail to see who had written what. Reading all the bylines before even getting into any of the stories brought the morning up to a more sociable hour, while the barrista on duty, a petite purple-haired punkette with multiple piercings, refilled my French roast without having to be asked.

  I was jazzed and happy as I strode up to the cat lady’s house, singing to myself and beating out a carnival rhythm on the courier bag that held my notes. So caffeinated that at first I passed right by it. That was the house, back there, I reminded myself. The one with the sinking porch and the white paint half peeled off. But where were the cats? Without them, the building looked generic—and even more decrepit.

  I walked back to the old building, hastening by the neighbor’s pristine lawn. Was that a movement in the window? I waved and the curtain was pulled shut. As long as the neighbor didn’t come out and start yelling, I didn’t care. The building next door was definitely the right one: there was the cracked window, sealed with tape, the gutter hanging low like the brim of a slouch hat. But still, no cats. Remembering the side door, I walked up the cracked drive and knocked. Nobody answered, but I saw a movement. A cat, one of the big calicos, darting back and forth in the space where a torn blind exposed the lower part of a window, the bottom of what had once been an elegant French door. It should have been reassuring to see him moving like that, back and forth and back again. It was the kind of movement I would have thought meant a moth was loose inside, but there was something off about it. That cat was jumpy, his movements were too quick, his body and tail too low.

  I crept up the drive, following the crumbling tarmac, and realized I too was bent low, walking in a semi-crouch like the cat. I told myself I just didn’t want to be seen nosing around, as I followed a once-paved path around back, to where an enclosed porch seemed to have been turned into an informal storeroom. The sides were screened in, and storm windows had been added at some point, but cardboard boxes were piled high enough to obscure my vision. Looked like some wicker lawn furniture had found its way up there, too, although through the dirty, fly-specked glass I couldn’t be sure.

  There, finally, were cats. Two of them: a big gray darted out of a door and ran up to me. I reached to pet him and he ran back. Into the door and out again. Then I felt a pressure against my shin. The tiny kitten from the other day butted her head against me, but when I reached for her she too started toward the door, but slowly. The gray tom easily outpaced her, his ears nearly flat sideways, his tail down. The kitten was limping, her left hind leg giving way as she walked. I reached to pick her up, to see what was wrong, but with a burst of speed she, too, darted inside.

  I pulled the door farther open.

  “Hello! It’s Theda. Your neighbor?” I stretched the truth a bit to explain my trespass. “I came about the kitten the other day?”

  I looked about the dim porch and realized that I wasn’t alone. At least thirteen cats were there, all moving about in jittery silence. An open doorway led into the house proper, and there stood the kitten, left hind foot slightly raised.

  “Come here, kitty.” I passed the pacing cats. How odd, I thought. None of them was resting, none of them washing or staring out the window.

  The kitten darted forward once again, and suddenly I understood. The open doorway led into a kitchen, the kind I dimly remembered from childhood, with a Formica table that had once been yellow and mugs hanging on hooks above the sink. The floor, it seemed, had long ago had a design on it, a jolly daisy pattern that had faded over the decades to a barely distinguishable gray. And lying face down on it, circled by her worried brood, was the cat lady. Even before I touched her outstretched hand, so still and so cold, the mass of blood that darkened her gray curls told me she was dead.

  Chapter Three

  “In through your mouth. Out through your nose. Breathe.”

  I felt a warm hand on the back of my neck and did as the voice commanded. The voice, I recalled as the blood returned to my brain, belonged to one of the two plainclothes detectives who had shown up soon after the uniform car, the first cops to arrive in response to my call. The uniforms were inside taking photos, I could tell by the intermittent flashes. I was out on the steps to the porch, my cell phone lying on the ground beside me, where I guess I’d dropped it when the world had started to rush far away and get swirly.

  “I’m okay,” I said, lifting my head from between my knees. The hand came off and I looked up into a pair of clear gray eyes, brightened by a hint of green. Just then, a uniformed EMT emerged from the door behind me, carrying one end of a sheet-covered stretcher. The detective took my shoulder and turned me away.

  “Can you tell me who you are?”

  “Theda, Theda Krakow.” Dark brows raised in disbelief. “No, really, my mother was very theatrical. And my family came from Poland. It’s an Ellis Island name.” I was blabbering, but talking was better than thinking right now. “Theda Bara was actually a nice Jewish girl from Cincinnati. Theodosia was her name. Theodosia Goodman. I’m from New York, actually. I mean, I live a few blocks away now.”

  The detective kept me talking until the body and its ambulance were out of
sight and he had the few scarce bits of information I could provide, like my number and my oh-so-recent connection with the deceased, as he called her. He told me little in return, except that her name was Lillian Helmhold, but I’d swear there was sadness in those gray eyes and that his salt-and-pepper hair had won its gray from such sights. There’d been no sign of a purse at the scene, as he called it, but some utility bills on the table listed her as the sole occupant of the grand old house. There were no signs of foul play either, he said.

  “She probably tripped and fell.”

  “Over one of these animals!” His partner, whose suit pulled like it was sorely stressed, interrupted him. “They’re everywhere.”

  It was true. The cats’ worried darting had been replaced by a mix of frantic activity, as some hid, some ran about, and one yellow-eyed senior who’d wedged herself between the counter and the refrigerator hissed at everyone who walked by.

  “But the wound was on the back of her head,” I pointed out, recalling the grisly sight. My stomach had returned to where it should be. I could now recall what I’d seen without feeling dizzy.

  The gray-eyed cop smiled at me. “Are you a mystery fan?” His voice was warm, but there was a hint of laughter in it. “Think we should be looking for suspicious threatening letters or a scrawled message in the dirt?” In truth, the kitchen in question had looked like it had enough grime on it to show multiple paw prints as well as human marks, I recalled, and smiled back at him. My fancy was getting the better of me.

  “Actually, we see this kind of thing fairly often, especially with elderly folks who live alone.” He was trying to be comforting, his voice as soft as his tweed jacket. “My partner’s right—she could have been tripped up by one of her kitties. A slip, a fall, and a bang on the head, maybe against that counter or one of these boxes.” He gestured to the adjoining room, where a sunken sofa and shredded chair were surrounded by trunks and cardboard boxes, piled nearly as high as the ones on the porch. “A blow like that doesn’t necessarily kill you right away, and often the victim tries to get to a phone or out the door.”