by Cushnie-mansour, Mary M. ; Jamieson, Bethany (EDT); Tanguay, Danielle (EDT)
the back door for Jack. Hopefully he wasn’t already inside, and with any luck I could slip in unnoticed. I curled up in the shade of a stone flowerpot.
“Hey there, old boy, how did you get out here?” A familiar voice woke me up. Jack opened the door. I ran to my water dish; detective business is thirsty work. Jack went to check on Mitch. I followed.
Mitch was sitting on the couch watching the local news on the television. “Hey, buddy, how are you doing?” There was genuine concern in Jack’s voice.
“Not good. I don’t know what to do!”
I jumped onto the coffee table and sat down right in front of Mitch. I flattened my ears, switched my tail, and growled.
“What’s the matter with your cat, Jack? He doesn’t seem to like me today.”
You bet your black boot I don’t like you, I glared.
Jack smiled. “Well, at the moment, I think it’s because you are sitting in his spot.” He paused. “I just came from the Station. The captain pulled me into his office; he suspects that I know where you are.”
“Did you tell him?”
“No.”
Oh, Jack, my dear friend, don’t lie for this scumbag; don’t ruin your perfect record. I made a leap for the back of the couch. Must be getting old, for I miscalculated my target and landed on Mitch’s shoulder. My back claws dug in. Mitch yelled and then cursed as he noticed the blood seeping through his shirt. He raised his hand to swat me, but Jack grabbed hold of his wrist.
“Don’t hit the old fellow; he didn’t mean to miss the back of the couch.”
I smiled triumphantly. Mitch stood. “I need to go for a walk,” he mumbled, heading for the door.
Jack sat down on the couch. There was a puzzled look on his face. I crept onto his lap and began to purr. Jack scratched behind my ears. It was then that I noticed Mitch hadn’t closed the front door properly. I jumped down from the couch, used my paw to pry the door open, and slipped outside. Jack gave chase, as I was hoping he would.
“Toby! What are you doing?”
I raced to the sidewalk, sat down, and waited. I could think of no other way to lead him to the children. Jack reached for me and then cursed as I managed to slip from his grasp. I headed down the sidewalk, meowing loudly and looking back to make sure Jack was still following.
Finally, I turned onto the street with the abandoned buildings, proceeding straight to the one where the girls were. I looked around. The doors were all shut tight. When Jack caught up with me, he was puffing. I hadn’t realized what bad shape he was in! I darted for the boxes and made my way up to the window ledge. I meowed plaintively and pawed at the window.
“What are you up to, Toby? Something in there you want me to see?”
I continued meowing and paced the ledge.
Jack started to climb. “This better be worth it, old boy, or I’ll be cutting your food in half!” Jack positioned himself firmly and peered through the window. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone. “Give me Captain Morin!” he barked into the phone.
shocked look on Mitch’s face when he opened the door and stepped out to a police escort. I sat proudly on the hood of one of the cruisers. Mitch glowered at me as the officer cuffed him. Jack raced into the building and returned carrying the two little girls. Yvonne came running toward her daughters and clutched them in her arms. She covered their tear-streaked faces with kisses.
Yvonne looked up at Jack. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Don’t thank me—thank Toby. He’s the one who led me here.” Jack walked over and rubbed behind my ears. I arched up proudly.
arrived at the door. “It’s addressed to you, Toby,” Jack said as he opened the box. I stood on the back of the couch and peered into the box. Inside were various cat treats and a thank-you card with a picture of Mitch’s two little girls on it. There was also a framed certificate: “This is to certify that TOBY is a Class-A Detective,” Jack read. He chuckled and gave me a neck rub.
I blinked, lay back down, and closed my eyes. Detective work was pretty tiring, especially for someone my age. Hopefully, I could get enough catnaps in before the next big case came along!
funeral. Marilyn put the key in the door of her new home. She’d had to sell the one she’d shared with George; too many memories kept her awake at night. This new home was old and small, but it had plenty of room for her. Marilyn wandered through the rooms. The previous owners had left the house quite clean. She peeked inside the kitchen cupboards; there were lots of them, just what she liked for all her collections of miscellaneous dishes that she assumed would one day either be grabbed up by her children or be sold at a garage sale.
Everything appeared to be in order, but there was one more place to check: the upstairs’ room. Marilyn knew there would be one item up there—an old piano. She’d given her piano to her daughter because there was no sense in having two. She opened the door to the room and breathed in the scent of the antique mahogany. The piano had been recently polished. Well, she had to get going; tomorrow was moving day and she still had a lot of last minute things to do.
weeks, unpacking and putting everything in its place. The walls echoed loneliness, though. After 55 years of marriage, she was alone. Of course, there were the children and the grandchildren, but they had their own busy lives.
Marilyn decided it was time to check out the piano again. She stroked her fingers along the wood and then gently raised the keyboard lid. The keys were yellow, chipped, and dented from age. She played a few high notes, and then some bass ones.
“Funny,” she mumbled, “it’s been recently tuned.”
Marilyn decided to test all the keys. Starting with the highest note, her fingers scaled away at the pain of her recent loss—down…down…What! Suddenly the notes refused to play. She tried again, adding extra pressure, thinking the section was just stiff from lack of use. Nothing!
Marilyn lifted the piano top, climbed on the bench and peered into the heart of the instrument. In its centre, she noticed a square box, and on it, a picture. She reached in and lifted it out. The picture was a painting of a young couple gazing dreamily into each other’s eyes. She looked at the bottom of the box and saw an envelope: “For Joslin,” was written on it in a bold hand. Marilyn noticed it was not sealed. She took out the letter and began to read…
My dearest Joslin: how my heart aches at your passing. What a cruelty fate bestowed upon our love. I swore I would always keep you close to my heart and I would not have you entombed in the cold ground. I had you cremated and have placed your ashes in a spot that is almost as close to my heart as you. As my fingers race across the keys I hear your soft breathing in my ear; I hear your voice trill with excitement as you attempt the new aria I am playing. I feel your soul so close with every note I play. At first, I placed you on top of our piano, but no sound came from the keys, so I moved you inside to the heart of our music. I have asked my brother, Henry, to mingle my ashes with yours when my time comes. Until then, my darling Joslin. Forever yours, in life and death—Jonathan C. Smiley.
Marilyn returned the letter to its envelope. She placed the box back in its resting place. Just as she was about to close the piano top she noticed the two intertwined hearts. The one read: Joslin A. Smiley, 1853 – 1878; the other read: Jonathan C. Smiley, 1850 – 1885. Beneath the hearts was an inscription: May anyone who touches the keys of this piano, (lovingly crafted in this room by Jonathan C. Smiley, in the year of our Lord, 1873), be stirred by the music from its hearts!
Marilyn sat down at the keyboard and let her fingers float over the keys. It was almost as though they had a mind of their own now—as if some beautiful magic had released their melody. And intermingled amongst the notes she heard a soft soprano voice singing an aria. Marilyn felt a tingling in her veins—everything was going to be okay. She played long into the night, her pain floating away with the notes. She knew that one day she would be reunited with the music of her heart—George.
He
wanted nothing to do with the preparations for the Valentine’s Day celebrations. It had been two years since Gentile had died of some hideous disease, fading away as does a rose under the cruel frosts of fall. As he ran, he remembered the moment in the stable…
It had been the day after the Valentine’s Day festivities; he’d met Gentile in the stable behind his grandfather’s cottage. Her cheeks had blushed pink the moment she saw him and she had moulded into his arms.
“Oh, Ivan my love; my prayers were answered yesterday when you drew my name from the box. I laid the bay leaves on my pillow last night, one on each corner and one in the middle for my head to rest upon, and I prayed you would dream of marrying only me.”
“That I did; the entire night,” Ivan had breathed into her hair.
“And then, as you drew a name from the box, a flock of doves flew from the oak tree in the square. My heart beat with happiness, for my grandmother told me that when one sees the doves, it is a sign that they will be happily married. As I watched your face and saw it light up, I knew all would be well.”
And all had been well—until Gentile had fallen ill a few months later…
Ivan, finally out of breath, stopped at the edge of the woods about a mile outside of his village. As he leaned up against a tree, he heard the music—haunting gypsy notes luring him into the woods. He hid at the edge of the clearing and watched her—mesmerized by the dancer that danced alone. The villagers feared the Gypsies, calling them tramps and thieves, but she looked like neither to him.
When she finished her dance, Ivan watched as she was escorted to a wagon just outside the circle. He stayed long enough to notice a burly man stand guard at its door. His heart moved like it had not done since professing his love to Gentile. He knew the Gypsies would be headed to his village and there would be a night of dancing and festivity. He would wait until then to profess his love to the Gypsy girl.
The Gypsy wagons rolled through the village on the eve of Valentine’s Day. The villagers jeered them.
“Tramps!”
“Thieves!”
“Stay away you filthy Gypsies!”
“You’ll have none of our children this time!”
Ivan sulked in a doorway, watching for her wagon, not wanting to take part in the radical crowd. He knew every one of the townspeople would attend the festivities later, no matter how they felt about the Gypsies. Her wagon was last in line—Ivan breathed a sigh of relief.
The wagons circled just outside of the village; hers, once again, sitting on the outskirts. Ivan made his way to the nearby grove of trees and waited in the shadows. It was some time before she appeared, but when she did, she walked straight toward him.
“Hello, boy,” her voice was as musical as a waterfall on a balmy summer day.
Ivan blushed, unable to answer.
“What is your name?”
“I…I…Ivan,” he gurgled.
“I am Angelique.”
“That you are,” Ivan whispered.
“Have you come to see me dance? You are early; I do not start until after dark.”
Ivan blushed again.
Angelique placed a hand on his shoulder. Warmth surged through his veins. “Come, I will show you something.”
She led him to her wagon. His knees shook as he climbed the steps. He glanced around furtively. She laughed. “My father is not here. He is preparing for tonight’s festivities, which will be even more special tonight, being the eve of St. Valentine’s. I am resting,” she smiled seductively and closed the door.
Ivan’s breath caught in his throat when he saw her portrait on the end wall of the wagon; she was in her dance costume. But, as stunning as the picture was, it did not do full justice to the beauty who stood before him.
Angelique’s porcelain skin was touched with rose blossom accents high on her cheekbones, pointing in the direction of her mysterious chocolate eyes. Raven hair, braided with jingling beads, cascaded down her back, sweeping to the middle of her calves. The dress she wore stayed in place with a multitude of coloured ribbons wrapping around from beneath her bust line to the crest of her hips. The zenith of her breasts peeked precociously from the billowing material that covered most of her womanliness. Slender, well-muscled arms extended graciously from perfectly rounded shoulders and were adorned with numerous gold and silver bracelets. The bracelets were embedded with precious gems.
“You wonder why so many bracelets?” She smiled. “Each is a gift from every suitor who has ever thought themselves worthy of me.” Her laughter tinkled in unison with the bracelets.
Ivan gulped.
“So, boy, why are you here?” the question was asked softly, yet with an authoritative air.
Ivan blushed.
“Speak, boy; I will not bite you.”
“You are just so beautiful…”
“And what is beauty to you?” she interrupted.
Ivan was shocked at her question.
“This outer shell I have been cursed with?” Angelique turned away.
“I…I…”
“Are you no better than all the rest?” She turned back to Ivan, took hold of his hand, and placed it on her bosom. “Beauty is here, Ivan!”
Ivan felt the rhythmic beating of her heart beneath his trembling fingers. He knew that not just his face was beet red; he could feel the tepid flush spreading all through his body as his manhood intensified in its expectancy.
Angelique removed his hand and he felt the chill of loss. “Look around you; I am rich beyond measure with gold and silver and treasures, yet I have no one to warm me when I am cold, to hold me when I am sick, to comfort me when I am sad, to talk to me when I am lonely…”
“But all your bangles—surely, there was at least one amongst all those who was worthy!” Ivan managed to say.
“One.” Angelique’s eyes grew sad and her breath shuddered as she added, “but he did not give me a bracelet; he is the one who painted my picture.”
“Where is he then?”
“We were to be married on Valentine’s Day five years gone; he was found murdered that morning!” Angelique’s eyes were glossy with tears.
Ivan felt her pain, remembering his own lost love. He reached out and touched her arm. “I am so sorry,” he murmured.
Angelique looked deep into Ivan’s saffron eyes. “I see you too have suffered.” She stiffened. Voices were drawing close to the wagon. “Quick, you must go; my father returns.” She moved a mat from the floor and pulled up a trap door. “I shall see you tonight?”
“Only death would keep me from you.”
“I dance last, as always,” she informed, as though the other entertainment should mean nothing to Ivan. The last thing he saw was her lips forming into a kiss, which blew his way. He reached up and caught it just as the trap door slammed shut.
From under the wagon, he heard the heavy footsteps of Angelique’s father. “You have not slept, daughter,” Ivan heard him say.
“I was restless, Papa.”
“Still thinking of him?”
“Of course not, Papa.”
“Good, he was not worthy of you; you know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Papa.”
Ivan darted into the trees and then made his way home. He would return for her tonight, to see her dance and profess his everlasting love.
went en masse to see the entertainment, as Ivan had predicted. Of course, they bolted their doors and left some of the elders behind to watch for any unwelcome intrusions during the festivities. Ivan’s grandfather was one of those men.
“Are you not going, boy?” he questioned his grandson. “You will miss the dancing girls. Maybe they can take your mind off Gentile. It has been long enough now, you need to move on!” the old man sighed heavily.
“I am leaving soon, grandfather.”
Ivan took his time. There was only one dancer he had any interest in seeing. When he arrived at the Gypsy wagons, Ivan stood in the shadows, watching the merriment, his eyes searching desperately for Angel
ique. No sign of her yet. He sat down and leaned his back against a great oak tree and was just drifting off to sleep when the music stopped. And then…
“Ladies and gentlemen, now for the one you have all been waiting for—the one and only, Angelique!”
Sultry music was coming from the Gypsy instruments now—different from what it had been for the other dancers. Ivan stood up and stared, mesmerized by the vision before him. Angelique literally floated to the centre of the circle. Her feet did not appear to be even touching the ground, yet little puffs of dust created a steamy ambiance all around her.
Her arms moved with rhythmic fluidity, hypnotizing the watching crowd. Ivan walked toward her, drawn from his hiding spot to her beckoning arms. A flock of white doves flew from the trees; he smiled. Ivan stood before her as she danced—for him—for no one else—no one else mattered. Her body moved, swaying seductively within the centre of his arms, yet not a particle of their skin touched. The only sounds he could hear were the clinking of her bracelets and the lovely, melodious words she whispered just inches from his ears.
wagons were gone. Ivan’s grandfather was worried—his grandson had not returned home.
“I cannot remember even seeing Ivan there,” one of the men mentioned.
“Those Gypsies—we should have known better than to trust them,” someone else shouted.
“Our poor Ivan—such a gentle soul,” added one of the women.
daughter.”
“Yes, it was, Papa.”
“No regrets?”
“No, Papa.”
Angelique gazed down at her wrist, at the newest bracelet—the one of silver embedded with bright purple and white stones with orange centres. Tears crept from the corners of her eyes. She was sad at how things had to be—but, she smiled as she stroked the bracelet and then raised it to her lips. At least, she and Ivan would be—together, forever; my Valentine, my love.