by Sofie Kelly
It was that bad. It looked liked catnip-loving zombies had attacked. There were bits from at least two—or maybe three—of Owen’s Fred the Funky Chickens spread all over the kitchen. Yesterday I thought I’d found—and gotten rid of—all the chicken parts he had hidden around the house. Obviously I was wrong.
Tiny bits of Big Bird–yellow fabric littered the floor, and there were flecks of dried catnip everywhere, as though an overzealous chef had been flinging herbs wildly into the air. A yellow feather was floating in Owen’s water dish. The end of his tail was in Herc’s bowl. Owen himself was on his back, gnawing on what I was guessing was part of a chicken head, held in his two front paws, while his hind feet circled lazily through the air as though he were aimlessly pedaling a bicycle.
Hercules made a sour face as I set him on the floor. He didn’t like mess and he didn’t like catnip, either. He headed out of the room, working his way around the mess, stopping twice to lift up a paw and shake it.
I set down my briefcase and the cardboard boxes of cupcakes, crossed my arms over my chest and glared at Owen, who hadn’t seemed to register that I was actually home. “Owen, what the heck do you think you’re doing?” I said.
He looked over at me, his eyes not really focusing. He shook his head, rolled over and got to his feet, the chicken head hanging out of his mouth. He looked like a drunken sailor after a raucous night of shore leave.
“Bring that over here,” I said.
He squinted up at the ceiling as though I hadn’t spoken.
I walked over to him, bent down and held out my hand. “Let’s have it, Fuzzy Wuzzy.”
He made a growly noise and bit down even harder on the bright yellow fabric.
I leaned sideways, looked past him and said, “Whoa, big mouse!”
Owen’s furry head whipped around so fast, he had to take a step so he didn’t fall over. The dismembered chicken head dropped out of his teeth, and I scooped it up before it hit the kitchen floor.
He yowled his anger, but it was too late. I took a couple of steps sideways and the late Fred’s head was resting in the garbage can. I turned around and crouched down so I was at the cat’s level. His eyes were almost slits and his mouth was pinched into a sour pucker. He looked liked a sulky child, and he wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“You are in so much trouble,” I told him. “Why did you do this?” He kept his focus on the cupboards. “Is this because I threw away the two chicken heads I found under the sofa yesterday?” I didn’t say I’d also tossed a whole chicken that was in my winter boots and a body minus a head that had been behind a box in the bedroom closet.
Owen made a huffy noise out through his nose. I sighed and shifted sideways so I was in front of him again. “Okay, I’m sorry I did that without telling you, but those things were covered in cat spit and they’d already been overpowered by the dust bunnies. And they smelled.”
One ear twitched, but it was the only sign he was listening. “You could have made your point without spreading catnip and chicken bits all over the kitchen.” I reached over to stroke the fur on the top of his head with one finger. “I’m going to get the vacuum and clean this up,” I said. “Then we’re going to have supper and maybe, maybe you can have a taste of that new kitty kibble I bought.”
He rubbed his head against my hand without looking at me; then he headed for the living room, walking slowly and deliberately because he still had a little catnip buzz going.
I sat back on my heels and looked around. Owen had flung catnip chicken bits all over the kitchen, so why was I the one doing the vacuuming and coaxing him back into a good mood? In my next life, I was going to be the cat, I decided as I got to my feet.
Thirty minutes later, the kitchen was more or less cleaned up and I was at the table with a plate of spaghetti. Hercules was next to my chair, watching me eat and probably hoping I’d drop a meatball, while Owen was sprawled under the other chair, making a halfhearted effort to wash his face. I’d already told them what I’d learned at the café. Owen’s ears had perked up when I’d shared Claire’s story about Liam arguing with Mike Glazer out on the street in front of the diner, but I suspected that was mostly because I’d also mentioned Maggie’s name.
I leaned sideways in my chair and looked down at both of them. “We have company coming after supper.”
Owen immediately sat up, looked around and started washing his face in earnest. Hercules looked at his brother and then he looked at me. In Owen’s kitty mind, the word “company” meant one person: Maggie.
“Yes, I know what he’s thinking and he’s wrong,” I said quietly to Herc. “Should we tell him, or wait until he gets cleaned up?”
He stared at his feet, whiskers twitching, almost as though he were considering my question. I waited, giving him time to think—just in case he really was; then he meowed softly.
“Okay,” I said. I tapped my fingers on the edge of the table to get Owen’s attention. He looked over at me, one paw raised in the air. “Not Maggie,” I said, shaking my head. He took one more pass at his face, dropped his paw and stretched back out on the floor with a sigh.
Hercules head-butted my leg and meowed, his way of asking, “So who is it?”
I reached down and scratched the top of his head. “Harrison Taylor’s daughter, Elizabeth, and her friend will be here in a little while. They want to meet the two of you.”
Hercules made a satisfied rumble in his throat, tilting his head so I’d scratch behind his ear. Owen, meanwhile, made a show of stretching, sitting up and starting on his face again as though that had been his intention all along.
I picked up my fork and speared a meatball. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Herc start to wash his own face.
* * *
I’d just finished the dishes when I heard a knock on the porch door. The boys were sitting side by side next to the end of the table. Faces washed and paws spotless, they were the poster children for cat adoption. “Very nice,” I said approvingly as I went to answer the door.
Elizabeth smiled when she saw me. “Hi, Kathleen,” she said. “This is my friend Wren. I think you met at the library.”
“Yes, we did.” I smiled. “Hi, Wren. Come in, please. The cats are in the kitchen.”
Wren Magnusson gave me a small smile. She looked tired. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and I noticed that she kept running her thumb back and forth along the side of her index finger.
“Thank you for letting us come and see them,” Elizabeth said, stepping into the porch. “I hope Harry didn’t put you on the spot.”
“He didn’t,” I said. “It’s not a big deal. Harry’s come through for me more than once. And your father is one of my favorite people.”
She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, her expression still serious. “Harrison said that he never would have found me if it hadn’t been for you.”
I ducked my head, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. “All I did was find a few papers.”
She pressed her lips together before speaking. “He said it was a lot more than that. He said that you helped the police figure out who killed my birth mother.” She stumbled a little over the word “mother.” “And you were almost caught in an explosion.” She swallowed. “I, uh, don’t know how to thank you.”
I hesitated and then lightly touched her shoulder. “You just did,” I said. “And I have all the thanks I’m ever going to need just seeing how happy finding you has made Harrison.”
She nodded.
We stepped into the kitchen. Owen and Hercules hadn’t moved. They looked curiously at the two young women. Wren immediately looked at me. “Liz said we can’t pet them, but is it okay if I get a little closer?”
“Go ahead,” I said.
Both cats were watching her intently.
Wren stopped about three feet away from them and dropped down to her knees.
“That’s Owen,” I said, pointing. He turned his face toward me for a moment and then gave all his attention to Wren
again. I gestured at Herc. “And that’s Hercules.” He bobbed his head in acknowledgment.
Wren smiled at them. “Hi, guys,” she said.
Owen craned his neck and sniffed. He seemed to like what his nose told him because he took a step forward.
Wren turned to look at me. “He’s so cute,” she said.
He knew the word “cute.” He dipped his head for a moment, trying to give the appearance of being modest, too.
Hercules raised a paw in a bid to get Wren’s attention. “I see you,” she said. “You’re just as handsome as your brother.” He murped his agreement.
“You found both of them at Wisteria Hill?” Elizabeth asked as Wren continued to talk to both cats, leaning forward with her arms propped on her thighs.
“I think it’s more like they found me.”
I told her the story of how I’d gone exploring out at the old estate a few weeks after I’d arrived in Mayville Heights—had it really been a year and a half ago?—and Owen and Hercules, just tiny kittens then, had persisted in following me until I’d scooped them up and brought them home.
“And there’s seven more cats still out there?” Elizabeth asked. Hercules took a couple of steps sideways and looked at her, green eyes wide with curiosity. She crouched next to Wren and extended her hand. He sniffed it and then sat down again.
“That’s right,” I said, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “I guess you could call Lucy the alpha cat of the group. Where she goes, the rest of the family pretty much follows.”
Wren shifted so she could look at me. “What happens in the wintertime? How do they stay warm?”
I explained about the shelters Rebecca and Roma’s other volunteers had made and how Harry used straw bales for insulation in one corner of the carriage house.
Wren frowned, two lines forming between her eyebrows. “Why doesn’t someone just adopt them? I’d take one. I’d take two.”
“They aren’t like an average house cat,” I said. “They aren’t even like these two. They’re not going to bond with you. They’re not going to curl up at your feet and start purring.” I pointed at Owen. “He likes you. Most people don’t get that close to him, but I promise if you try to pet him, he will scratch you.”
“It just seems . . . cruel,” Wren said, “you know, to leave them outside to fend for themselves.”
This wasn’t the first time I’d heard that reasoning. “They don’t have to fend for themselves. Volunteers go out every day with fresh food and water. If the weather is too bad for a four-wheel drive to get up the driveway, Harry uses his snowmobile. The carriage house and the shelters keep them dry and warm. And now Roma’s going to be living out there.” I braced my hands against the counter on either side of me. “Wisteria Hill is the cats’ home. What would be cruel would be forcing them to live somewhere else, to be what we think they should be instead of who they are.”
Elizabeth looked up at me with a wry smile. “That’s what Harrison said.”
I nodded. “He’s pretty smart.”
I reached behind me for a bag of sardine cat treats, took out a couple for each cat and handed them to Wren. “Owen’s stinky crackers,” I said, “but Hercules likes them, too.”
Wren handed two of the crackers to Elizabeth, and then she held one of the two she had left out to Owen. His whiskers twitched and he looked from Wren to me; then he pawed the ground with one foot.
“He wants me to set it down, doesn’t he?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “Don’t worry. It won’t hurt anything.”
She set the cracker down on the floor. Owen hesitated, but not for long. He picked up the cracker, took three steps backward and set it down again. Then he dropped his head and carefully sniffed it. I wondered sometimes what he thought his keen nose was going to discover.
By this time Hercules’s patience was almost worn out. One paw moved through the air as though he were reaching for the crackers Elizabeth had in her hand. She held one out to him, her fingers just touching the corner edge, and to my surprise, after hesitating for a minute, he took it from her.
“He almost never does that,” I said. “I think you’ve made a friend.”
She offered the other treat, and this one he took without any hesitation at all. Elizabeth smiled, clearly pleased.
“How about a mint-chocolate-chip cupcake?” I asked. “And I have tea or hot chocolate.”
Wren looked at Elizabeth. “Do we have time?”
She nodded.
“Hot chocolate, please,” Wren said to me. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“It’s not,” I said.
“Me too,” Elizabeth said, brushing her hands on her jeans and getting to her feet. “Could I help?”
I pointed to the bubble-glass plate sitting on the counter. “You could put the cupcakes on the table.”
Wren sat on the floor, talking to Owen and Hercules until the hot chocolate was ready; then she stood up and joined us at the table. I showed them a couple of pictures I’d taken of Lucy walking in the long grass behind the carriage house. Both Wren and Elizabeth had a lot more questions about the cats, and I tried to answer them all as honestly as I could.
Hercules came to lean against my leg, and I reached down to stroke his fur. I noticed he was watching Wren. Owen sat halfway between my chair and Wren’s, watching her too, but not with the same goofy adoration that he gave to Maggie. If he’d been a person instead of a cat, I would have said that he seemed concerned. Wren had an air of sadness about her, and given that both cats seemed to be able to sense someone’s mood, maybe he was concerned.
After a few minutes, Wren grew silent. She was rubbing her thumb against her finger again. A couple of times she caught the edge of her lower lip between her teeth.
“Wren, is there something you wanted to ask me?” I said. Twice it had looked like she was going to speak but then she hadn’t.
She traced the rim of her cup with a finger. “Yeah,” she said, “but it’s not about the cats.”
“That’s okay,” I said, folding my hands around my own cup. “What is it?”
She took a deep breath as though she were trying to work up her nerve. She seemed very fragile. “Is it true that you found Mike Glazer’s . . . that you found him?”
I nodded slowly. “Yes. It is.”
Elizabeth reached over and gave her friend’s arm a brief squeeze.
“Did he . . . did it look like he . . . suffered? I hate thinking he just lay there alone for hours.” Wren lifted her head to look at me, and I could see the grief in her pale blue eyes.
I took a moment before I answered. I wanted to say something that might make her feel a little better, but I didn’t want to make up a story, either. “From what I saw, I don’t think so,” I finally said. “I didn’t see anything that made me think he’d had a fight with someone. There were no signs of a struggle. No overturned furniture. He was just there. There wasn’t any blood.”
She swallowed a couple of times, gave Owen—who was still watching her—a small smile and then looked at me again. “Just so you know, I, uh, I’m not trying to be some kind of a ghoul. When I was little, I was really close to Mike and his family.”
“I know about Mike’s brother,” I said.
“I hadn’t seen Mike in a long time . . . years,” she said. She picked up the cupcake on her plate, broke it in half and set it back down again without taking a bite. “I was so happy when I found out he was involved in this tour thing. I thought about going to see the whole family a bunch of times, but I didn’t exactly know how to find them and I didn’t want to make anybody feel bad.”
She shrugged. “It probably sounds dumb, but us both being here at the same time just kind of seemed like a sign.”
“It’s not dumb,” Elizabeth said. She might not have been raised by the Taylors, but like her father and her half siblings, Elizabeth seemed to be fiercely loyal to the people she cared about.
“No, it’s not,” I agreed.
Wre
n took a sip from her hot chocolate. “I know that people are saying he was a jerk, but he really wasn’t.” She twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “I was going to see him that night, you know. I’d already missed seeing him once. But I had car trouble . . .”
She swallowed again and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “I was going to see if we could have lunch and catch up.”
“I’m sorry that didn’t happen,” I said. Both cats were sitting next to Wren’s chair now. It was impossible not to be touched by the pain she was feeling.
“Things didn’t exactly turn out the way I thought they would,” she said.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “We should get going,” she said, touching her friend’s shoulder.
Wren nodded. She leaned over and smiled at Owen and Hercules. “It was nice to meet you,” she said. Owen meowed and Herc lifted one paw.
“They feel the same way,” I said. “You’re welcome to come and visit anytime.”
Wren smiled, the first real smile I’d seen that hadn’t been directed at a cat. “Thank you,” she said, getting to her feet. “I might do that.”
“Thanks, Kathleen,” Elizabeth said. She looked down at the boys and waggled her fingers good-bye at them.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “If you’d like to go out with me sometime to feed the cats, just let me know.”
“I will,” she said.
The cats and I walked them to the back door and said good night. Owen climbed up on the bench to look out the window. I carried Hercules back into the kitchen and dropped into my chair. Wren was so wounded, she reminded me of the tiny birds that shared her name.
Herc studied my face. “We have to figure out what happened, don’t we?” I said. He meowed his agreement and laid his head on my chest. I stroked his soft black fur. “Yeah.” I sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”