Curiosity Thrilled the Cat

by Sofie Kelly

  He shook his head. “I threw a blanket over him, which seemed to help a little. Then I hightailed it for the clinic—lights and sirens blazing.”

  “You saved Desmond,” I said, unbuckling the seat belt and reaching for my bag. “Because you rescued Desmond, Roma found out about the cats at Wisteria Hill. So in a way you saved all of them, too.”

  He fiddled with the collar of his shirt. “Roma is the one who saved the cats and she does the lion’s share of the work.”

  “Even so . . .” This time I was the one not finishing a sentence.

  I remembered the brownies again. They’d made it to Oren’s and back pretty much intact. “Here,” I said, handing him the foil-wrapped package. “And thank you for the ride home.”

  I got out of the car, holding Hercules against my body with one arm.

  Detective Gordon leaned across the seat again. “Thank you for the brownies,” he said.

  I watched him back out, then walked around the house and let myself into the porch. As soon as I was inside I opened the messenger bag. Hercules was curled comfortably in the bottom. “We’re home,” I said.

  He opened one eye.

  “C’mon, I have some of those stinky crackers left.” That got him out of the bag. “Don’t think this means you’re off the hook for what you did at Oren’s,” I said, shaking a finger at him.

  I flipped on the kitchen light and Owen blinked at us from beside the sink. I laughed. “You heard me, didn’t you?” I said, leaning down to pet him. “You heard me say ‘stinky crackers.’”

  He made a soft “murp” in the back of his throat.

  I got a glass of milk and gave each cat a small pile of cheese-and-sardine crackers. Then I sat at the table and pulled out the piece of paper Hercules had found. The fact that Owen and Hercules seemed to be trying to help me figure out what had happened to Gregor Easton made no sense. No sense. On the other hand, neither did their other abilities. I decided, for now at least, to forget about logic and reason and just roll with what was happening.

  I smoothed the piece of paper out flat on the table. Now that I could clearly see the markings and numbers I hoped they’d make some kind of sense.

  They didn’t. And, realistically, what were the chances that Hercules would find the one clue that would help me make sense of how Oren was connected to Gregor Easton? Just because I talked to the cats like they understood what I was saying didn’t mean they did. They were cats. Smart cats with some unbelievable skills, but cats nonetheless. At the moment one had cracker crumbs on his face and the other had a dust ball at the end of his tail.

  Nothing made any sense. I was tired and frustrated and the only thing I wanted to do was sink into a tub full of bubbles and then into cool, crisp sheets.

  So I did.

  I woke up a bit later than usual on Sunday morning, after a night filled with bizarre dreams. In one of them Oren was playing the piano for an audience of cats.

  I was in the kitchen in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, cutting up fruit, when Rebecca tapped on the back door. She looked tired and pale without her usual deep-rose lipstick.

  “Kathleen, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “I was just about to make crepes. Is everything all right?”

  “No,” she said. “Well, yes.” She rubbed the side of her face with her fingers. “I’m sorry. I’m not making a lot of sense. Ami is in the hospital. She’s all right, but she’s all alone. I hate to bother you, but would you be able to drive me there?” She held up her bandaged arm. “I can’t drive—not safely—with this arm.”

  “Of course I’ll drive you,” I said. “You said Ami’s all right, but what happened to her?” I asked.

  “She had some kind of allergic reaction. Her throat swelled and she couldn’t breathe. She was at Eric’s with some of the others from the festival. There was a doctor, a tourist, having dessert with his wife. What are the chances a doctor would . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again and gave a soft sigh. “But he was,” she said in a stronger voice. “And Ami’s all right.”

  “That’s all that matters,” I said.

  “You’re right,” Rebecca said. “What matters is Ami is all right.”

  “Just give me a minute to pull some clothes on.” I led her into the kitchen and pulled out a chair. “Have a seat. I’ll only be a minute.”

  I grabbed the bowl of fruit from the counter, set a plate on top as a temporary cover and put the dish in the refrigerator. I touched Rebecca on the shoulder as I passed behind her. “Be right back,” I said. “There’s coffee, if you’d like a cup.”

  She covered my hand with her own for a moment. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  I gave her shoulder a squeeze and headed for the stairs. I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, combed my hair and used a clip to keep my bangs back. Then I grabbed my purse and went back downstairs.

  Rebecca was talking to someone. Owen. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she was leaning forward in her chair, speaking quietly. Owen sat in front of her, head tipped to the side, listening intently.

  “I’m ready,” I said. “I’ll be back soon,” I told Owen.

  The cats had already been fed and there was fresh water in their dishes. I switched off the coffeemaker, locked the door behind us and walked through the backyard with Rebecca to her little blue Toyota. She handed me the keys. I opened the passenger’s door for her, then went around and unlocked the driver’s side. It took me a moment to adjust the seat and mirrors.

  “We’re going to Riverview?” I asked Rebecca.

  “Yes. Do you know where that is?”

  “I do,” I said. I backed out and headed down Hill Street, trying to figure out the most direct route to the hospital. On a Sunday morning in Mayville Heights there wasn’t much traffic, so it really didn’t matter which way I drove.

  As we neared the hospital I braked to let a squirrel in the middle of the street bolt the rest of the way across, and gave Rebecca a smile.

  She managed a smile back. She had been quiet, tense, the whole way. Finally she spoke. “I know I’m not Ami’s grandmother, but I couldn’t love her more if I were.”

  The squirrel made one last dash for the curb.

  “How did you and Ami get to be so close?” I asked.

  “I cut her hair.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw her smile at the memory. “She was a little hellion. Her parents had died in a car accident when she was four. Her grandmother had died long before she was born, so Ami was being raised by her grandfather and a series of nannies.”

  “She was a little spoiled,” I ventured.

  Rebecca laughed at that. “She had hair like Mowgli from the Jungle Book and she was saucy and rude. I told her I’d cut her hair when she learned some manners.”

  “And did she?”

  “She went home and cut her own hair with a pair of kitchen shears she swiped from the pantry.”

  I grinned. “Not good.”

  “No, it wasn’t. The nanny brought her back to get me to repair the damage. She was just as rude and just as stubborn as she had been the first visit. But I liked the child. She reminded me of someone . . . someone I used to know.” She cleared her throat. “I told her if she was going to cut her own hair she should at least learn how to do it properly. Saturday morning she was sitting by the door of the shop when I arrived to open up. A few weeks later she ran away from home. I found her wrapped up in a sheet she’d pulled off someone’s clothesline, asleep on a lawn chair.”

  I pulled into the hospital driveway and found a parking spot to the right of the entrance.

  “Thank you so much, Kathleen,” Rebecca said.

  “I’m coming in with you.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Don’t make me get out my kitchen shears to make a point,” I said with mock sternness. “Do you want that on your conscience?”

  Rebecca smiled. “All right, you win.”

  We found Am
i sitting up in bed. Her hair was lank, her skin was pale and she looked about twelve years old. She bit her lip and swallowed hard when she caught sight of Rebecca.

  Rebecca wrapped her arms around Ami and kissed the top of her head. “Are you all right?” she asked. She leaned back out of the hug, pushed the hair back off Ami’s face and studied it.

  Ami nodded. “I couldn’t . . . breathe,” she said.

  I noticed a couple of long scrapes on her throat, as though she’d clawed at it.

  Rebecca laid a hand on Ami’s cheek. “But you’re all right now and we’re going to find out what you’re allergic to and how to keep you safe.” She gave Ami another hug. “Everything’s all right,” she said.

  Ami laid her head on Rebecca’s shoulder. “I just want to go home,” she said.

  Rebecca gently patted her back. “We’re going to take you home and I’m going to spoil you for the rest of the day.”

  Ami looked over at me. “Hi, Kathleen,” she said.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “Thank you for bringing Rebbie,” she said. “I didn’t know who else to call. I didn’t think about her not being able to drive.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  “Sweetie, where are your clothes?” Rebecca asked, looking around the room.

  “I think they might be in that closet,” Ami said, pointing at a narrow cupboard by the window.

  Rebecca looked inside and pulled out a clear plastic bag. Ami’s things were inside, the end of the bag tied in a loose knot.

  “Let me get that,” I said. I undid the knot and handed the bag back to her. She shook out Ami’s clothes and laid them on the bed.

  “Can you get dressed by yourself?” she asked.

  Ami nodded.

  “Okay. I’m going to find a nurse and see if there are any special instructions you need to follow.”

  “I think there’s a referral to an allergist,” Ami said. “I’m going to have to be tested even though the doctor—the one here, not the one at Eric’s—is pretty sure it was the poppy seeds.”

  Rebecca closed her eyes for a moment. “Poppy seeds,” she whispered. She swallowed and opened her eyes. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  “I’ll wait outside,” I said to Ami. “Yell if you need help.”

  By the time Ami was dressed, Rebecca was back with a list of allergists and the rest of Ami’s paperwork. I drove them to Ami’s small apartment, down the street from the Stratton.

  “Kathleen, would you take the car home for me?” Rebecca asked.

  “Of course,” I said. “But how will you get home?”

  “I can walk,” she said. “I do it all the time.”

  “You don’t have to stay, Rebbie,” Ami said from the backseat, but her face didn’t match her words.

  Rebecca and I exchanged looks.

  “Sorry, sweetie. You’re stuck with me,” she said. “At least for the next couple of days.”

  I saw Ami’s shoulders sag with relief.

  “Thank you for everything, Kathleen,” Rebecca said.

  “Anytime, Rebecca,” I said. “I mean it. Call me if Ami needs anything or if you’d like me to come and get you.”

  She nodded, undid her seat belt and got out of the car.

  Ami leaned over the seat. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m so glad you moved in behind Rebbie.”

  “Me, too, Ami,” I said. “Take care of yourself.”

  I drove Rebecca’s car back to her house, backing it into the driveway so it could be easily driven out the next time. Rebecca had left her sweater behind on the seat and it had fallen onto the floor mat. I picked it up. There was a smudge of dirt on the bottom edge. I decided to take the sweater with me and wash it for Rebecca.

  I locked the car, stuck the keys in my purse and walked through the backyard to my house. Hercules was in the porch, watching out the window. He jumped down off the bench, looked past me, then at me and meowed.

  “What is it?” I said. “If you’re looking for Rebecca, she’s with Ami and Ami’s fine.” Herc followed me into the kitchen. Owen was sitting just inside the door. “Rebecca’s with Ami and Ami’s all right,” I said.

  I tossed Rebecca’s sweater over the back of a chair. “I need coffee,” I said to no one in particular.

  Once the coffeemaker was doing its thing I turned toward the fridge. Maybe I’d have French toast and fruit instead of crepes. Owen was standing on his back legs, front paws on the seat of the chair where I’d dropped Rebecca’s sweater. He was chewing on one sleeve.

  “Owen! Stop that!” I shouted. Startled, he dropped to all fours on the floor and looked at me with the same stupid expression he got when he was chewing on one of his catnip chickens. “What is the matter with you?” I snapped. “That’s Rebecca’s sweater.”

  I picked up the cardigan, folded it and laid it on the chair back. Then I went to the refrigerator for the fruit I’d been cutting up when Rebecca had knocked on the door. When I turned around again Owen was in midjump, trying to snag Rebecca’s sweater with a paw. “Hey! Stop it!” I yelled, snatching the sweater before the cat could get it.

  Owen hung his head. Hercules appeared in the living room doorway. I bunched up the sweater with one hand and held it against me as I bent down to Owen. “What on earth is wrong with you?” I asked, lowering my voice to normal volume.

  Owen looked up at me and then thrust his head into the tangle of Rebecca’s sweater. Before I could push him away he pulled his head back and shook it. If I hadn’t known better I would have sworn there was a Fred the Funky Chicken hidden in the sleeve.

  I looked at Owen, who was doing his best not to look at me. Maybe I wasn’t exactly wrong. I reached down and scratched the top of his head. “It’s okay. I’m not mad at you,” I said.

  I stood up, shook out the sweater and held the right arm close to my face. It smelled faintly of catnip. I bent down to Hercules, holding out the sleeve to him. He sniffed, made a face and pulled back his head—the same reaction he had to Owen’s collection of catnip chickens. Rebecca had promised she wouldn’t buy Owen any more chickens. The poultice must have had catnip in it, I realized. I didn’t know catnip was a remedy for arthritis. No wonder Owen was acting so weird.

  I went downstairs, filled the sink next to the washer with warm water and a bit of soap and left the sweater soaking.

  I was just finishing the last bite of my French toast when the phone rang. I padded into the living room in my sock feet, figuring it was either my mother or Rebecca. It was neither.

  “Hi, Kathleen.” Lise yawned through the phone at me. “Guess what I found out.”

  19

  Single Lotus Kick

  “Hi, Lise,” I said. “Is this about Gregor Easton?”

  “Oh, yes, it is,” she said, and there was a smug gleefulness in her voice. Then she yawned again.

  “Have you been to bed yet?” I asked.

  Lise’s husband was a jazz guitarist who played regularly in clubs all over Boston and up and down the East Coast. He didn’t keep exactly regular hours, and on the weekend neither did Lise.

  “I’m lying across the bed right now,” Lise said.

  “So what did you find out?” I asked. “I got your e-mail.” I pictured her sprawled across her queen-sized bed with all the pillows piled under her head.

  “Well, as I told you in the e-mail, Easton was born Douglas Gregory Williams. The pulled-himself-upfrom-humble-beginnings story?”

  “A fake?” I had to change position because one of my feet was falling asleep.

  “Uh-huh. Just like the name. He did his first degree at a small university in Florida. And get this: It was a teaching degree.”

  “Easton was going to be a teacher?”

  “Apparently,” Lise said. “Hang on a second; I’m losing a pillow.” There were some muffled bumps and then she was back. “There’s a year and a half unaccounted for, as far as I can tell, after he got that degree. Maybe he was teac
hing, for all I know. Anyway, after that he enrolled in the graduate music program at Oberlin Conservatory. He shaved a couple of years off his age at that point, too.”

  “Wait a second,” I said. “Easton went to Oberlin Conservatory?”

  “Yep.” When Lise got excited her educated, cultured way of speaking disappeared.

  Violet had gone to Oberlin. My heart started to race. “But I thought his graduate degree was from the University of Cincinnati.”

  “It is. Easton went to Oberlin when he was still Douglas Gregory Williams—and he was only there for a year. He didn’t graduate.”

  “Wow.” I pulled my legs up underneath me. “Do you know why he left?”

  “Does a bear have a hairy butt?” she chortled. “Yes, I know.”

  A goofy Lise reminded me of the eighteen-year-old girl from northern Maine I’d met in college.

  “So?” I prompted.

  “Scandal,” she crowed. “Sex, drugs and rock and roll.”

  “What?”

  “Hang on a sec,” she said. “Yes, babe,” I heard her say. “I’d love a cup.” Then she was back again. “Okay, so there weren’t any drugs that I heard about, and it was classical music, not rock and roll, but the sex part definitely happened.”

  “Do I want to hear this, Lise?” I asked, wishing I had a big cup of coffee myself.

  She laughed. “Don’t worry. I don’t have any gory details.”

  “What do you have?” I heard her take a slurp of coffee before she answered.

  “Two things. First of all, Easton was struggling in his composition classes, and then suddenly he got very, very good.”

  “He was cheating?”

  “That’s the general consensus among people I talked to.”

  I stretched both arms over my head. “He could have been homesick or just needed time to adjust to the program.”

  “Maybe. But no one seems to think that was it. Apparently he didn’t go from good to better; he went from mediocre to great.” I heard more coffee-slurping sounds.