by Sofie Kelly
Lita was Everett Henderson’s assistant. Not only was Everett my neighbor, he had also hired me to supervise the renovations at the library for its centennial. My little farmhouse was one of the benefits that came with the job. It was almost four years now since I’d come to Mayville Heights. The head-librarian position had been a temporary eighteen-month appointment, but when the time was up I found myself wanting to stay in the job. Luckily, the library board had felt the same way.
“I bet it was Lita,” Ruby said. “She was a Girl Scout. I think she had pretty much every badge they give out. Isn’t their motto ‘Be Prepared’?”
“‘A Girl Scout is ready to help out wherever she is needed,’” I recited. “‘Willingness to serve is not enough; you must know how to do the job well, even in an emergency.’”
Ruby raised an eyebrow at me. I felt my cheeks get warm. “It’s from the Girl Scout manual. I read it somewhere.”
Her smile stretched into a grin. “Kathleen, you’re better than the Web. I know you’re always a reliable source.” She leaned around me and waved at the driver’s window of the truck.
Owen was standing up on his back legs, front paws on the door, looking at Ruby through the side window.
She held up a finger. “Give me a second,” she said. I knew she was talking to Owen, not to me.
I wasn’t the least bit surprised when the cat bobbed his head in acknowledgment as though he’d understood—and I was certain he had—and then sat down.
Ruby didn’t seem surprised, either. I wasn’t the only one who talked to the cats like they were . . . well, people. Everyone seemed to accept that Owen and Hercules were more than just everyday cats, although no one else knew exactly how extraordinary they really were.
Ruby tipped her head to one side and looked up at the sky. I’d seen her do that enough times to know she was considering the light. “It’s not going to be dark for a while,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to try some photos just before sunset. When the sun is low in the sky the shadows are softer and longer. I think I can get some really dynamic images.” She held the box of glasses against her chest with one hand and gestured with the other as if she were painting in the air. “So is it okay if we do the inside shots first?”
“Do whatever works for you,” I said.
A few weeks earlier Ruby had taken a photo of Owen and Hercules on the steps of the library, seemingly studying a map of Mayville Heights. Maggie had created the hand-drawn, incredibly detailed map of the town, and it had turned out to be very popular with tourists, even more so after another artist, Ray Nightingale, posted Ruby’s photo of the boys online and it went viral. Tourists actually came into the library building looking for the cats. Now Ruby was doing a series of photos with them for a calendar to promote Mayville Heights and the surrounding area. Everett Henderson was funding the project.
Both cats loved having their picture taken, although Owen was by far the bigger ham. Ruby had photographed each cat in the past, using the photos as the basis for two oversized acrylic pop-art portraits she’d painted. Both had been auctioned off as fundraisers for the cat rescue organization Cat People.
No one seemed surprised that Ruby could get Owen and Hercules to pose for her even though cats didn’t exactly have a reputation for doing what you wanted them to do when you wanted them to do it—or ever doing it at all.
“As long as I’ve known Ruby she’s had a rapport with animals,” Maggie had said the night before, sitting at my kitchen table, licking chocolate icing from a cheesecake brownie off her thumb while Owen sat adoringly at her feet. “And anyway, Owen and Hercules aren’t regular everyday cats,” she’d continued, sneaking a tiny bite of her dessert to her furry gray shadow—something that would have landed her in the doghouse, pun intended, if our friend Roma had been around. Maggie had caught me watching her, and both she and Owen had looked up at me, faux innocence in her green and his golden eyes.
“Owen and Hercules are special,” Maggie had added, an edge of self-righteousness in her voice as though that “specialness” explained everything from how photogenic they were to how Owen deserved a piece of her brownie.
You don’t know the half of it, I’d thought.
I got both cats out of the truck now. Hercules agreeably climbed into the cat carrier. I left the top panel unzipped so he could poke his head out and slung the bag over my shoulder. I decided to carry Owen because of the two, he was the more likely to disappear—figuratively and literally. The cats had been feral and didn’t like to be touched by anyone other than me, so Ruby didn’t offer to help. I closed the door of the truck with my hip, and we followed Ruby into the building.
“How’s practice going?” I asked as we headed up the stairs. As in previous years, Ruby was in the festival choir, and this year she was also performing with Everett’s granddaughter—Ami Lester—and cabaret singer Emme Finley.
Ruby rolled her eyes. “Just like every other year. Right now we sound like crap. Nobody knows their parts, and I swear there’s half a dozen people who couldn’t carry a tune no matter how big a bucket you gave them.”
“It can’t be that bad,” I said. The massed choir was the highlight of the final concert. In my experience it always sounded wonderful.
Ruby had a dozen years of voice training and had worked as a singer and dancer at a resort for several years during college. “It can be and it is,” she said as we rounded the second-floor landing. “We were doing warm-ups this morning and—I’m not making this up”—she put her free hand over her heart—“I could hear dogs howling.”
Owen made a face, scrunching up his whiskers. An unfortunate encounter with Harrison Taylor’s German shepherd, Boris, had left him with a pretty low opinion of any and all dogs.
I shot her a skeptical look.
She shrugged. “Okay, so it was only one dog, and in all fairness he had treed a squirrel in the parking lot, which might have been the reason he was howling, but my point is still the same. Right now we stink.” She shifted the box of glasses onto her hip and tucked her hair behind her ear with her free hand. She was wearing it longer and layered, just brushing her shoulders. It was dyed a rich copper color, like a newly minted penny, instead of her usual neon-colored streaks.
Hercules craned his neck in Ruby’s direction and gave a murp of concern. At least that’s what it sounded like to me. Last year I’d bought a CD of the final festival concert. Whenever I played it Hercules would listen with his head tipped to one side, eyes closed. I didn’t think I was imagining that he liked what he heard. Hercules was much more of a music lover than Owen. He shared my love for Mr. Barry Manilow, something Owen decidedly didn’t.
Ruby leaned around me and smiled at Hercules. She’d once seen him “listening” to the CD in my office. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll be ready.”
The cat’s green eyes flicked to me.
“Uncle Mickey will work his magic,” I said by way of reassurance.
Ruby nodded.
Uncle Mickey was family friend Michel Demarque, brilliant conductor, composer, pianist and world-class flirt. My mother, Thea Paulson, was an actor and a director. Mom and Michel had worked together on a Stephen Sondheim musical many years ago in Vermont and stayed in touch—much to my dad’s chagrin. Michel reminded me of actor Hugh Jackman—dark eyes in a wonderfully expressive face and the ability to command the attention of every room he stepped into.
Ruby talked more about some of the pieces—a mix of classical and contemporary—that they were working on as we continued up the stairs to her studio. “I’m looking forward to the concert,” I said.
Hercules meowed loudly from my hip.
I laughed. “Apparently so is Hercules.”
Ruby grinned at the cat. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll set aside a CD for you.”
Owen twisted restlessly in my arms. I had the feeling all the talk about the festival wa
s boring him. Ruby unlocked the door to her studio and I set him down. He made a quick circuit of the space and then looked expectantly at Ruby.
“There,” she said, pointing at a length of counter space. The town map was spread on the paint-spattered surface. I moved to pick Owen up, but he launched himself onto the counter before I could, landing lightly on the center of the map. He shook himself and began to check out the various art supplies that were spread out over the dark wood surface. I took Hercules over, lifted him out of the cat carrier bag and set him down next to his brother.
He put each white-tipped paw down gingerly.
“It’s okay,” I said softly. “I don’t see any wet paint.”
Ruby had set the box of glasses on a chair and was bringing her tripod over to the counter. “Everything is clean and dry. I promise,” she said, as much to Hercules as to me. She knew all about his distaste for wet or dirty feet.
I smoothed the fur on the top of his head. “You look very handsome,” I whispered.
Owen’s golden eyes darted in my direction.
“You too,” I said, reaching over to give him a little scratch between his ears.
He immediately took a couple of passes at his face with a paw.
I took several steps back, snagged a stool and sat down out of the way where I could watch Ruby work.
She fastened her camera to the base of the tripod and then got busy posing Owen and Hercules. I was fascinated by the process every time. Since she couldn’t actually pick the cats up or move them around, Ruby would tap the counter with a finger or direct them with a quick hand motion. And most of the time they seemed to understand what she wanted. She talked quietly to them all the time, just the way I suspected she would have done if she’d been working with people. Once, when neither cat seemed to want to go where she wanted them to, Ruby looked through the viewfinder of her camera and then muttered, “Yeah, okay, you’re right. That works better.”
Finally, she straightened up, linking both hands on top of her head, stretching out her neck and shoulders. Then she grabbed her backpack and pulled out a small brown paper bag with a fold-over top. “Roma-approved,” she said, holding up the bag so I could see that it held the organic cat crackers made by one of Roma’s friends who, like her, was a veterinarian.
“Yes, go ahead,” I said.
Ruby poured a little pile of the treats in front of each cat. “Good job, guys,” she said. She took the camera off the tripod and brought it over to me. “What do you think?” she asked, scrolling through the images.
“I know I’m biased,” I said. “But they’re all wonderful. You’re a great photographer.”
She smiled. “Owen and Hercules are very photogenic. Don’t tell anyone, but I swear they’re easier to work with than some people. This calendar is going to be amazing.”
Owen lifted his head and seemed to smile in our direction as though he’d understood the compliment. And he probably had.
After the cats had finished eating and had cleaned the cracker crumbs from their whiskers, we moved outside. Ruby wanted to take some photos in front of the building. She’d just taken several shots on the grass near the flagpole when I caught sight of two people coming up the sidewalk.
As they got closer I realized the two women were Emme Finley and Miranda Moore. Emme, who was in her early thirties, was a popular cabaret singer from Chicago. Her friend Miranda Moore worked as her assistant. Ruby had introduced us at the library. As part of the festival, several of the musicians taking part were giving public lectures at the library as a way to generate more interest in the festival. Emme had given a talk about rhythm. She was an engaging speaker, and although I couldn’t carry a tune even if I used both hands, I’d been fascinated.
Emme smiled as she came level with us. She was tall, at least an inch above my own five-six, but she didn’t move with the self-consciousness some tall women did. Her thick dark brown hair was loose on her shoulders. She had strong features and the kind of knowing smile that made you think she had a secret, but if you sat next to her, maybe she’d whisper it in your ear.
Miranda looked so much like her that they could have easily been mistaken for sisters. They were almost the same height and they had the same hair color, although Miranda’s hair looked like it had been dyed brown, while I was fairly certain Emme’s was the color she’d been born with. Miranda’s eyes were blue-gray, while Emme’s were hazel. The most obvious difference between them was the small mole above the left corner of Emme’s mouth.
“Hi, Kathleen,” Emme said. “Are we interrupting?”
Ruby had been down on one knee, trying to get a shot, but she straightened up now. “You’re not interrupting anything,” she said. “We have to take five for hair and makeup.” She pointed toward Owen, who had sat down and was meticulously cleaning his tail.
Hercules, meanwhile, was making his way across the grass to me. I took a couple of steps forward, bent and picked him up. “Merow?” he said quizzically, cocking his head and eyeing the two women with curiosity.
“Ruby’s friends,” I said in a low voice in case he was wondering who they were.
Emme looked from Hercules to Ruby. “Are these your cats that Ruby has been photographing?”
I nodded, giving Herc a scratch behind his right ear. “This is Hercules.” I gestured at Owen with my elbow. “And that’s Owen.”
Emme reached a hand in Hercules’s direction.
“Not a good idea,” Ruby said, shaking her head. “They used to be feral. The only person who can touch those two is Kathleen.” Her gaze flicked to me for a moment.
I nodded in confirmation.
Miranda put her hands behind her back. She leaned toward us and smiled at the little tuxedo cat in my arms. “Hello, Hercules,” she said.
“Mrr,” he replied.
“He’s very handsome,” she said to me.
As if he’d understood the words, the cat straightened in my arms, his chin coming up to show off his sleek white chest.
Ruby was showing Emme some of the photos she’d already taken. Owen was still working out whatever had messed up his tail.
“Is he named for the mythological hero or the campy Kevin Sorbo show?” Miranda asked.
“A bit of both,” I said. “But mostly the TV show.”
She gave me a conspiratorial smile. “I loved that show when I was a teenager. I used to pretend to be watching Baking with Julia on PBS. I’d change the channel really fast if I heard anyone coming.” She was wearing a rose gold bracelet on her right wrist with what looked like a small locket attached. It was a very distinctive piece.
“I like your bracelet,” I said.
Miranda ran her fingers over the twisted links. “Thank you. My dad died before I was born. This is the only thing I have from his side of the family.”
Behind us Owen had apparently fixed whatever had annoyed him about the fur on his tail. He meowed loudly.
Ruby looked skyward again. “Owen’s right. We better get back to it or we’re going to lose the light.”
I set Hercules down by his brother and backed up again.
Emme came to stand beside me. “Kathleen, I meant to ask you the last time I saw you. Are you by any chance related to Thea Paulson?”
“She’s my mother,” I said.
A smile lit up her face. “I was in the chorus of a production of Mamma Mia! about five years ago in Chicago.”
“Mom was Rosie,” I finished. “She listened to so much ABBA music, even I could do the songs.” I smiled back at her. “Remember the outfit with the silver platform boots?”
Emme nodded.
“She let me wear it as my costume for Halloween.” I grinned at the memory.
“I learned so much from her.” The wind tousled her hair, and she brushed a strand away from her face. “Just watching her was better than taking an acting class, and
she was always willing to answer any question anyone had.”
That sounded like my mother. She had the ability to bring out the best in people. It’s what made her a great acting partner and what was also getting her a reputation as an excellent director.
“I’ll tell her you’re here next time I talk to her,” I said.
Ruby was trying to get Owen to put his paw on a particular place on the map that was now partially unfolded on the grass. They seemed to be having creative differences.
A bit of color came to Emme’s cheeks. “I don’t know if she’d even remember me.”
“Mom remembers everyone she’s worked with,” I said. I wasn’t exaggerating. I could name a production from twenty years ago, and my mother would rattle off the names of the cast and crew. My head for trivia was probably a skill I’d inherited from her.
I was about to step in and try to convince Owen to do what Ruby wanted him to when I saw Hercules make his way around his brother and place his paw on the exact spot Ruby had been trying to get Owen to “point” to. I waited for Owen to object, but all he did was sit down and cock his head to one side—his “cute” pose.
Miranda asked a question, but I didn’t catch it or Ruby’s answer.
I focused on Emme again. “Have you done a lot of musicals?” I asked.
She lifted her hair up off her neck for a moment before letting it fall back down again. “It’s funny you asked that,” she said. “You know that mostly I’m a cabaret singer?”
I nodded. “Ruby mentioned that.”
“I’ve been thinking about stepping away from popular music and moving into doing more musicals. I had so much fun doing Mamma Mia!” She ducked her head for a moment and then her gaze met mine again. “I’ve been making plans to go back to college—I only did a year before I quit to focus on music.”
“What would you study?”
“French, for one thing,” she said. “I, uh, I’d like to sing Jacques Brel as his work was originally written, without someone having to write it all out phonetically for me.”