Dr. Horatio vs. the Six-Toed Cat

by Virginia Smith

  They sat for a long moment, drawing strength from one another. Of all the things in the world Millie was thankful for, this man was at the top of her list. He could be a grouch at times, and when it came to money he was tighter than bark on a tree. But he was steady, and constant, and he loved her in a way that made her feel like the most special woman on earth.

  Maybe Nicholas would turn out to be Alison’s Albert.

  “I don’t think we should say anything else until we meet him.” She lifted her head and peered sideways at him. “Who knows? He might be a very nice young man.”

  His scowl deepened. “Or he might be a terrorist.”

  “Oh, come on.” She shoved his shoulder with hers. “Do you really think Alison would fall for someone like that? She’s never brought home a boy we didn’t like. We’ve no reason to think he’ll be the first.”

  Albert looked skeptical. “We have several reasons. He’s from Colombia, cocaine capital of the world. He is taking our daughter to a place where Americans aren’t safe. I can’t stand him already.” His shoulders sagged. “But you’re right. We should wait until he gets here and then we’ll have a better idea of what we’re up against.”

  She rubbed his arm with her free hand. “It’s only a week.”

  “And then we’ll have two weeks after that,” he said glumly.

  At his words, an uneasy tickle erupted in her stomach. Two weeks to either plan a wedding or talk their headstrong daughter out of the biggest mistake of her life.

  Doc sauntered down the sidewalk and nodded a distracted greeting to Mrs. Emerson on the opposite side of the railroad tracks that ran down the middle of Main Street. Goose Creek had been built in the mid-1800s, one of the many towns that had sprouted along the rail lines around that time. Trains still ran through town a couple of times a week, though nowadays they were operated by regional and shortline railroads, the transcontinental ones apparently not interested in an out-of-the-way place like Goose Creek, Kentucky.

  The sounds of industry echoed down the street, hammers pounding and Jacob Pulliam’s voice calling out for someone to bring him a saw. At the south end of the street, a platform was being erected in front of the water tower where, in just under a week, a series of bands would perform during the town’s fall festival. Everywhere he looked Mother’s hand was evident. Flowerpots overflowed with orange and yellow blossoms. Orange paint lines on the asphalt marked the boundaries of the tents and booths that would line each side of the road. The windows in the buildings he passed sparkled in the morning sunlight, and a few of the crumbling facades even bore signs of fresh paint. Though nothing short of a complete renovation could spruce up some of these structures. Vintage, Lizzie liked to call them. A woman’s term for old.

  Speaking of renovations. He arrived at the entrance of Cardwell Drugstore. Originally a boardinghouse, this building had housed a series of failed businesses in recent decades until Leonard and Lucy Cardwell bought it and poured their savings into fixing it up. And a fine job they’d done, too. Leonard, a druggist, ran the pharmacy counter in the back, and Lucy presided over a real, old-fashioned soda fountain up front. The residents of Goose Creek rewarded their efforts, and the place soon became a favorite hangout. Everyone in town agreed that the burgers and ice cream sodas at Cardwell’s were the best in the state.

  Most mornings found at least a half dozen of the town’s retired men—Creekers, they called themselves—with their elbows propped on the counter, slurping down coffee and munching whatever delectable treat Lucy had in the pastry case that day.

  He pushed open the door, his entry proclaimed by a door hanger with sleigh bells. The handful of Creekers seated at the counter glanced his way.

  “Howdy, Doc.” Norman Pilkington, a sixty-something Creeker whose face was nearly as rumpled as the shirt beneath his overalls, thumped the empty stool beside him. “Set yerself down right’cheer. Got somewhat to ask ye ’bout.”

  Lucy placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of Doc, and he smiled his thanks as he slid into place. A moment later she set a plate with a huge iced cinnamon roll beside the mug.

  He groaned. “I’ve already had a healthy breakfast of oatmeal and wheat toast. You’re killing me, you know that?”

  “Death by cinnamon roll.” She presented him with a fork. “You know you can’t resist, Doc.”

  She was right. He snatched the fork, ignored her smirk, and took the first blissful bite. For a moment he wandered in a culinary paradise brimming with a glorious blend of cinnamon and sugar and yeast. Good thing she only made them once in a while. Otherwise he’d be as big as a barn.

  Norman twisted sideways on his barstool. “Figured on stopping by your place directly. Got a question fer ye.” He glanced over his shoulder, and then leaned close to speak in a low voice. “It ain’t possible fer a bobcat and a plain old house cat to…you know.” A pair of bushy gray eyebrows that dominated his sallow face waggled suggestively. “Is it?”

  Doc nearly choked on his food. He snatched up the mug and gulped a scalding mouthful of coffee. “What in the world would make you ask such a question?”

  “Hit’s something my missus is on about, on account of her cat. Eulie’s all worried Pearl’s in the family way. Hit’s her own fault if she is, I told her. She shoulda kept a closer eye on that cat. But she swears a bobcat ripped through the winder screen. Says she heard a racket and chased the critter off with a mop handle, but not afore it got to Pearl.” He scrubbed at his mouth with a calloused hand. “Thing is, that screen does have a good-sized gash that weren’t there afore.”

  “What makes her think it was a bobcat? Did she see it?”

  “Sure she did. Got after him with a mop, didn’t she? Said it was a big old thing, bigger than any house cat. Yeller, with stripes. And ’cording to Eulie, hit had yeller eyes.” His whisper took on ominous tones. “Evil eyes.”

  Doc took a second cautious sip of coffee. If he were a betting man, he’d bet good money that Eulie Pilkington had spotted the mysterious six-toed cat.

  “Tell Eulie it would be highly unusual for a bobcat to mate with a house cat.”

  “Hang on there, Doc!” Blood flooded Norman cheeks and his head whipped around to check out their nearest neighbors. “Keep yer voice down with that kind of talk. This here’s a public place.”

  Doc hid a smile and lowered his voice in deference to Norman’s sensibilities. “Tell her it would be more likely for a bobcat to select Pearl for lunch than for his girlfriend. More than likely Pearl’s suitor was a regular old tomcat. Male cats can be pretty determined when it comes to gaining access to a female they’ve set their sights on. Have her bring Pearl in for a checkup if she’s concerned. I’ll look her over and make sure she’s healthy.”

  “Thanks, Doc. I’ll do it.” Norman swiveled toward the counter again, picked up his own coffee mug, and changed the subject with an observation designed to be overheard by everyone. “I hear this year’s festival is gonna be the best yet. Yer ma’s doin’ a fine job, Doc. As usual.”

  Slicing off another bite of cinnamon roll, Doc voiced a distracted agreement. The Pilkington place was located on the other side of the Goose Creek Park, not far from the house where he’d grown up and Mother still lived. It backed up to several hundred acres of densely wooded land. The perfect place for a feral cat to hide. A feral cat that he had to catch and neuter.

  And he had an idea.

  Millie wasn’t sure she’d just heard her boss correctly. “You want me to ask them what?”

  Doc propped himself on the edge of the reception counter. “If they have a cat that’s either in season or close. And if so, would they let us borrow her for a day or two.”

  Yes, that’s what she thought he’d said. Just to clarify, “Because we’re going to use them as bait to lure a wild tomcat into the clinic.”’

  “Exactly.” Doc gave a decisive nod. “Stress that we’ll take very good care of them and they’ll come to no harm. And in exchange, we’ll make an appointment to have their cat
spayed for free.”

  Though everyone in town knew Doc’s stance on neutering their pets, Millie had never heard him offer to do the procedure for free. She tilted her head and gave him a look out of the corner of her eyes. “Does Lizzie know about this offer?”

  He waved a hand, dismissing the question. “Don’t worry about it. Just make the calls.”

  He disappeared through the swinging doors that separated the reception room from the clinic’s examination area. Millie stared after him. If she’d wanted a distraction from her thoughts, here was the perfect one. First, she’d need to go through the files and identify all the female feline patients. The information sheet inside each folder would disclose whether or not the cat had been spayed. From there she’d make a list. She began to relax. Millie liked lists. One could accomplish much if one were working from a well-organized list.

  She slid open a drawer and extracted a fresh legal pad. Simply holding a pen poised over the first page gave her a feeling of control. Given the number of client files she had to go through and the resulting phone calls she’d have to make, this task would take the better part of a week to complete. A much-needed distraction from her worries about Alison and her engagement to a Colombian drug lord.

  Stop it!

  She dismissed the thought, determined not to let Albert’s gloomy predictions get the better of her.

  Chapter Four

  I don’t know.” Alison recorded the numbers from the check from Krafty Kentucky Belles onto a deposit slip. “The conversation ended up okay, but they’re acting weird. Mom kept staring at me over breakfast with these moon eyes, and Daddy didn’t speak at all.”

  Miss Ernie sat enthroned before her cluttered kitchen table, wielding her letter opener like a weapon against a diminishing pile of envelopes. She tilted her head to catch Alison in a glance over the top of her purple readers. “What did you expect, dear? A celebration dance? Their only daughter is marrying a man they’ve never met and then moving away. They wouldn’t be normal if they didn’t have some reservations.”

  “Oh, they have reservations all right.” Alison’s shoulders heaved with a bitter laugh. “They voiced them loud and clear last night. But then they stopped. And this morning they gave me the silent treatment.” She set the check aside and leaned across the table. “It was creepy, you know? Like they talked about me behind my back and decided how to approach me.”

  The older lady erupted in amused laughter. “Well, of course they did.” She sobered. “I’ve known your mother since she was born, and your father for more than twenty years, since they moved back to Goose Creek when your brothers were toddlers. They’re good people, Alison. And they love you. Once they see how happy you are with this young man, they’ll be happy for you.” She straightened and sliced into another envelope. With a downward glance, she heaved a heavy sigh and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Oh, how I detest the maneuverings that go on during the festival. Look at this.”

  She extended a handwritten letter scrawled on lined paper. Jagged edges still dangled where the page had been ripped from a spiral notebook. Alison took it and read the painfully cramped script.

  Dear Organization Committee,

  Thank you for approving my application for attendance at the Goose Creek Fall Festival. I will need a place close to a real bathroom. Not one of those disgusting portable toilets you usually put me by. I can’t be within a hundred feet of them, as I believe they are a germination ground for all sorts of diseases and I am susceptible because of an undisclosed health condition. Instead, I’d like to request a tent near the cheesesteak vendor, as that is the only festival food I am permitted to eat due to medical reasons.

  If necessary, I can produce a doctor’s notice, though he charges $15 that I’ll expect the festival to pay for.

  Sincerely,

  Vanetta Abernathy

  Owner, Abernathy Hobbycrafts

  A smile twitched at Alison’s lips. “She can only eat cheesesteak? Really?”

  Miss Ernie gave a harumph. “The one year I put her where she wanted, she complained that the booth next to her had cheaper prices and that I was trying to sabotage her. Last year she asked to be put next to the funnel cake vendor. As for a doctor’s notice, I dare her to produce one.” She rose from her chair and crossed to the giant chart that covered one wall in her cozy kitchen. With a black marker, she scrawled Abernathy in the slot directly next to the line of port-a-potties at the north end of Main Street. “If she gets a disease from the toilets, I’ll bring her a big pot of chicken and mushroom soup while she recovers.”

  “You really have done this too long,” Alison commented with a laugh while the old lady returned to her chair. “You’re getting cynical.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Round blue eyes twinkled across the table. “What this town needs is new blood and a fresh approach. If only my protégé weren’t leaving the country.”

  Guilt stabbed at Alison’s chest. How long would she be gone? She had no idea, and neither did Nick. So many things could change in her absence. She reached across the table with an outstretched hand, and Miss Ernie took it.

  “Promise me you’ll be here when I come back.” Though she tried to filter the pleading from her tone, she heard it anyway.

  “I promise no such thing. I’m thinking about moving to Florida after this festival. These old bones don’t relish going through another harsh Kentucky winter.” Miss Ernie smiled and gave her hand a squeeze. “But I promise to come to your wedding, if I’m invited.”

  “You know you are.”

  Alison released her hand and picked up the check. She headed for the living room to find the appropriate application and mark it Paid.

  “Hey, I haven’t seen Jordan in a while,” she called toward the kitchen. “Is he doing okay?”

  “That rascal of a cat?” She returned to the kitchen in time to see Miss Ernie blow a raspberry. “He’s around. All I have to do is think about cooking a meal and here he comes.” She peered again over the top of her readers and asked sarcastically, “Are you going to invite him to the wedding?”

  Alison giggled. “Can’t you just see Daddy’s face?” Then she sobered. “I’ll miss Jordan too. And…” Emotion clogged her throat at the idea of all the people she would miss when she moved away, beginning with the dear soul in front of her.

  “Yes, Clara, that’s right. Entirely for free.”

  Millie clicked her pen open and closed while she listened to the woman on the other end of the phone exclaim over Doc’s generous gesture.

  “Yes, he is a great doctor.” She smiled at her boss, who had perched on the corner of her desk to listen to her side of the conversation.

  The days before the beginning of the festival had sped by, as Millie had hoped they would. Her mornings stayed busy working on Doc’s project. Turned out their feline patients were, for the most part, spayed. Doc had done a good job of teaching most of the pet owners who came to his clinic to act responsibly in that respect. In order to find a few likely candidates, she ended up relying on word of mouth, which was the most effective form of communication in Goose Creek anyway. Pamela Spencer knew Beth Kidwell had a cat, and Beth suggested she call Clara Wyatt since her cat was always having kittens.

  “You will?” She gave Doc a thumbs-up. “That’s great. Yes, just bring her by the clinic in the morning. We’ll keep her over the weekend, and then Doc will perform the procedure on Monday. You can pick her up Monday afternoon. She’ll be fine. We’ll take good care of her. Thank you.”

  She replaced the receiver. “That’s four.” She clicked her pen open and checked the box beside Clara Wyatt’s name.

  “Excellent.” Doc hefted himself off the counter and offered his palm for a high five, which she provided. “I have a good feeling about this plan. Our polydactyl friend’s amorous adventures are about to come to an end.”

  Millie voiced a question that had niggled at her. “When you do catch him, what are you going to do with him?”

  “That de
pends. If he’s friendly, I’ll neuter him and try to find him a home. If he’s truly feral…” He left the cat’s fate dangling ominously and disappeared through the clinic door.

  Millie closed her notebook and placed it in the desk. Hopefully the cat would be amiable and sociable. Surely someone would want him. If only Albert weren’t allergic to cats, she’d take him herself. After all, the house would be a lonely place after Alison left.

  Swallowing a wave of sorrow, she extracted a second notebook from her handbag and opened it to the page with her current To Do list. If her mornings had been satisfyingly busy the past week, her afternoons had been frantically so. Nicholas would arrive late Friday afternoon, just over twenty-four hours from now, and the house was nearly ready for his visit. Everything had been scrubbed and cleaned, even beneath the entertainment center in the den. Oh, how Albert complained when she asked him to move it, but she ignored his grousing. Nicholas might not see beneath the heavy piece of furniture, but she would know the carpet there had not been vacuumed since early spring.

  Why was she going to all this trouble for, as Albert put it, Alison’s Colombian drug lord? The question had taken her a few days to answer in her own mind. Because cleaning was therapeutic. Scrubbing away the old dirt and removing the clutter worked wonders on a person’s stress level. And besides, Alison appreciated her efforts.

  “You’re awesome, Mom,” she’d said yesterday when Millie emerged from a sparkling guest bathroom. “Nick is going to love you.”

  “As long as he loves you,” she had replied, pasting on a smile that hid her worries.

  She glanced down the list. There wasn’t much left to do in the way of cleaning. On the next page she examined her menu, which had been the source of much anguish. What does one feed someone from a foreign country? Her chicken enchiladas always got rave reviews from her family, but she didn’t dare feed Mexican food to someone from Latin America. His mother’s enchiladas probably weren’t made with cream of chicken soup.