Nine Deadly Lives

by Livia J. Washburn

  “I usually say there’s no such thing as a coincidence,” responded Frank, “but in this case, that’s gotta be one.” Frank looked at Angel and asked her, “There’s no way you were all the way out in Idaho and Montana, is there?” Angel just stretched and yawned, feigning indifference, and hopped off Frank’s desk where she had been resting. She walked over and pushed open the screen door with her two front paws, letting herself out into the chilly afternoon. “No, I didn’t think so,” said Frank, although the thought knocked around in his brain awhile. The cat really did seem fascinated with fire. But that was silly to think there was any connection. He shook the thought off and concentrated on chewing his toothpick.

  o0o

  On her walk back to the cabin, Angel experienced a chill, and it wasn’t from the nippy temperature. The things Frank and his deputy had said made her feel unsettled, although she didn’t understand exactly why. It was just a funky feeling, like her fur didn’t fit quite right. She had grown used to Frank’s company, if not very close to him, but today had changed things.

  Angel went back to the cabin and entered through the doggie door. She didn’t take her usual six-hour nap that day, but roamed around the cabin, feeling restless and agitated. Frank came home at the normal time and cooked himself a hamburger on a skillet on the stove, after making sure Angel was fed. After dinner, Frank settled into his normal routine of lighting a hearty fire and pulling out some files to go through on the couch. He treated himself to a bottle of beer while he retrieved the files he had brought home from his backpack. Tonight, he wanted to go through more of the materials he had gathered on the trailer park fires.

  Angel took up her normal spot on the hearth to watch the fire, this time sitting up on a stack of old magazines Frank had placed there, meaning to take to the recycle bin. Frank flipped through his files and sipped his beer, looking up at Angel with a quizzical look every now and then. This made Angel feel a bit apprehensive, although she didn’t know what Frank was thinking about. He could have just been admiring his cozy fire and graceful cat, for all she knew. Angel stared back and forth between Frank and the fire, observing how the fire’s light glinted in Frank’s hair, making it an even deeper red.

  After a couple of hours and several more beers, sleep overtook Frank, and the file he was reviewing slid off of his lap and onto the floor. The beer bottle he had been holding fell from his hand, but it was empty, so there was no spillage. Angel had been snoozing, too, but the kerplunk of the dropping file and bottle startled her into consciousness. She gazed into the fire and back toward Frank, and then at the file that had fallen from his lap. Those files made her anxious. She gazed into the fire for a while as if concentrating, then leapt off of the hearth to the floor below, the slick pile of magazines slipping and skidding beneath her paws as she jumped.

  Angel went over to her food bowl and took a few bites of kibble as the magazine that had slid into the edge of the fireplace ignited. As the fire moved onto the larger pile of scattered magazines, Angel took one last look around the cabin. She had the fleeting thought that she might actually miss this place. She exited through the doggie door as the fire engulfed the large area rug in front of the fireplace. By the time the fire’s rosy fingers reached out to encircle Frank’s sleeping figure, she was halfway back to the trailer park. In Angel’s experience, the trailer park was the only place she felt assured that she would fare well in this world.

  Chapter 4

  Emily Ash pulled into the Cozy Hearth Trailer Park at the end of a very long day. She had driven all the way from Fairmont, Nevada, and was ready for a good night’s sleep. Emily had grown a little weary of the life her mini trailer offered her, and had begun to second-guess her decision to chuck everything from her prior life and downsize, although she knew that she did not want to return to what she had had before.

  A year ago, she had held an executive position in a Silicon Valley high tech company. Her 12-hour days were spent in meeting after meeting, and her nights were spent entertaining clients and at company parties in swanky Bay Area venues. These places were usually so hip, only those “in the know” were even aware of their existence—kind of like the speakeasies of the past, where a person had to have a password or special knock to gain entry.

  It was all so very exciting in the beginning when she was younger and fresher, but had been surprisingly unfulfilling to Emily, and had eventually worn her out, both mentally and physically. So, she had cashed in her stock options, sold her sought-after Peninsula property, and purchased the trailer, hoping to see the country and decompress from her decade and a half of corporate life. She felt that she could always go back and find her dream job, or she could even retire early with what she was able to make and save during her tech career.

  Emily got her trailer parked and connected, and then freshened up a bit. She decided to go out and explore her surroundings a little before it got too dark. Although chilly outside, Winter County was beautiful country that she hated to miss a minute of while trapped inside her tiny home. Emily had not anticipated how cooped up and lonely she could sometimes feel in the small trailer. Just another thing she had learned about herself on this journey of self-discovery.

  Her stressful job had made her somewhat negative about human nature, and she had been happy for the solitude at first, but she now realized that she missed regular human contact. Of course, she spoke to people almost daily at the mobile home parks where she stayed, at the diners where she ate, or at the landmarks and parks she visited, but it wasn’t the same as the relationships one developed with friends, colleagues, and family. That’s what she had missed most lately. Maybe it was time to make a change.

  Emily bundled up, opened her trailer door, and breathed in the crisp, twilight air. As she stepped down, she almost tripped over a splendid white cat. The cat blinked up at her with sparkling, sapphire eyes, and began to rub her sleek body on Emily’s shins. She was taken aback by the beauty and friendliness of the cat. She had never had time for a pet when she was working eighty-hour weeks, and was not what anyone would mistake for a “cat person”, but this one immediately disarmed and charmed her. Maybe it was her own loneliness and need to bond with another living being. Emily knelt down and stroked the cat, who responded by purring and rolling over on her back, allowing Emily access to her soft, fluffy belly. Emily was enchanted.

  “You must belong to someone,” she said. “You’re too pretty and refined to be a stray.” She felt around Angel’s neck for a collar and some identification, but found nothing. She looked around to see if there was anyone who might know about the cat, and spotted a man walking around the corner of the trailer next door.

  “Excuse me,” Emily said, waving to get the man’s attention.

  “What can I do you for, Missy?” said Jim-Bob McCullough.

  “I was wondering if you knew who this lovely little creature belonged to,” said Emily, indicating Angel.

  “Oh, that mean old thing?” responded Jim-Bob. “I heard tell it belonged to those poor folks who died in the trailer fire here recently. Not sure where it’s been taking up since then.” Jim-Bob said, and then, cutting a wide berth around Emily and Angel, walked on.

  “Mean old thing?” Emily said to Angel. “Who could he be talking about? Not you, I’m sure. And it looks like you’re on your own, just like me. Trailer fire! Such a horrible experience. You better come inside and have a snack,” she said, holding the trailer door open for Angel who hopped right inside and made herself at home. It didn’t take more than a moment for Emily to decide that she would keep the cat. “I think I’ll call you Angel,” Emily told her.

  o0o

  For the next few days, Angel observed Emily with fascination, somewhat akin to the way most people regarded Angel. Angel was intrigued by Emily’s white-blonde hair and alabaster skin. And the fact that Emily actually called her by the name she had adopted for herself inspired a contentment inside Angel that she barely remembered experiencing unless she reached back into the far reces
ses of her memory.

  One day, while Angel was sleeping in a cupboard that Emily had left open and fitted a fleece blanket into for Angel, she was awakened by an eerily familiar scent. She blinked her eyes several times and saw rings of smoke floating in front of her eyes. She then noticed Emily sitting at the dinette, smoking a cigarette while flicking the ashes into a crystal ash tray, and she spied the familiar silver and white packaging of the cigarettes. “Sorry, Angel,” Emily said. “It’s a nasty habit, but I just can’t seem to kick it. I’ll open a window so you won’t have to breathe too much of this in.” But Angel didn’t mind, and was so comforted by the smell that she fell back into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  That night, Emily lit a campfire and told Angel that she would be making S’mores, one of Emily’s favorite childhood foods, apparently. According to Emily, this treat was likely to make her fat, but she didn’t mind since they were well worth a few extra calories. Angel didn’t care much about the S’mores, but was excited about the campfire, and ran around animatedly under Emily’s feet as she prepared the kindling.

  Emily let Angel roam around outside the trailer freely since she had noticed that Angel never strayed too far away. Angel lay down by the fire to warm herself, but the blaze didn’t hold the same attraction for her as it had in the past. She noticed a steadily increasing warmth inside her that seemed to replace her old yearning for the glimmering flames.

  “All right, Angel,” Emily said after a few hours spent lounging by the fire and Emily enjoying the decadent, gooey, marshmallow and chocolate goodies. “Let’s go in and have some tuna and wine.” She laughed and said, “My diet has really been suffering since I set out on this expedition. Who knew I would go from champagne, caviar, and foie gras to tuna, box wine, and S’mores?” She pondered on it for a few seconds, then said, “I kind of like it better, if you wanna know the truth, but don’t tell anyone.” She extinguished the fire, and Angel stared at it for a few moments like a long lost friend that she used to love, but really didn’t know any more.

  Emily played some jazz music on her phone and fed Angel some tuna. She poured some wine for herself and lit a few lavender candles for relaxation, as she attempted to hum along with the music. “Now, this is all anyone really needs, right?” she asked Angel. “Cheers!” she said, and clinked her wine glass against Angel’s tuna bowl. Emily sprawled out on her bed to read her book—a mystery about a good-natured sheriff out in East Texas. She eventually yawned, said goodnight to Angel, and turned off the lights, neglecting to blow out the candles, a mistake she had made several times in the past and would always chastise herself about in the morning.

  Angel wasn’t tired, and sprang up onto the dinette table where one of the candles was sitting, casting its glistening glow against the walls of the trailer. Angel tried to conjure up her usual infatuation with the flickering flames. She thought back to the first fire she had experienced that had taken Mel and her family away, remembering the hard coldness she had felt inside that had remained with her for most of her days. She placed her face dangerously close to the candle’s flame, causing it to cast an evil, bloodshot shadow over her face. She reached toward the candle with her paw and began to push it toward the edge of the table. She pushed it again and again, watching as it got closer and closer to the edge of the table and only a short distance from the wicker mat on the floor below.

  Just as the candle reached the edge of the table, Angel looked over at Emily, sleeping soundly in her white, billowy comforter and pillows, almost as if she were sleeping on a snowdrift. Angel turned back to the candle, then abruptly leapt into her cupboard. She kneaded her cozy, fleece blanket, as if she were a kitten again, preparing to nurse from her mother, and drifted off to sleep.

  About the Author—Angela Crider Neary

  Angela Crider Neary is an attorney by day and writer by night. She is an avid mystery reader and especially enjoys reading novels set in interesting locales. She was inspired to write her first mystery novella, Li’l Tom and the Pussyfoot Detective Bureau (The Case of the Parrots Desaparecidos), by one of her favorite areas in San Francisco, Telegraph Hill. Angela is a native Texan who relocated to the Bay Area in 2008. She currently lives in wine country with her husband and their extremely spoiled cat.

  The Easter Cat

  Bill Crider

  Never give the Easter Bunny a ride.

  Let me give you a little piece of advice: Never stop to help the Easter Bunny change a flat tire. I would never have done it myself except that it was obvious that he was totally incompetent and no one else was even giving him a second glance. Besides, I thought I recognized him.

  So I drove on by and coasted to a stop by the curb about half a block in front of the Bunny's pre-war Chevy. It was the same model as mine, in fact, a 1940 model, but mine was in better shape. The Bunny obviously wasn't a very good driver.

  I got out of my car, stretched, and took a deep breath. It was a beautiful California day, all blue skies and sunshine, low humidity and the smell of oranges drifting in from one of the groves that still remained nearby. If I'd had any sense at all, I would have kept right on driving. But then, no one ever accused me of having any sense at all.

  I walked back to the Bunny's Chevy. The passing cars ignored both of us. We were out near the studios, and you don't have to live in Hollywood for very long to get used to some pretty strange sights out there. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

  The Bunny was trying to loosen a lug nut. He was down on his knees, straining so hard that his long pink ears were quivering. As I watched him strain, his hands slipped off the lug wrench. He keeled over on his side and hit the pavement.

  "Damn," he said, which I thought was pretty strong language for the Easter Bunny, and I told him so.

  "Yeah? And who the hell asked you?" He didn't bother to get up. He just lay there on his side with his puffy white tail sticking out toward the traffic.

  "Nobody asked me. Nobody asked me to stop and help a bunny in distress, either."

  He sat up then, and turned to look at me through eyes narrowed against the sunlight. He was who I'd thought he was, all right, Ernie Wiggins, dressed out in a bunny suit. Rabbits' noses were supposed to be pink, I think, but his was a bright shiny red.

  "Ferrel?" he said. He put a hand up to shade his eyes. His eyes were a little red, too. "Bill Ferrel, private dick?"

  "It's me, all right," I said. "And better a dick than a bunny rabbit. You got a part in something?"

  It was a natural question. Ernie Wiggins was a has-been comic who'd started out with a couple of bits in Leon Errol shorts and then done one with the Three Stooges. Someone at Gober Studios spotted him in that one and gave him a try as the comic sidekick in a Rick Torrance jungle epic, Johnson of Java, I think, but it might have been Benson of Borneo. I can never remember which one came first.

  Torrance and Wiggins hit it off, and Ernie had been funny enough to get a couple of good mentions in the trades. Not only that, but the box-office take was a little better than Torrance's last picture. So naturally, they put Ernie in another movie with Torrance, Johnson or Benson, whichever, and it looked like Ernie was on his way.

  He was on his way, all right—on his way out. As it happened, he was a lush. Now, that's no big thing in Hollywood, of course. If they fired all the lushes tomorrow, every studio in town would close down. But Ernie was the wrong kind of lush. He started showing up drunk on the set, forgetting his lines, and missing his marks. Even that might not have been so bad on some pictures, but Rick Torrance's directors weren't exactly top of the line. They preferred the methods of William "One Shot" Beaudine. So, after one more picture, Andrews of the Amazon, Ernie was out on the streets.

  And not only that. Now, he was dressed like the Easter Bunny.

  Ernie stood up, none too steadily, and brushed haphazardly at the knees of his bunny suit. He didn't say anything about having a part. What he said was, "Can y' gimme a hand wi' th' tire?"

  Even the exhaust fumes from the passing cars c
ouldn't disguise the fact that he'd been sipping on the Old Overholt, or whatever he favored. Did I say "sipping"? He'd probably slugged down a fifth of the stuff by now, and it was only a little after noon. He'd never get the tire changed by himself.

  So, fool that I was, I said, "Sure."

  I took off my hat and jacket and laid them on the hood of Wiggins' Chevy. Then, I picked up the lug wrench and got to work. Ernie stared vacantly off into space and leaned his back against the car as if he needed a brace to help him stand up. While I worked at getting the wheel off, he slid slowly down the side of the car, an inch at a time.

  I got the wheel off, put on the spare that Ernie had left lying in the street behind his car, and tossed the flat into the trunk. By that time, Ernie had slid all the way down the side of the car. He was sitting in the street, his back to the Chevy, snoring heavily.

  I jacked down the car, tightened the lug nuts, and threw the wrench and jack into the trunk with the flat tire. I slammed down the trunk lid as hard as I could, hoping the noise would wake Ernie up. It didn't.

  I wiped my hands off on my handkerchief, then put on my hat and jacket and looked down at Ernie, who was still snoring. He'd drawn a bunch of little black lines straight out from the sides of his nose. Whiskers, I guess.

  I kicked one of his feet. Gently. I'm not some tough peeper like Bogart in The Maltese Falcon. "Wake up, Ernie," I said.

  He opened one eye. "Ri'. Wakey, shakey. Gotta job."

  If he had a job, it wasn't at Gober Studios. I'm on retainer to Gober, the big cheese himself, and I know the casts of every picture on the lot, which is how I got to know Ernie in the first place. Wayward starlets, over-sexed leading men, pregnant ingénues—I'm the one who tries to keep them out of trouble—and when that fails, to keep their names out of the papers.