The Unfur-Tunate Valentine's Scam

by Alannah Rogers

  The big tomcat. He trotted forward, oblivious to the cold thanks to his dense tabby coat.

  “You followed us all the way here?” Beatrice crossed her arms. The last thing she wanted was to mediate a testosterone showdown.

  The tomcat blinked and continued his approach as if he’d heard her but couldn’t bother to respond. Hamish arched his back and his fur poofed out even more than normal. He looked more like a German Shepherd puppy than a cat. But apparently his size or ferocity didn’t faze the tom; his yellow–green eyes were fixed on the prize: sweet–faced, innocent–eyed Petunia.

  Petunia was usually oblivious to other cats as she was too busy grooming herself or staring into space. But she definitely had eyes for the tomcat. She even stood up, fluffy tail aloft, to greet him. Encouraged, the burly tom trotted right over and nosed her.

  This sent Hamish right over the edge. He hurtled forward, slipping slightly on the icy street, and charged right into the tom, sending him sprawling. The tom made a terrifying squalling noise but he was on his feet again in an instant. He crouched low, glaring at Hamish with angry eyes. Hamish faced him, muscles tensed, waiting for the onslaught. And it came quickly, before Beatrice could prevent it. They both stood stock-still and then there was a flash of fur and the two alpha cats were tangled together in the middle of the road.

  Fur flew. Growls were pierced by cries of distress. It was all happening too fast for Beatrice to comprehend: Hamish was trying to latch onto the tom’s ruff, the tom was biting at his ear in turn.

  “Stop! Stop!” she yelled. But they paid her no more heed than Lucky, who was trying to intervene.

  Sighing, Beatrice waded in. Thank goodness it was winter and she was wearing tall boots. She inserted a foot between them to pry them apart and then, with her hand tucked into her sleeve, used her arm to further push them off each other.

  “Hamish!” she said sternly, towering over him. “Enough! You’re going to get yourself hurt. And you,” she turned around to face the tom, “you’re nothing but a troublemaker. Off with you!”

  She ran at the tom, arms flapping, to scare him away. He gave her a scornful look and then loped off down the street. Beatrice took an alternate route back to the office, keeping a sharp eye on the cats as she did so. Wet and cold, the cats gladly went to their beds for a nap.

  Beatrice noticed that Hamish did not join Petunia as per usual. He opted instead for the sofa, keeping an eye on Petunia, who was snoring gently as she slept. His ears were flattened and his whiskers turned downwards.

  Beatrice went and sat by him.

  “Listen Hammy, maybe you thought Petunia was your girlfriend but you two were really just getting to know each other. You need to give her time to figure out what she wants. Don’t give away your heart too quickly, my pet.”

  Hamish looked up at her. “I know, I know. Who are you to take romantic advice from a single sixty–something woman who’s practically allergic to relationships? But, I do know this Hammy: you can’t convince someone to like you. Petunia has to come to you. So wait it out.” She stroked his silky fur. “You deserve the best after all.”

  Hamish laid his head on his paws and sighed audibly as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

  8

  At the sight of so many kids, the cats shrank back at first. But once they’d figured out that this was a place to play and eat, they were sold.

  The Valentine’s Fair was a tradition at the Ashbrook Elementary School. Every year the entire school hosted a fundraiser with games, snacks, and more. Beatrice loved the event because she enjoyed the sensation of being a giant within the petite proportions of the classrooms.

  There had also been chatter some time ago that the school might be closed and the students sent an hour away to another school. Every small town fears dying out and despite the healthy influx of tourist dollars in Ashbrook, Beatrice was still on guard against any problem within her beloved home.

  Matthew had said he’d be working late and would see her at the fair. Her stomach was clenched and her chest tight. She felt like she couldn’t breathe deeply enough. She tried to walk it off and immerse herself in the festivities.

  The first room had Valentine’s Day bingo. The second a musical hearts game where kids were skipping between paper hearts on the floor to music, and then scrambling to get a place as hearts were taken away. The third was the snack room—Beatrice’s favorite kind of game, eating. There was the usual spread of cheese, crackers, fruit, and cookies, plus some strawberry tarts provided by her café.

  Abigail and George were sequestered inside, chatting. They had been one of those couples who had looked alike: they still did after their divorce. George was thin to the point of being gaunt. He always wore the same outfit: belted black jeans and a black button–down shirt. He had a tuft of white hair on top of his mostly–bald head and his grey eyebrows were scraggly and wild, often scrunched together in skepticism or disagreement.

  Beatrice squeezed close, expecting to hear Abigail complaining about her suitor’s greed, but instead they were talking shop. George was discussing his exclusive four–course Valentine’s dinner. Abigail was vigorously disputing his choice of salmon or chicken as mains.

  “A romantic dinner needs steak,” she was saying hotly. “None of this bland chicken or wimpy fish.”

  “Abby, I need to present options. Besides, the price of beef is just ridiculous right now.”

  “Then price accordingly.” Abigail spied Beatrice and pulled her in. “Beef, am I right?”

  “I’d be fine with just cake,” Beatrice said. “You are having cake, right?”

  “I thought a creme caramel…”

  Beatrice and Abigail groaned at the same time. “You must have the most luscious chocolate cake,” Beatrice said as Abigail vigorously nodded her head.

  George frowned at them. “Since when have you two been in agreement? I think I preferred it when you were fighting.”

  “Since when aren’t they fighting?” came an amiable, deep voice.

  Beatrice’s stomach started doing circus tricks. She felt cold all of a sudden, and shivery.

  Matthew stood next to Beatrice and gave her a big, warm smile. “I guess it really is the season of love after all.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Beatrice said. “The next time she steals one of my recipes we’ll be right back to square one.”

  “I’ve never stolen one of your recipes…” Abigail said.

  “Dangerous theme,” said Matthew. “How about we check out the secret message room?”

  The room in question was hung with streamers from the ceiling. Pieces of paper were stapled to them with different messages. One said: I’ve always wanted to tell you I like you but never had the guts to try. Another said: I wish she’d come back because I love her more than anything.

  “Well, this is fascinating,” Beatrice said. All she had to do was match the handwriting to its owner and imagine all the secrets she’d hold! Her mouth watered at the thought.

  “Let’s write down our secrets!” Abigail said gaily.

  Beatrice looked at Matthew out of the corner of her eye. “Okay but no peeking!” she said.

  What to write? She decided to be honest: I’m too afraid to love you. She stapled it up and immediately began the hunt for Matthew’s. After all, she knew his handwriting like she knew her own.

  The hunt seemed futile until she spotted a note in capital letters she hadn’t spotted before. It said: Do I have the key to your heart?

  It could be Matthew’s handwriting, disguised. She thought so until she glimpsed George grinning at her. Beatrice swung back around, her stomach freezing into a hard icy ball. George? But what could he mean? She eyed him again, disbelieving. He was still grinning.

  “What’d you write?” came a voice over her shoulder.

  Beatrice spun around to face Matthew. “This might sound a little strange, but have you ever gotten the impression that George, uh, likes me?”

  Matthew looked like he
was trying very hard not to laugh. “Romantically? I hadn’t ever gotten the impression he even liked you as a person.”

  “Fair enough. But look at this note. I read it and immediately he started looking at me all intense and everything.”

  Matthew’s brows drew together as he peered at the note. “Bee, I don’t think this is from him.” But his voice sounded a bit funny.

  “Why? He could like me. It’s not the most far–fetched idea in the world. I’m likable. Men like me. Maybe even George.”

  “First of all, George doesn’t like anyone, he just loves himself. I heard he was a terrible husband to Abby. Second, that doesn’t look like his handwriting.”

  Beatrice’s face fell. “Courted by an Internet scammer or not at all. It definitely is the season of love,” she muttered.

  “Bee.” Matthew leaned in. “Can we please go somewhere and enjoy an adult beverage together? It’s been so long since we’ve had alone time.”

  It was as if someone had plunged Beatrice underwater. Everything looked murky, her heart sped up, and she was finding it hard to breathe. She wanted nothing more than to flee right there and then for the comforts of a bubble bath. But Matthew was looking at her like he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  They headed over to the Ashbrook Grape, Beatrice’s drinking hole of choice and sat on a little sofa by the crackling fireplace. The lighting was dim and candles were scattered over the cozy space. The cats settled at their feet by the fire and quickly started to look drowsy. Petunia put her pert face on her paws and closed her eyes while Hamish settled down a good foot from her.

  Beatrice stuck her face in her glass of California red and prayed for self–composure.

  “You still haven’t told me about this case you’re working on,” Matthew said. “And why exactly you’re on Instalove.com.”

  His knees kept (accidentally?) brushing up against Beatrice’s in a way she found highly disconcerting. Was this really the same man she’d spent countless Sundays with watching Netflix and talking about everything and anything in her pajamas? It seemed impossible.

  “I’m investigating an Internet scammer, particularly one interested in Abigail. He asked for money today, which confirmed our suspicions. Abby still wants me to find out who he is, so that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “So you created a profile to what, go undercover?”

  “Exactly.” Beatrice nodded vigorously. “Well, sort of. Okay, I wanted to know how this whole Internet dating thing works. I mean, I don’t want to go on any dates per se, it’s just Zoe and I started to look through her account and it kind of seemed like shopping for men which, you must admit, is a novel concept…”

  Matthew settled back onto the sofa. His arm rested on the back, behind Beatrice. “Shopping for men interests you now?” His expression was unreadable.

  “More the idea,” Beatrice said, bumbling along. “Anyway, I haven’t gotten any messages yet, except from Abigail’s scammer.”

  “When’s the last time you checked?”

  Beatrice took out her phone. The wine was giving her a pleasant floating feeling. She opened the InstaLove app and was shocked to see she had twenty messages waiting for her.

  “I. Am. So. Popular,” she breathed.

  Matthew broke into a riot of laughter, slapping his knee as he did so. “Look Beatrice, you’re hot stuff.”

  “Ugh they’re probably all scammers,” she said, tossing her phone back in her purse and taking another sip of wine. “Or holding up fish in their profile photos.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  Matthew sipped his wine too and silence descended on them for a moment. Nat King Cole played on low volume on the stereo. A wind had picked up and was beating against the panes of glass at the front of the bar.

  “Bee, why have you been avoiding me?” he finally said. “Now that I’ve got you trapped here.”

  “I just thought we, uh, spent a lot of time together over Christmas. And maybe you’d be sick of me. And uh I know you want to date more and I feel like I kind of get in the way of that…”

  Matthew leaned forward. “Whatever gave you that idea? Bee, I want you in my life more, not less. I mean, and count me confused: you gave me a key to your house and then you just kind of disappear? Mixed signals aren’t you at all. I’ve never had to guess before what you were thinking.”

  Beatrice toyed with her wine glass. The deep red chardonnay glinted like an ornament in the candlelight. “Because … I thought maybe you liked me. Like that. And it kind of freaked me out.”

  This was a blatant lie. It was Beatrice who liked Matthew, but she was feeling cowardly.

  Matthew stared at her. “I do like you. Like that. If you’d only given me a chance over the past few weeks I would have told you.”

  Silence fell over them. Beatrice opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out. Nothing. It was as if any words had dried up and floated away. She could only stare at him. Was he joking? Nothing about his expression suggested that this was some kind of twisted prank. He was gazing at her solemnly, steadily, and unabashedly. His declaration wasn’t freaking him out in the least—or so it appeared.

  Beatrice, on the other hand, couldn’t quite feel her face.

  “I need … to go to the bathroom,” she stuttered and then made a beeline for the ladies. All three cats bounded after her.

  The Ashbrook Grape’s bathrooms were a peaceful place. The women’s toilet was a big room with a white orchid in a pot on the vanity, glimmering tile wall, and all the toiletries you could possibly want to freshen up. Beatrice locked the door behind her and leaned against it, finally taking what felt like her first real breath in minutes. The cats sat at her feet, staring up at her.

  That’s when she spied the window. It was frosted and full–sized. Beatrice unlatched it, shoved it open, and was greeted by a fearsome gust of winter wind.

  Escape. Sweet escape.

  Easing herself out the window, she found herself in the back alley. The cats bounded out, cringing as their tender paws hit the snow.

  “What do we do now?” she asked them.

  Hamish stared up at her, ears flattened, as if her question was too silly to answer. But Petunia, who knew all about escaping from paramours, trotted directly towards the car.

  They all got in—Beatrice not even bothering to put the cats in their carriers she was so rattled. She locked all the doors and sat in her car in the alley, the wind blowing the snow in gusts around her. It was bitterly cold.

  Taking out her cell phone, Beatrice refused to look at the messages from Matthew. Instead, she called the one person she knew who had a really level head on their shoulders: the sheriff.

  “Matthew just told me he likes me and then I ran and I escaped out the bathroom window and now I’m sitting in my car,” Beatrice blurted out as soon as the sheriff picked up her call.

  There was a weighty silence on the other line. “Beatrice,” the sheriff’s voice said evenly. “You have to go back into that restaurant. Grown women do not escape out windows when people tell them something like that.”

  Beatrice toyed nervously with her jacket’s zipper. “Right, but there has to be exceptions, no? I mean, Matthew totally surprised me with it. And we all know I’m incapable of handling romantic feelings.”

  The sheriff snorted. “Matthew surprised you with it, huh? That’s a tall tale if I ever heard one. Bee, that man has been trying to hunt you down for weeks and don’t tell me it’s because he missed your baking. Everyone, including Santa Claus and God above, knows that things changed after Christmas Day between you two. You’re just too chicken to face it.”

  Beatrice bit her lip. “But … but I can’t go back in that restaurant. Jake, you weren’t there. He said the words and suddenly my feet were flying out of there like they were on fire. I’m not ready for this. I can’t do it.”

  There was a sigh and a long pause. “Alright Bee. No one’s going to force you. But you better let him down g
ood over text message, at least. None of that infamous silent treatment.”

  And so Beatrice sent the worst text message apology in her life:

  Not ready. So, so sorry.

  There was nothing going to rescue a night like that. As soon as she got home, Beatrice plunked herself neck deep in a tub full of water. She was tempted to blubber like an idiot until the water turned cold but as usual, the cats kept her from sinking too low.

  Lucky was in love with and terrified by tubs in equal measure and he often sat on the side of her porcelain claw–foot tub staring into the water.

  Because the antique tub wasn’t built–in and had slim, slippery sides, more often than not Lucky would find himself sliding down into the water’s depths, scrambling back out like a monster was nibbling at his toes, jetting out into the hall in a waterlogged streak, and eventually creeping back in, black paws hooked over the edge, eyes crazily fixated on the water below.

  This old routine kept Beatrice from looking at her cell phone, or thinking too hard about the future. Tonight at least, with her cats, she was okay.

  9

  Distraction came the next day in the form of a phone call from Bob Tucker.

  “Sorry I took so long to get back to you,” he said when Beatrice answered the phone. “My basement sprung a leak and I’ve been frantic trying to get someone in to fix it.”

  “No worries. Abigail’s guy finally asked for money so we got the answer we needed: he’s definitely a scammer,” Beatrice said.

  She was hard at work at her desk in her café office when Bob had called. Her nose–to–the–grindstone attitude was penance for the mess she’d made with Matthew the night before.

  “That’s for sure. That photo of Bryan’s been making the rounds among scammers for some time. Those guys will steal a photo of any good–looking fella but they get lazy and end up using the same ones. How much did the guy ask her for?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “Oof. This guy has to be an amateur. Usually the asks start small: bus money, medical bills, cash for education, eventually leading up to a larger chunk for a flight to visit the victim. Asking for money to pay phone bills so they can keep calling is pretty common too. But ten thousand straight off? Kind of doesn’t mesh with what I wanted to tell you—that the photo is often associated with a fellow in Nigeria named Akin. He’s still active and we haven’t been able to nail him down yet. But I have his phone number.”