Brady pulls out a few old pictures. I’m surprised to see that many of them are of me, or of the two of us—Lovey and me—together.
I give a startled meow, and Brady rubs my head.
“I know. You miss her, don’t you? She thought an awful lot of you. Just look at all these pictures…wait a minute…”
Brady turns one of the pictures over to read on the back of it. I’m glad he reads aloud. I can read, but it’s tedious.
“Me and my dear Mr. Fred at our beach house in Port Aransas. Fred loves car trips and he loves the beach. World’s largest sand box! Deed enclosed.”
Brady reaches quickly for the next picture. It’s one of me eating up that wonderful Thursday luncheon dear Lovey always thought to prepare for me.
“Mr. Fred looks forward to our special Thursday lunches. He loves a can of salmon—I usually buy one of the better brands—the big can. Thursday was the day I adopted him—a very special day. So, we celebrate.”
Brady smiles. “Well, today’s Saturday, Fred. Guess we’ll have to have us some salmon twice a week from now on, huh?”
The next snapshot is of me in the bed Lovey had bought.
“Fred loves his bed,” Lovey had written. “But he’d rather sleep in my bed where we can watch old movies together.”
Brady’s grin widens. “I’m kinda partial to those ol’ black and whites myself, Fred. This lady sure did love you.”
His face changes. “What’s this?” He reaches in to pick up a folded piece of paper. It isn’t in an envelope, or anything. He unfolds it to read it.
“Last Will and Testament…”
His eyes scan across the paper quickly. And then—he laughs. Not a soft chuckle, but a deep belly laugh.
He laughs so hard the tears almost come.
I find myself getting cross. “Fun is fun for everyone,” Lovey would say. Maybe I’d like to know what’s so damn funny myself!
As if he hears my thoughts, Brady turns and looks right at me.
“It’s all yours, Fred. Almost every last penny of what Miss Roberta Laticia Villines owned is yours—according to her will. Oh, Allen and Amelia will both receive one dollar. You won’t mind, will you? Keeps them from being able to say she must’ve forgotten them.”
He sits down on the cedar chest beside the treasure box and shakes his head. His smile fades. “It’s enough to make a person wonder—”
Just then, we both hear the front door open once more.
“Brady!” Officer Peterson yells from the just inside the living room.
“Wait here, Fred.” Brady heads from the bedroom. “Whatcha got?”
“A murderer.”
I can’t stand it. I have to follow my new master.
Looking down through the banister railing, I see Officer Peterson, his hand gripping Amelia—and she’s wearing handcuffs.
I knew it! She was worried about the muffin. Brady had sensed it, too.
“Amelia?” Brady questions, but he’s not really surprised, either.
Officer Peterson stands just behind Amelia in the doorway, as if he thinks she might try to make a break for it.
“Brady, I can’t stand it. I—I put something in that muffin.”
The tears begin to flow down her cheeks, but I can’t feel sorry for her. Not at all.
Cats are sensitive to many things. I feel Brady go tense beside me—and I feel his aching sadness. Nat King Cole sang one of Lovey’s favorites—This Is the End of a Beautiful Friendship. It’s about a couple’s friendship turning to love. But in Brady’s case—I know he’s saying goodbye to the last little smidgeon of emotion he might have felt from years past…when he’d been a football hero, and Amelia had been the prettiest cheerleader ever. No, I didn’t know them quite so far back. But Lovey had proudly—and lovingly—showed me pictures of her younger siblings through the years.
Brady nods. “I figured. Why, Amy?”
All the lost love of the past, his aching disappointment in her, and the confusion he is experiencing mingles in his tone.
“I-I got greedy, I guess.”
Brady meets young Peterson’s eyes.
“I read her her rights already,” Peterson assures him.
She nods. “Yes. He did, Brady. Turns out, I do have a conscience. I brought the muffins over yesterday evening. You’ll see when you check the phone records that I tried to call her last night. We talked briefly. She—she thanked me for bringing the muffins. Said she was planning on having one for breakfast.”
“Which she did,” Brady said. “No wonder you and Allen were over here so quickly after it happened. Nothing like precise planning, is there?”
Bitterness drips from his tone, and I know it’s not just Lovey’s death he’s talking about.
Amelia shakes her head, her eyes filling with hurt. She must still care for him, too—just a small bit. Her heart is softer than she realizes—in both instances.
“I-I needed a new car. Mine is on its last legs,” she explained.
“You couldn’t just borrow the money? Like everyone else does?”
“I don’t have any credit.”
Brady stands and stares at her. There’s more, and he is forcing her to admit it.
“I—well, I have kind of a gambling problem.”
Finally, after a few seconds tick by, Brady says, “So, it’s not really that you need a new car, it’s—”
“It’s everything! I need a new car, but I need to pay some of my gambling debts, too. Whatever Lovey has in that damn treasure box of hers would be enough to get me out of trouble.”
I remember when she came to talk to Lovey about a car—a brand new one. Lovey had smiled and said she’d be happy to help her out with a smaller amount for a used car. I had sat and let the sun warm me in the window sill as they talked.
“A car is just a glorified wheelbarrow to move your trash from one place to another,” Lovey had told her.
How wise was my dear Lovey!
Brady fixes Amelia with a cold stare—one I imagine she’s never seen before.
“Your sister was one of the kindest, most generous, loving people in the world. She most likely would have given you whatever you needed—if she’d had it.”
Amelia nods. “I know. But what she had wasn’t enough. Only her life insurance would give me enough to do it all.”
“It never is ‘enough’ for you, is it, Amy?”
No answer. She just looks down. In a moment, she says, “I have to know. Did you find the key? Did you open the treasure box?”
Brady hesitates, then gives her a curt nod. “Yes.”
She looks up at him. “Oh—what was in it?”
Here, I see Brady debating with himself. “Her will.”
“How much do I get?”
A slow smile crosses Brady’s face. “Murderers can’t profit from their victims’ deaths. So it doesn’t matter.”
“But…how much would it have been?”
“Not enough, Amelia. Not enough for you.”
Brady nods to Peterson. “Why don’t you take her down to the station and get them started processing her, then come back for me? I need to make sure everything’s locked up tight and secure the entire area around the house.”
Amelia looks up, still disappointed in Brady’s refusal to tell her about the contents of the will. “Don’t forget about Fred. He needs to be dropped off at the pound.”
Again, Brady bends a steely gaze on her. “He’s not going to the pound. He’s coming home with me.”
She looks at him, horrified. “But—why? He was Lovey’s cat. She doted on that mangy old thing—”
“And you want no reminders of what you did, do you?” Brady shakes his head, this time in disbelief at his own memories. “My God, you are one cold fish. How could I have ever thought I was in love with someone like you?”
“My good looks?” She smiles. “I am still beautiful, aren’t I, Brady? And high school wasn’t all that long ago.”
Peterson takes a step back out the door
way, a disgusted look on his face. He hauls her with him.
“Be back in a bit,” he calls to Brady.
“Be careful,” Brady responds, then shakes his head again. “Why’d I say that, Fred?” He looks down at me. “She’s more dangerous than I ever realized. Amelia killed her sister for—nothing.” He rubs my head.
My Lovey was an exceptional person. And so is Brady. He wanted me before he knew Lovey had left everything to me. I know I can trust him. And we’ll get used to each other, in time.
But right now, I hate Amelia even more than I despised Allen. And suddenly, those special Thursday lunches don’t seem as important as they had before. As much as I appreciate Brady taking me home to live with him, that wouldn’t be necessary if Amelia hadn’t murdered dear Lovey.
Lovey had done her best for me during her life, and now—her death.
I didn’t want the things Lovey had left for me in her will—I only want her. Who is left to remember her, and to love the memories of her laughter, her sweet voice, and the small things she did for so many every day? From her boss at work, to her family, down to me—her cat.
I am all that is left.
And I vow to remember, until the day I die. I will be all that she thought I was—more human than her own family has been.
Lovey has been the only treasure I will ever need.
About the Author—Cheryl Pierson
Cheryl is a native Oklahoman with eight novels to her credit as well as numerous short stories and novellas. Founding Prairie Rose Publications with Livia Reasoner is a dream-come-true for her—there’s something new every day. Helping other authors is at the top of her list, and she enjoys every minute of it. Cheryl is the current president of the Western Fictioneers writing group. She has two grown children and lives with her husband and her rescue dog, Embry, in Oklahoma City.
See Prairie Rose Publications’ website for more of Cheryl’s work: www.prairierosepublications.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/cheryl.pierson.92
Cat’s Cradle
Mollie Hunt
Lynley Cannon vows to do whatever she must to protect a kitten from gun-wielding thugs.
It all had to do with the kitten, you see. Kitten of wonder; kitten of danger; kitten of things to come.
My name is Lynley Cannon, and I admit it—I’m known in some circles as a crazy cat lady. I suppose it’s because of my slightly obsessive involvement with cats: aside from my clowder of five, I volunteer at a cat shelter, foster sick cats, and help at the Spay and Neuter Center at least twice a month. I am often sought out to give catly advice such as Why does Babie sleep all the time? (Because he’s a cat.) or How can I get Pepper to stop licking my ankles? (You probably can’t). I do not, however, go in for kittens. I have nothing against the young of the feline species, and I’m certainly not immune to their round-eyed angel cuteness. It’s just that everyone loves kittens. I prefer the lost and abandoned; the lop-eared FIV-positive; the scruffy-coated elderly; the malcontents; and yes, even the hospice cats whose days are counting down toward the Rainbow Bridge. Those cats need me. Kittens don’t.
Still, there is nothing quite so forlorn as the sorrowful mewl of a kitten in distress, and when, on a walk by the riverside, I heard that sound, instinct took over like a magnet. Before I knew it, I was down a rabbit hole of my own making, lost in a labyrinth of surprise.
Portland’s Eastbank Esplanade isn’t my usual territory but I’d promised myself I would check it out one day. I’d made that promise years ago when the eclectic Willamette River walkway was built, but these things take time. Though I’m retired and edging toward sixty, I always seem to be busy. Then, one day while cleaning litter pans at Friends of Felines, my shelter buddy, Frannie, asked out of the blue if I’d like to go. Of course I said yes, and just like that, we’d set a date for Saturday.
Today.
When Frannie called at the last minute to say she was stuck at the shelter with a batch of intake cats and couldn’t make it, I was already there.
With a shrug witnessed only by a herd of bikers and a jogger or two, I figured I might as well continue with the plan. I strolled solo up and down the wide concrete landscape. I stared across the glimmering ripples of the river. I checked out the public art and the interpretive panels describing the rich history of the area. I admired the lights of downtown that were beginning to flicker on in the summer twilight. For a while, I worked at picking out the place they had filmed the intro for Portlandia, our local television show, and the sleeping scene from the cult movie, What the Bleep Do We Know? It was all very entertaining, though I wished Frannie had been able to come along.
Frannie DeSoto, with her perfectly blonded hair and meticulous make-up—despite the rigors of shelter work—had been a true friend for years. We’d shared many experiences, both happy and sad, and mostly cat-related. Of an age, we saw the world in a similar fashion, and enjoyed each other’s company. Though I had no problem being on my own, I admit I missed her. When the third bout of melancholy hit me, I decided it was time to go.
The sun was creeping down toward the west hills, which meant it was getting late. I didn’t want to be caught out after dark; the esplanade was probably safe enough, but I had some iffy territory to cross to get to the bus stop for home. Behind the gentrification, the lofts, diverse cafes, and bistros, Portland’s lower east side was a warehouse and industrial district. Beneath the bridges, buildings older than my grandmother still crouched, moldering and dark. Who knew what went on there? Signage read “Boxes”, “Storage”, “Wholesale Paper”, and “Tile”, but as I stared up at those grimy windows, gray with age, I had to wonder.
That was when I heard the kitten. She was mewling her little heart out in total abject anguish, which with a kitten could mean anything from pissed off to hurting to hungry, lonely, or lost. Being a cat advocate, it was my duty not only to discover the problem, but to right any wrongs as well.
I turned from Water Street up Madison under the Hawthorne Bridge and was instantly plunged into dusk. I could no longer see the sky—only buildings, and the ribs of the old on-ramp above. To my right was a three-story brick edifice decorated with a colorful filigree of graffiti, and to my left, a delivery dock fronting a concrete warehouse. The warehouse was dark and vacant. I stopped and listened, trying to pinpoint the plaintive mew. I was close, but more than that, I couldn’t tell.
I located a set of steps, and up I went onto the dock. Once there, I took another look, another listen. Was it my imagination…or was the wailing just a bit more feeble than it had been before?
A huge bay door with an antiquated pulley sat opposite the stairs, and beside that was a human-sized entrance. With surprise, I saw it was open a crack. Moving swiftly, I pushed it a bit farther and stared into gloom.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
The only answer was the renewed vocalization of the kitten. It was a call for help and I had no choice but to respond.
With a creak of oil-starved hinges, I swung the door open all the way. It hit me that if I entered the premises I was crossing a line, but what could it hurt? It was only a warehouse, a place of business. And it wasn’t like I was breaking in. If they didn’t want visitors, they should have locked the door. In spite of my rationalizations, I gave a furtive glance around the outside. No vehicles. If anyone besides little Kit were in the building, they had parked elsewhere.
As I eased into a lightless hallway, the kitten squall increased. My heart sped and my mind told me this might not be such a good idea. What if there were someone bad with the cat? An abuser, kidnapper, or thief? But it was much more likely that Kitten had merely got herself stuck somewhere. She would probably get herself out again without any help from me. Cats were good at that. It really wasn’t any of my business, and exploring front street warehouses without an invitation could be asking for trouble. I almost turned to leave, but then there was another series of tiny “Help me’s”, and without a thought, I was down the hall and halfway into the bright
room at the end.
It was more than a room; it was the warehouse itself, a huge, lofty chamber that could have been transported through time from the nineteen-twenties. What I had mistaken for electric lighting was the sunset glow shining through a massive bank of small-paned skylights. It was not nearly as lucent as I had first imagined; the edges of the room were in shadow and darkening by the second as the sun edged toward night. Large wooden crates were stacked against the walls several feet high, looming like stocky giants in the dim. The center of the room was empty save for a gym bag sitting on the wood plank floor. The meows came from there.
The bag was squirming with a life of its own. I rushed forward. Kneeling, I saw a little spotted nose poke out from a nearly-closed zipper. Then the nose disappeared, replaced by a sharp, reflective eye as the kit stared up at me, yowling like a baby lion.
“Oh, sweetie,” I whispered, petting the tiny black and white head through the hole. “What have you got yourself into?” Kitten didn’t answer; or maybe she did and I just couldn’t translate mew mew mew into anything enlightening.
Had someone left her, closed her in that bag? Had she crawled into it on her own? If she belonged to someone who was planning to come back for her, then it really wasn’t my place to set her free. On the other hand, who would leave a kit in a bag with no food or water? Depending on the amount of time she had been a captive, it could be considered animal abuse. If Kitty were lost, she needed an ally; if she had been dumped by her owner, I was liking them less and less all the time.
“Let’s get you out of there,” I said, pulling the zipper tag to set her free. It traveled a quarter inch, then stuck. I closed it, then opened it again with the same frustrating results. I fiddled at it, then felt around underneath to see if I could find what was binding, but no luck.
Sitting back on my haunches, I stared at the enigmatic bag. Kit was going a little crazy now that her freedom was at hand. She struggled to push through the small hole. If she kept it up, she would tear her spotted face on the hard plastic teeth.
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