by Mollie Hunt
Simon took my elbow and guided me back outside to a cool corner near the dun stucco wall. It wasn’t exactly behind the bushes, but it was considerably less conspicuous than the entranceway.
“What are you telling me, Lynley? Someone pushed you off the pathway?”
I snorted. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, though I’ve heard from several people that it’s not the story Mrs. Fox is handing around.”
“She reported that you fell.” Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Why would she lie?”
I shrugged. “My only guess is to protect her friend, Crystal Holt.”
The mica eyes narrowed even more, slits of reflective ire in the handsome face. “What does Crystal have to do with it?”
“Simon!” I spat. “She’s the one who shoved me. For no good reason either. I was just trying to help.”
“I think you had better start at the beginning. Apparently I’ve been given a completely different account.”
I went through the push-me pull-me tale once again, and I admit it was becoming more elaborate each time I told it. I was definitely feeling sorry for myself, the result of being painted as a doddering old bat who should be safe at home with a medic-alert button around her neck instead of out on a wild island with a bunch of young people.
“We were helping her back to her cabin, that’s all. She woke up and started swinging.” I rubbed my upper arm where secondary bruises were beginning to purple. “Simon, I’m really not sure what to do.”
“You do nothing!” Simon declared. He took a deep breath, forcing a smile. “Just enjoy yourself and try to have a good time. I’ll handle Crystal Holt.”
“And Mrs. Fox? I really don’t like being lied about. By the way, does she have a first name or does everyone just call her the missus?”
“It’s Adrianna but she prefers the title. I’ll talk to her. Please, just put it behind you, Lynley. I’m sure it was an accident.”
“It was no accident.”
“Alright, an isolated incident then. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
I recognized this as one of those promises that one couldn’t realistically make, but I also saw that the conversation was at an end. Okay, I’d trust him to take it from there. But I’d be watching.
“I’ll be good,” I said, a vow as empty as his own. “But you’d better keep that drunk away from me, or I can’t be responsible for my actions.”
“A threat?” Simon queried.
“No, of course not, but...”
A trill of laughter stopped me from saying any more as Geraldine rounded the corner.
“Oh, Simon, there you are. Everybody’s ready for you in Cat World.”
“Thank you, Geraldine.” He turned to me. “Lynley, you go ahead. I need to finish up some business with Geraldine. I’ll be along in a minute.”
Geraldine laughed. “Find yourself a nice model, dear. There’s a very sweet black-and-white sleeping in the window. That’s who I would draw. If I could draw.” Another laugh. “Which I can’t.”
“Thanks, and uh, Simon?” I stammered. “About that other thing? I’m sure it will be okay.”
I wondered as I walked away from the conversing pair if lying could be contagious.
* * *
The black-and-white, whose name was ironically Ginger, was just as picturesque as Geraldine had described her, maybe even more so. She was curled in a round bed of maroon flannel, a shaft of sunlight shining down on her as if she were favored by God. Neither Mrs. Fox nor Crystal Holt were present, for which I breathed relief, and in very little time I had forgotten all about the events of last night, totally immersed in the texture of fur, the curve of a whisker, the sheen of brilliance dancing on a rounded flank.
It seemed to be nap time for most of kitties in this block, and aside from pencil scratches and a few tiny snores, the place was quiet. A couple of students talked softly in the corner; a radio played classical music in another room; from time to time, a passing dog’s bark would elicit a responsive meow from a cat or two before their heads snuggled back into their breasts and they resumed their slumber.
Eventually a small bell chimed our attention, signifying the end of the session. Simon closed his sketchbook. He had been sketching right along with us though his graceful, poignant renderings made the rest of ours, with the possible exception of George Harrison’s, look like they had been painted by the cats themselves.
“That completes this drawing set,” he said. “Anyone who wishes may remain and continue for a few minutes more, of course, but soon the volunteers will be coming in to clean, so I suggest we get out of their way. Sandwiches are being served in Wolf Hall for those who are hungry. I will be in my studio for anyone who wants me. I’m always interested to see your work, if you’re willing to show me. The next set will be this afternoon, the mountain hike.”
I returned to reality as if surfacing from a deep pool. One by one, careful not to allow any feline escapees, we left the building.
“Goodbye, Ginger,” I whispered to my model, wondering in passing how she might get along with Emilio.
* * *
I made it up to Wolf Hall only slightly winded and picked up lunch from one of several trays laid out on the side table. Apart from us, the big room was nearly empty, making it seem more cavernous than ever. The others must have felt it too because we all huddled in a corner, talking in hushed tones as we munched our tofu salad sandwiches and lettuce wraps. No one said anything important or profound; no one asked me about my fall. As they finished, they quietly faded away, busing their dishes and cleaning their place of every crumb.
At some point, I faded as well, returning to my cabin for a little rest. Emilio was waiting for me. I refilled his kibble bowl and cleaned his litter box, then flopped down on the bed and was instantly asleep.
Chapter 11
According to the International Cat Care Organization, the first 6 months of your cat’s life is equal to the first 10 years for a human; the second year takes kitty to a human 24. After that, each year of a cat’s life is equal to approximately 4 human years. That makes 14-year-old Tinkerbelle a senior 72.
I woke disoriented, on the tail of a fleeting dream. I knew by the change in the light and the fuzz in my head that I had slept far longer than I’d meant to. Leaping up and checking the time on my laptop, I gave a disappointed groan. The mountain hike had been set to start half an hour ago; they’d be well away by now, even considering the last-minute stalls and late arrivals. I’d been told that the view from Clover Mountain was the most magnificent on the island, and if you were lucky, you might see one of the wild goats that lived up there or glimpse an orca pod circling the strait. I’d really been looking forward to it in spite of my injury, but my body must have had other plans. Quelling my disappointment, I decided to check, just in case. Maybe they had been held up; maybe luck would be on my side.
Unceremoniously I stuffed a sketchbook, pencils, and my camera in my day pack and jogged for the Visitor Center where we were set to meet. Plunging through the front door and up the stairs to the greeting room, my hopes were dashed. The only person there was a girl behind a desk working busily on a computer.
She looked up smiling. “May I help you?”
I sighed. “Well, probably not. I’m with the art retreat. They were going up the mountain this afternoon. I take it I’ve missed them.”
Her despondency was genuine. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Yes, you did. They left about thirty minutes ago.”
“Right on time for once,” I quipped.
That got a laugh. “Wouldn’t you know it.”
“Okay, I guess that’s that.”
“I’m sorry,” she reiterated.
“Thanks. I’m sure I can find something to do.” But as I left the building, I realized I wasn’t so sure at all.
As I considered my options, I heard someone call my name. From up the path wafted the spritely Tulsa Thorpe, waving the piece of yellow paper in her hand.
“Lynley!” she said again
as she came up alongside me. “You didn’t go on the art hike with Simon and the students?”
“No, not this time,” I said with a sigh. “I took a nap and missed it.”
“That’s too bad, but lucky for me. This is for you.” She handed me the yellow sheet. “It’s just a form for our insurance, about your fall.”
“Oh?” I said dryly. Should I explain yet again that the fall wasn’t a fall at all but a malicious shove by a nasty alcoholic?
“It’s nothing complicated,” she said, misinterpreting my reluctance. “Probably take you less than a minute. Here, I even have a pen.”
I frowned, then submitted. “I’m not going to get around this, am I?”
She laughed, a lighthearted sound reminiscent of wind chimes. “I don’t think so, no.”
She led me to a little bench at the side of the path in the filigree shade of an arbutus tree. I took the page and dutifully filled in my name, address, and phone number, signed at the bottom, and handed it back to her.
“Would you like me to make you a copy?”
“I suppose so.”
“Yes, it’s a good idea. You may need it for your records.”
“I do hope not,” I remarked. “I’d really rather forget the whole thing.”
For a minute, we both sat, breathing in the fresh air and enjoying the quietude. Then Tulsa asked, “How long have you known Simon?”
“We met in college, the art program. That was many years ago now.”
“Wow, then you must know his friends, his acquaintances?”
“Actually we lost touch. I hadn’t seen or heard from him until earlier this year, so no, I really don’t know anything about what he’s been up to all that time. Why?”
“Oh, I was just wondering,” she said. “He’s such an enigma, such a multi-faceted personality.”
“He is that,” I agreed. “But you work with him. You probably know him better than I do.”
“I know his outward persona, but he’s very closed about his past. I didn’t mean to pry; just curious, that’s all.” She shrugged and shifted her skirt, this time tissue-thin layers in washed-out golds. “And are you an artist too, Lynley?”
“Me? No. I loved it but I really wasn’t any good. I guess I didn’t have the passion it takes to make it in that world. What about you?”
“Oh, me neither. I like to paint and draw, and being here gives me that chance to express myself that way, but I could never do it for a living like Simon does. I’m better with filing, office work. I get satisfaction out of putting things in order. And helping Simon,” she added proudly.
“I worked in medical records for a while. It really was quite gratifying knowing at the end of the day that I’d helped the doctors in ways they could never have helped themselves.”
“I know exactly what you mean!” she exclaimed. “Simon would lose his head if it weren’t attached to his body.”
“I think creative people are often like that.”
Again she gave her wind-chime laugh. “And speaking of,” she said, “I’d better get back to it. Those files aren’t going to organize themselves. Nice talking with you, Lynley. See you soon, I’m sure.”
With Tulsa’s departure I found myself back at square one: what to do with my afternoon.
I looked around the haven that was Cloverleaf. There was beauty everywhere. I could go for a walk, explore the many tracks and trails, maybe take some pictures or do some drawing on my own. I could go back to the cabin and take another nap with Emilio. Then a third possibility came to me. I turned and headed for Cats, for Cat World. As much as I loved participating in the retreat, I missed my volunteer duties. I knew how much work it took to maintain a shelter, and I really hadn’t been doing my share.
Cautiously I peeked in the window of the sunny little room; sure enough, a middle-aged lady in a volunteer tee shirt, apron, and rubber gloves was fastidiously cleaning the floor. I tapped on the glass and waved when she looked up, signaling my request to enter. She smiled, showing a set of slightly imperfect teeth, and nodded. I slipped through the door and closed it with professional speed behind me.
“Don’t have to worry about cats getting out,” the volunteer said brightly. “They’re in the mirror room.
I saw she was right; nary a cat in sight. “Mirror room?” I asked.
“That’s what we call them.” She gestured to a short door in the back wall. “It’s identical to this one. Makes things easy to clean. We just herd the clowder over to the other side and then we don’t have to work around them. It’s healthier for them too. Gives the cleaners time to dry and not get breathed into their little lungs. All the cleaning supplies are eco-friendly and non-harmful to animals of course, but better no exposure at all, I figure.”
“That’s impressive, and good thinking. We have something like that at FOF—Friends of Felines, the cat shelter where I volunteer in Portland—only on a smaller scale.” I laughed. “Much smaller, in fact. It’s the kennels, themselves, that have two sides with a passway that goes between. We can put the litter box on one side and the food and bed on the other. Then if someone makes a mess, it’s easy to clean up with minimum disturbance to the cat. Works great for the ones with diarrhea.”
“I bet it does!” She shook her head. “Nothing quite as nasty as kitty diarrhea.
“I’m Fern,” She stuck out a gloved hand, then drew it back again. “That might not be such a good idea considering I’ve been doing the boxes. Speaking of the D-word.”
I chuckled. Only cat people could find the subject amusing. “I’m Lynley. I’m here for the art retreat but they went up the mountain and I missed it. I was wondering if you’d like some help?”
She studied me for only a nanosecond before she asked, “Do you do windows?”
“Sure,” I replied to the old joke. “Why not?”
She tossed me a pair of yellow gloves and a spray bottle of liquid, also yellow. “Congratulations, Lynley. You’re my new best friend.”
* * *
Fern and I cleaned in pleasant camaraderie, getting a rhythm to the up-down motion of the squeegee, the back-forth movement of the mop. Sometimes she made a comment or I made a comment; occasionally she hummed in a low contralto, a tuneless melody; but mostly we worked in quiet. When we had finished, all walls were spotless and all windows sparkled. Two water fountains were cleansed and replenished as were a half dozen stainless steel bowls at various feeding stations around the room.
Fern opened the door to let it air out. “Give it ten minutes and we can divvy out the food, redistribute clean beds, and let the cats back in from the other side. Then we start all over again. If you’re up for it, of course,” she added.
“I am,” I said, stripping off my gloves and wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans. “It feels good to be working again. Much as I love vacations, I’m retired, so my time is always my own. I feel... I don’t know, a little ineffective if I don’t give back at some point.”
“I know what you mean. I’m a teacher. I work like crazy all winter long and then when summer comes, I’m in lazy heaven. But by August, I’m done with self-indulgence and want to get my hands dirty again.” She, too, pulled off her gloves with a rubbery snap. “Sometimes literally,” she laughed.
We went outside and sat on the low stone wall that surrounded that part of Cats.
“Where are you from?” she asked, reaching down and massaging a thick ankle.
“Portland. How about you?”
“Texas,” she said in an exaggerated drawl. “Can’t y’all tell?”
“I’m not really good with accents. I thought you sounded a bit southern, but there are parts of Washington state with a more pronounced drawl than yours. I never know so I try not to guess.”
A seagull arced across the sky, screeching its distinctive and mournful cry.
“There’s a few people here from Portland,” Fern mused. Then she sat up. “Hey, you’re not the one who fell on the cliff last night, are you?”
Really? W
as there anyone on the island who hadn’t heard the tale? “That would be me. But I didn’t fall,” I said stubbornly. “I was pushed.”
“I heard that too,” Fern admitted.
I looked at her in surprise. “You heard that someone pushed me?”
She nodded, a gray-blonde lock shaking loose from her hair-tie and bobbing in agreement. “Yeah, but I couldn’t believe anyone here would do something like that so I pretty much dismissed it.”
“Who told you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
She shrugged. “Things get around. This is a small place. You can imagine.” She thought for a moment. “But why? Why would someone do that? You guys have a fight or something?”
“She was drunk. I was trying to help. Before yesterday, I’d never even heard of Crystal Holt.”
“Oh, Crystal,” she shrugged. “Now, that makes perfect sense.”
It was my turn to question. “Why? You know her?”
“Well, only by reputation. Man, it was a shock when she showed up here. I don’t know what she was thinking. Maybe she didn’t realize Simon was involved with the sanctuary. From what I hear, it would be just like her, not having a clue. Or maybe she just wanted to get in his face after all these years. Too soon to tell, but it should be interesting to see how Simon handles the situation.”
“Simon? What does Simon have to do with Crystal Holt?”
Fern gave me a look of utter astonishment, brown eyes twinkling with the glee of knowing her statement was going to shock the socks off me. “Well, don’t you know, Lynley? Crystal Holt is Simon’s wife.”
* * *
“Ex-wife, actually,” Fern added when I finished sputtering and gagging. “They weren’t married long, and I gather it was doomed from the start. This was a while ago.”
“But Simon’s...”
“Gay?” she finished for me. “Of course he is. But he’s not the first gay man to get entrapped into a heterosexual marriage.” She threw up her hands. “I’m just sayin’.”
Wow, never in a million years had I seen that coming. Now the debacle at the Roundup made sense. Still, this bit of news raised considerably more questions than it answered. Why had Simon married a woman? And why a sourpuss like Crystal Holt? Why hadn’t he mentioned the union when I’d asked him what he’d been up to in the past thirty years? But foremost of all, if they were as long-divorced as Fern had implied, why oh why would Crystal decide to come to the sanctuary now?