Scratch the Surface

by Susan Conant

  In any case, she generously hosted meetings of the condo association and dealt with neighborhood matters. According to her message, the Norwood Hill Neighborhood Association had sent a letter complaining about traffic, and Mr. Trotsky had lodged a formal objection to the presence of a cat in Felicity’s house. “Don’t worry about the cat!” Loretta said in her little-girl voice. “No one else minds! Just come to the meeting!”

  Felicity had just finished listening to Loretta’s message when she got a call from Ursula Novack, Edith and Brigitte’s breeder. “I mainly wanted to hear how the girls are doing,” she said.

  “Fine. Splendidly, in fact,” said Felicity, who hadn’t seen either cat since returning home from her mother’s.

  “Excellent. Any news about Quin?”

  “Nothing. Not that I’ve heard.”

  “Too bad. Oh, there’s something I forgot to tell you. Two things. First of all, Quin used Angell, so all the vet records are there. You know Angell?”

  Boston’s Angell Memorial Animal Hospital was so famous that even Felicity had heard of it. “Of course.”

  “And the other thing is that Edith is a blood donor there. You don’t have to keep that up if you don’t want to, but it’s a good thing to do. There’s always a great need for blood, and Edith is so suitable.”

  It had never before occurred to Felicity that cats had blood, never mind donated it or needed transfusions. “Suitable,” she repeated.

  “Because of her size. They have to be over ten pounds. Brigitte is too small. Also, Edith is so mellow. And she’s young and healthy. You’d just have to drop her off there and pick her up every so often, and you get free exams and shots. But it’s up to you.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Felicity promised.

  True to her word, as she sautéed chicken breasts and steamed fresh asparagus for her dinner, she mulled over the possible consequences to a cat that received Edith’s blood. Would the animal vanish under a bed and remain there forever? But Edith was shy, she reminded herself. Cats could be shy. Edith was. As if to prove that she was anything but shy, Brigitte ran into the kitchen, jumped up onto the counter, and strolled along it. Instead of shooing her off, Felicity dared to run her hand all the way from Brigitte’s head to the base of her tail. In response, the silky little cat rubbed her head against Felicity’s hand. In gratitude, Felicity cut off a small piece of chicken breast, minced it, placed it in a saucer, and offered it to Brigitte, but after a sniff of curiosity, Brigitte darted to the bowl of dry cat food and ate hungrily. Instead of reading or listening to the radio over dinner, Felicity watched the cat, who brazenly jumped onto the table, but didn’t try to eat off Felicity’s plate. Felicity pondered the possibility of speaking to Brigitte but decided that in real life, conversing with cats was a sign of serious eccentricity if not outright madness. Still, despite the lack of conversation, Brigitte hung around, and although Felicity did not admit it to herself, she enjoyed the companionship.

  Indeed, many a sensible person would have preferred the company of the cat to the company afforded by the residents of Newton Park present at the condo association meeting. The first time Felicity had attended one of the meetings, she had made the mistake of assuming that it would be a social occasion or one that would combine the business of condo affairs with the pleasures of socializing. Expecting to meet her new neighbors over coffee and dessert, Felicity had turned up at Loretta’s with a contribution: a box of pastries from Rosie’s Bakery. Neither food nor drink had been offered at the meeting, and Felicity had tried to pretend that the pastries were a hostess gift for Loretta. Tonight, she walked empty-handed to Loretta’s, which was at the far end of Newton Park, near the Brighton entrance. Six or eight large cars were parked in the street. Had the murder made her neighbors afraid to go out at night? It was only seven o’clock. Felicity hadn’t considered driving.

  Although Thanksgiving was three weeks away, next to the front door of Loretta’s house sat a large basket in the form of a cornucopia. Artfully arranged as if spilling from the cornucopia were gourds, Indian corn, pots of purple mums, and other inedible objects symbolic of a bounteous harvest. Felicity rang the bell. Before the door opened, she heard the clicking of several locks.

  “Felicia, isn’t it?” Loretta greeted her. “Come in. Half the people aren’t here yet.” Loretta had masses of dark curls and wore heavy eye makeup.

  “Felicity, actually.”

  “Felicity. Sorry. Felicity. I’ll remember next time. This shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.”

  How had Loretta managed to call her a few hours ago and forget her name in the intervening time? “It’s very nice of you to have the meeting here, Lucille,” she said.

  “Who’s Lucille?”

  “Loretta. Sorry.”

  “I have to tell you,” Loretta said, “that we’ve been driven crazy by the police. Everyone’s been questioned, and our yards have been searched. But we’re not going to waste time going over that. We just have to settle the business about your cat and decide what to do about this nasty letter.”

  Felicity followed Loretta into the living room, which had off-white walls, off-white carpeting, and off-white furniture that provided ample seating. Ten or twelve people were gathered there. There was no food or drink in sight. The fireplace contained an oversized vase heavily decorated with gilded cherubim.

  “Hi. Sorry if I’m late,” said Felicity, who was exactly on time.

  Loretta left to answer the doorbell.

  Zora Wang smiled at Felicity and said, “Any more murder?”

  “What?”

  Zora laughed and repeated her question. “Any more murder? Joke! Any more murder?”

  “No, no more murders,” said Felicity.

  Loretta returned with Mr. and Mrs. Trotsky, Brooke and her husband, and a man named Omar. “Let’s get started,” she said. “This should take no time. Everyone should have a copy of the letter from the Norwood Hill Neighborhood Association. They’re on the table. Take one if you don’t have one already.”

  Felicity took a copy of the letter and seated herself next to Zora Wang, who had at least tried to act friendly. “Tom isn’t coming?”

  “Work. Work all the time,” Zora said.

  “Could we pay attention to business?” Mr. Trotsky said. “We have a no-pet clause. Cats are pets. No cats allowed.”

  “That clause is there in case anyone gets a dog that becomes a nuisance,” Brooke informed him. “So we could do something if a dog barked all the time. Or ran loose and bothered us.” Brooke looked even more silvery and showy than usual. Her platinum hair and fingernails matched.

  “No pets is no pets,” Trotsky responded.

  Careful to avoid revealing the presence of two cats and not just one in her house, Felicity said, “The way to make sure that cats live long, healthy lives is to keep them indoors. I would never let a cat roam the neighborhood. I cannot see how an indoor cat could be a problem.”

  “Enough said,” Loretta decreed. “All in favor of allowing Felicia to keep her cat, raise your hands.”

  “Felicity,” said Brooke. “Not Felicia. You apparently don’t know that Felicity Pride is a well-known author.”

  “Oh, what do you write?” asked a woman Felicity didn’t know.

  “Mysteries,” said Felicity.

  Brooke elaborated. “Mysteries about cats.”

  “Oh, I’ve read those!” a woman exclaimed. “Purrfectly Sleuthful was my favorite. I just love Olaf and Lambie Pie! But I didn’t know you wrote under a pen name. I thought Isabelle Hotchkiss was your real name.”

  Loretta cut short the discussion. “Could we vote, please? Raise your hand if you want her to be able to keep the cat.”

  All hands except Mr. Trotsky’s popped up. Mrs. Trotsky lifted hers only briefly before her husband grabbed her wrist and lowered her arm. “My wife doesn’t speak English,” he explained.

  Mrs. Trotsky was a short, stout woman with unnaturally red-black hair. She wore a deep purple su
it that somehow looked foreign as opposed to imported. “Speak English!” she cried. “Yes, cat!”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter one way or the other,” Loretta said. “The vote is overwhelmingly for the cat. Now, the letter. If you haven’t already read it, please do so now.”

  Felicity had read the offending letter and now simply glanced at it. It was on Norwood Hill Neighborhood Association letterhead. A logo depicted a tree that Felicity considered in need of pruning. The text read:

  Until the erection of the Newton Park Estates development, the narrow streets of Norwood Hill carried almost no traffic. The recent influx of vehicles traveling at high speeds disturbs the tranquility of Norwood Hill and poses a threat to public safety. Thus the Norwood Hill Neighborhood Association respectfully requests that residents of the development, which is in Brighton, enter and exit through Brighton.

  “It’s no accident,” said Harry, Brooke’s husband, “that they’ve chosen this particular time to fire off this condescending missive. What’s not said here is that they see urban crime at their doorstep. Not without reason, of course.”

  Felicity felt everyone’s eyes on her. “That letter requires no response,” she said. “If they have a traffic problem on their streets, they should call the police. Do we look like traffic cops?” A few people tittered. Encouraged, Felicity added, “And I am as concerned about the horrible event that took place here as everyone else is. More so. But it does seem clear that the man, Quinlan Coates, was killed somewhere else. There is no reason to suppose that we’re seeing the start of some sort of crime wave.”

  Trotsky angrily shook his copy of the letter. “We are going to take this insult lying down?”

  “In my opinion,” Brooke said, “Felicity is right. Our best course is to be perfect ladies and gentlemen. In other words, we should do nothing.”

  “Place the burden on the opposition,” a man agreed. “I’m for that.”

  “All in favor of no reply,” said Loretta, “raise your hands! Done! Same as the last vote. Mr. and Mrs. Trotsky, you’re seeing American democracy in action here. You win some, you lose some. That’s the American way. Well, we wrapped this up fast, didn’t we!”

  Everyone stood up. Loretta moved swiftly to the front hall and opened the door. “So nice to see you!” she said. “Until next time!”

  Hustled out, one couple headed for the next house. All the others except Brooke and Harry got into the cars parked on the street.

  “Chickens,” said Brooke. “We’re not afraid to walk, are we? Sorry about that mix-up with Isabelle Hotchkiss. Your books are much better than hers.”

  “Thank you,” Felicity said. “Loretta certainly knows how to run a meeting, doesn’t she?”

  Harry said, “She kept that Trotsky under control. I have to give her that.”

  “Actually,” Felicity said, “you were right that something triggered that condescending letter, but it wasn’t having the police here. It had nothing to do with the murder. It had to do with Mr. Trotsky. He had a nasty encounter with some woman who was walking her dog. He accused her dog of killing his grass. She acted quite entitled and supercilious, and he got nasty. I tried to smooth things over, but I didn’t have any luck.”

  “As if the relationship between the neighborhoods weren’t bad enough to begin with,” Brooke said, “without him making things worse.” Like the Norwood Hill woman with the golden retriever, Brooke sounded as if she’d never had a Boston accent to lose, but Felicity didn’t resent the apparent effortlessness of Brooke’s correct vowel sounds. Brooke preferred Morris and Tabitha to Olaf and Lambie Pie, and she was as close as Felicity came to having a Newton Park ally.

  “He creates a terrible image of our neighborhood,” Felicity agreed. “Among other things, the woman thinks that Russians are gangsters.”

  “Gangsters?” Harry said. “Trotsky’s a legitimate businessman. A publisher. He’s an oaf, but he isn’t a gangster.”

  “How do you know that?” his wife asked. “Russians are notorious for pirating American software.”

  “They pirate American books, too,” Felicity said.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Brigitte sits on top of the refrigerator. Her tail twitches, and her amber eyes scan the kitchen. She drops weightlessly to the floor, rockets to the front hallway, skids across the slate floor, zooms to the living room, slides across a low table, and bolts back to the hallway, up the steep stairs, and into the room where Edith remains huddled under the bed. Boring, boring, boring Edith! What that cat needs is a good bite on the head! Brigitte dives straight through the bed skirt, pounces on Edith, delivers a hard nip to Edith’s neck, and flees before Edith can retaliate.

  In the upstairs hall, Brigitte follows her nose to a room heavy with the scent of cosmetics. The bed in here is larger than the one under which that fat, silly Edith is hiding. Brigitte soars upward, lands, and settles herself on a pillow. Although she goes instantly to sleep, the tip of her tail resumes its twitch. She dreams of prey.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  When Felicity returned home from the condo association meeting, she saw no sign of the cats and made a mental note to herself about Morris and Tabitha, who, she now realized, had spent far too much time awake in her previous books. Real cats were dedicated sleepers. Furthermore, as amateur sleuths, they were duds. Morris and Tabitha would simply have to stay as prescient and communicative as they’d always been. After all, one of fiction’s most important functions was to misrepresent reality.

  Loretta had kept the meeting short. It was now only quarter of eight, and Felicity wished that she’d delayed her dinner and could call Ronald to suggest that they meet at a restaurant. Better yet, she wished that Detective Dave Valentine would appear at her door to announce that the murder had been solved and that she was consequently free to talk about it to the press. And free to accept an invitation to go out with him? She reluctantly settled for calling Ronald, who answered his phone but said that he couldn’t talk because he was listening to Glenn Gould, with whom he was, in Felicity’s view, obsessed. Felicity had no ear for music and couldn’t tell one Goldberg Variation from the other, and although she’d enjoyed Thirty-two Short Films About Glenn Gould when Ronald had dragged her to a theater to see it, she’d been bored the first time they’d watched the video together and, after the third time, had refused to see it again. She did, however, manage to divert Ronald from his music long enough to make him promise to go out for dinner with her the next evening. At the end of the short call, having failed to ask her how she was, he neglected to utter any of the usual formulaic phrases about how glad he’d be to see her or how much he was looking forward to dinner, but simply hung up.

  Felicity longed to call Detective Dave Valentine but could think of no pretext. She’d tell Valentine about the animosity between the Norwood Hill and Newton Park neighborhoods, but the antagonism hardly suggested a motive for Coates’s murder. Even Felicity found it unimaginable that some disgruntled resident of Norwood Hill had slain a professor of Romance languages simply to cause trouble in Newton Park by leaving his body in a vestibule. Could Quinlan Coates have planned to buy a house in Newton Park? No realtors’ signs hung in the neighborhood, and nothing in Coates’s apartment had hinted at any intention of moving. What connection could there be between Coates and Newton Park? Had he fathered one of Loretta’s children? Had a book he’d published been pirated by the horrible Mr. Trotsky? Had he allowed Edith or Brigitte to put a paw on Trotsky’s grass?