Cat's Paw

by Mollie Hunt

  I had a few ideas but this wasn’t the sort of thing I could do alone, so I’d asked a few people over to brainstorm with me. Frannie DeSoto, my best friend and shelter buddy, had offered to come early and help arrange refreshments for the small group.

  Frannie and I were close to the same age and our love of cats had bonded us from the first day we met long ago. We had our differences—‌I preferred comfort over fashion where Frannie was a consummate dresser; I disdained the itch of make-up on my face and to my knowledge she never left her bedroom without it. Even at the shelter, not a chip marred her whimsically-hued nail polish nor was a platinum curl out of place. I don’t know how she managed it—‌I was always tucking an errant lock back into my hair tie.

  “Are we going outside on the patio?” she asked, holding a tray of tall drink glasses.

  “It would be nice, but the yellow jackets are out en masse since the hot weather began. They’re such a pain.” I surveyed my big farmhouse kitchen, the round oak table in one corner. “We can put a few leaves in the table. With the screened door and windows open and the ceiling fan on, it’s almost like being outside.”

  Frannie, familiar with every aspect of my kitchen, already had the table apart. She positioned the leaves, transforming the honey-colored wooden circle into an oval. I flung a floral tablecloth over top, placed a bowl of cabbage roses in the center and stood back. “That should do it. We’re here to discuss an event, not create one.”

  I began pouring Mexican lemonade into a pitcher full of ice cubes when I heard a knock on the door. “Come in!” I called as I wiped my hands and headed for the front hall. Greeting my guests, I ushered them into the kitchen for a cold beverage.

  I had invited three people besides Frannie to my little inspiration soiree. The two who had arrived together were Kelley Moro, a fellow volunteer, and Bernard Hamilton, who was on the FOF board of trustees. Kelley was tall, almost freakishly blonde, and in her early thirties. Unmarried or divorced, I hadn’t learned the particulars. I suspected she was gay, but she hadn’t formally disclosed that either. None of my business, nor would any of those things have made a difference in the respect I felt for the energetic young woman. I hadn’t known her long, but from the moment she came to the shelter asking what it took to become a volunteer, she had been eager to help. She was a commercial artist and would be an asset to the creative side of the Halloween gala.

  Bernard was seventy-six, a fact he proudly announced to anyone who cared to listen, most likely because he didn’t look it and knew as much. He had reason to be proud. He was tan and muscular with a back as straight as a redwood. His eyes were clear brown and twinkled when he was happy which seemed to be most all the time. Bernard was good at thinking outside the box as well as making the most of a dollar. Plus it never hurt to have one of the trustees on your side when organizing an event.

  The third contingent sauntered in to the room as if she owned the place, catching me a little off guard. Esmae Westhouse was a force unto herself. She preferred colorful clothing, throwing aside the Northwest penchant to dress like the weather, in gray or black. Today she had squeezed her Venusian proportions into a full-length beach frock she most likely picked up on one of her many trips to the tropics. The background was teal with a repeating design of crimson and purple pineapples. Layers of glass bead necklaces festooned her neckline, glittering in the summer light, and matching earrings weighted her lobes like the fruit depicted on her sheath. The woman herself was somewhat plain: she didn’t bother with make-up nor did she dye her graying hair. It was as if she let her trappings tell her tale.

  The most surprising trapping of all was the brown spotted cat riding on her shoulder. Bess went everywhere with Esmae, and even though he was a full-breed Bengal, she had rescued him from a shelter where he had been brought in as a stray. I had forgotten about Bess and was glad I’d herded my brood upstairs for the gathering. Not all my cats are as amicable with strangers as Emilio.

  “Well, I’m not late then,” Esmae said, dropping her suitcase-sized designer handbag in a chair and going straight to the sideboard where she helped herself to a bowl. This she filled with fresh water from the Brita pitcher and placed on the counter for Bess. Bess slipped down from her shoulder with the liquid moves of a jaguar and began lapping. After the fact, Esmae looked at me. “You don’t mind, Lynley, do you?”

  “Of course not.” And I didn’t. That’s what being a cat lady was all about.

  “Anyone else want drinks?” I offered. “Lemonade or ice tea. Then we could probably get started.”

  “It shouldn’t take long,” Esmae commented in her slightly abrupt fashion. “Bessie has a nail appointment at two. Get all pretty, sweetie?” she cooed to the spotted cat. Bess made a trilling sound back. “See? She knows how lovely she’ll be.”

  “Okay,” I said, after pouring everyone their beverage of choice. Grabbing a notebook and pen, I seated myself at the table. “I’ve made a list. Shall we start with the name?”

  * * *

  Two and a half hours later we were still at it. I had scribbled pages of notes, along with graphs, charts, and even a few crude drawings of how the thing might look. We’d settled on a trio of titles to present to the committee, but that and a handful of whimsies was about all we’d managed so far.

  Everyone had liked the idea of helpers dressed as black cats, as well as passing out cat-ear headbands for guests who wanted to join in the fun. What the costumes should look like and where we would get them for a reasonable price had yet to be established.

  As to the guests, fancy dress should be encouraged, we all agreed, but should only cat-related costumes be allowed? If so, who was going to tell a Superman or a Dracula who had paid a hundred dollars for chair to go home and change their clothes? That brought a unanimous no; it would have to be all or nothing—‌anything goes. A round of wild speculation ensued as to what people with unlimited budgets might choose to wear: superheroes, pirates, and pop stars; classics like Robin Hood and King Arthur. There was always the Keep Portland Weird factor to consider—‌who knew what they might come up with? Naked bikers? Kilted and Darth Vader-masked Unipipers? Large spongy brown inner tubes representing maple-‌bacon Voodoo donuts? There would have to be a contest. But if so, who would judge? Board members and generous donors were the obvious answer, but what if they, themselves were in costume? Should they be allowed to be both judge and participate?

  Then there were all the usual gala elements: door prizes donated by various supporters, both business and personal; raffle tickets for items from the same source; a silent auction. We also needed to, as painlessly as possible, incorporate the business presentations including the inevitable speech from the executive director.

  “Let’s make a video of the cats,” Frannie had suggested, “and run it on screens in the background. That way people won’t fall asleep.”

  Bernard liked the idea of dancing but that meant either live music, which was expensive and a problem unto itself, or a disc jockey. Kelley thought she knew someone who might donate his time as a DJ. That was added to her list of things to do as well as items we would come back to at a later date.

  The venue was another consideration. It had to be clean and classy but as cheap as possible since Friends of Felines was a relatively small facility with a budget to match. Esmae offered to run down some locations we had used in the past and put the squeeze on them for a good deal. We were a registered 501-K charity, after all—‌they could always write it off their taxes.

  That left food and drink and the fine-tuning of decorations. Kelley said she had some things at her studio that we might be able to use. It was amazing what could be done with paper, fabric, and a glue gun, she noted with the glee of an expert.

  “Well, that looks like about it,” I said, dropping my pen as if it were a ten-pound weight. “My brain is fried.”

  “I think we did well.” Bernard stood up, stretched and looked at his watch. “Still got time for a swim. I’ll see you ladies later.”<
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  “You don’t need a ride back?” asked Kelley.

  “No, I’m fine. The bus runs just a few blocks over on Hawthorne. Thanks anyway, Kel. And thank you for hosting, Lynley. We made a good start.”

  “I’m off, too,” Esmae announced, rounding up her things. “Come, Bessie,” she said, patting her shoulder. With a prrumph, the spotted cat sprang up, turned forward, and settled like a pliant sphinx.

  “Do you need help cleaning up?” Frannie asked. “Because if not, I’m going to run down to the shelter and check on Sasha, the Manx. She was returned for the second time yesterday. The people blamed litter box issues, but I want to find out if there was more to the story. I know Manx can have problems but Sasha was always impeccable at the shelter.”

  “You go ahead. Thanks for helping set up. Say hi to Sasha for me.”

  With a flurry of goodbyes and last-minute notations, my guests had dwindled from four to one. Kelley Moro didn’t seem in a hurry to leave so I offered her another glass of lemonade.

  “Oh, that would be wonderful,” she said. “I’m putting off going home and cleaning my house. Not my favorite job.”

  “No, nor mine,” I said as I poured us both tall drinks. “Mind if I let my cats out? They’ve been exiled upstairs while the group was here.”

  “I’d love to meet your cats!” Kelley exclaimed.

  It took only cracking the door to the stairway to bring them out and all around us.

  “How many are there?” Kelley asked, trying to count. “I see five, no six.”

  “There are eight, but one is very shy and chances are you’ll never see her. Big Red is shy too.” I gestured to the substantial orange tabby who was lurking in the doorway wondering if it were safe to come in. “He loves to be petted though, so if you can just get him close enough for a pat on the head or a scratch behind the ear, he’s all yours.”

  I demonstrated, luring him with soft words and then smoothing him gently. He pushed his nose against my fingers for more, his purr reverberating throughout the room.

  “Oof!” Kelley exclaimed as Emilio landed in her lap. “And who are you, beautiful?”

  “That’s Emilio. He’s only been with me a short time.”

  “From the shelter?” she asked.

  “From Cloverleaf Animal Sanctuary, actually.”

  Kelley blinked green eyes in surprise. “Really? An import?” Gently she stroked his silken back. “I can see why you wanted him. He seems very sweet.”

  “I went on an art retreat at Cloverleaf,” I said, suddenly feeling like I owed an explanation for adopting from another area when there were so many cats right here who needed a home. “Things got kind of crazy and Emilio and I bonded. When I left, it seemed only right to bring him with me.”

  “Cloverleaf,” Kelley mused. “That’s where they had those murders a little while back.”

  I sighed. I knew the moment I let the name slip that I was asking for trouble. I’d quickly found after my return from the famous—‌and now infamous—‌animal sanctuary that when people learned I had been at the scene of the crimes, they wanted the story. Excited and curious, they viewed it as a mystery like one might see on television or read about in a book and not the horrible misfortune that it was. No amount of explaining could convey the fear and misery of that fatal night, and I’d finally given up trying. Now I said as little as possible when it came to the Cloverleaf art retreat.

  “Yes,” was my one-word answer. I was surprised when Kelley followed it up with another one-word reply.

  “Oh,” was all she said.

  I waited for the inevitable What was it like? How did it happen? Who do you think killed the women? but she asked none of those things. Instead her words caught me completely off-guard.

  “There’s been another one, you know.”

  I did a double take. “Another what? Not... another murder?”

  She nodded. “Same modus operandi but this time it was here in Portland.”

  “I haven’t seen anything about it in the papers.”

  “No, and you wouldn’t have. The police are keeping it as quiet as possible. It’ll probably hit tomorrow or the day after. They can only hold onto news like that for so long.”

  I took a gulp of lemonade. The heat I felt rising through my body had nothing to do with the weather. “So how did you find out, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Kelley smiled slyly. “Actually, I’m a freelance reporter. I write under the byline of Dalia Moore.”

  “Wow,” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know that.”

  “And you weren’t supposed to. I don’t want it getting around, but I feel I can trust you. I can trust you, can’t I?” she added, raising a well-shaped eyebrow. “It’s not exactly a secret, but it’s easier for me if people don’t know right off I’m connected to the press. They either want me to interview them or they get standoffish, assuming anything they tell me with end up in my blog.”

  “Oh, certainly. I understand. But why, if you know about the murder, haven’t you written about it yourself?”

  “Because the police asked me not to. You see, I’m a rare bird, an ethical reporter. Since journalism is really more of a hobby to me, I don’t feel the need to invade people’s privacy, tell secrets, or make things hard for the investigators. The story is drafted, at least what I’ve got so far, and when they give the word, it’ll be out there in a heartbeat. Until then, if someone scoops it on me, I don’t really care.”

  I had a chorus of kitty meows going by now, telling me it was time for an afternoon snack, and the kibbles I’d set out two hours ago in their upstairs feed station didn’t count. Absentmindedly I got up, retrieved the food bag, and scooped a handful of dark nuggets into each of their bowls.

  A long meow brought me to attention as I realized I had just dumped Tinkerbelle’s portion into the water dish by mistake.

  “Oh, fiddle,” I muttered, picking up the mess. As the kibble bits began to expand into kibble mush balls, I dumped them down the garbage disposal, rinsed the bowl, and refilled it with fresh water. Repeating that last step, this time getting food into the right receptacle, I listened to the contented crunching, but my mind was elsewhere.

  “You said the killer used the same MO. The lethal injection of animal tranquilizer and heroin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the victim another female?”

  “No, it was a man this time. In his early forties. That’s all I know. I’m hoping they give me a little more info in exchange for my cooperation, but we’ll see. Truth is, I don’t think they know much. You don’t have any hot firsthand insight, do you?”

  I shook my head. “Not a bit. After the murders, I left Clover Island on the first boat out and haven’t looked back since. At that point, no one really knew what had happened. Just that...” I paused as it all rushed back to me.

  “Wait, there is one thing you could put in your story.” I looked the newswoman dead in the eyes. “If you could get across to your readers that this was a tragedy; that human lives were taken; that it isn’t like on TV where actors play the parts of characters in a story. In real life, when a person gets killed, that’s it—‌they don’t come back through some fancy trick of the script. Their lives are over for good. No more family or friends, or petting cats! No more anything. People don’t get that. They think it’s all for show. And from what I see in the news, the media goes along with that completely. If you can write a story that conveys the grief of Marissa’s mother or the lost opportunities of Crystal Holt, I’d be happy to have you put my name in as a source! Otherwise, never mind.”

  There was silence. Even the cats had paused mid-crunch. I looked around, remembering I was sitting at my kitchen table and not standing at a podium. Rising, I pulled Violet off of Little’s leftovers and put the big girl in my lap. “I’m sorry, Kelley. I didn’t mean to go off on you, but it’s how I feel.”

  The younger woman smiled. “I get it. I feel the same way, and that’s how I write. I’m not a sensationalist.�
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  “I didn’t mean...”

  “Comes with the territory. You’re forgiven. Now I’d better be getting home. My house isn’t going to clean itself, no matter how much I wish it would.”

  She stood and I followed suit, holding Violet in my arms. “Look, Kelley. I do apologize.”

  She touched my hand. “I said it was okay, Lynley, and it is. When the article comes out, I’ll email it to you. Then you can decide if you hate it or not.”

  I walked Kelley to the door, once again the polite hostess. We discussed a few more details about the fundraiser and she departed. As her long vintage Valiant pulled away from the curb and sailed into the narrow street, I wondered what had just gone down.

  Chapter 19

  For a cat, licking is not only a rite of cleanliness but also social exchange and an indication that she feels totally safe in your presence. You are truly a member of her family, and she reinforces that by cleaning you like her mother cleaned her when she was a kitten.

  That’s when the nightmares began. Every night around three in the morning, I’d wake in a cold sweat, my blankets wrapping me like a plush mummy. They call it the hour of the wolf, but I’d never really understood how you could go to sleep a normal, confident woman, only to waken a frightened little child. The wolf was at my door, and I didn’t have the first clue how to get rid of him.

  It wasn’t the dreams themselves that were so disturbing. In fact, often they were mundane—‌housework or shopping or visiting a friend—‌but hovering just beyond the scene like the web of a malevolent spider lurked peril. I couldn’t see it but I could feel it, smell it, taste it on my tongue. Then by morning it was gone and never crossed my mind again until bedtime, and I fell asleep hoping tonight the wolf would not come.