When the Cat's Away

by Molly Fitz

  Not that I stood there and had a moment for them or anything. A mouse funeral seemed like a bit much. I did catch myself looking around more carefully and jumped once or twice when I imagined something running across the floor while I changed and touched up my makeup before descending to the downstairs in rather more of a hurry than I’d gone up.

  I wasn’t squeamish about it, but I did expect a certain level of rodent-free accommodation. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask for?

  With my shudders firmly in hand, I headed for the back hall and the kitchen, finding Helen in a solid state of what looked like panic as she single-handedly wrangled dinner while I gaped at her.

  “You’re alone?” I hurried toward her, taking the masher from her hand as she labored over a giant pot of potatoes, the poor woman huffing off to the counter where she grabbed an icing bag and proceeded to pipe a large tray of cupcakes with a bit more reckless speed than was probably good for the confections. Then again, as she flew through them, I realized her deft and steady hand meant more than enough practice she could handle it.

  “My cook got sick,” she grunted, “and the two girls I hired as maids didn’t show up.” No wonder she seemed frazzled. Helen paused to wipe at her forehead with the back of one hand, her brown curls threaded through with enough iron gray she’d earned them, blue eyes tight and apron covered in flour and other foodstuffs. “It’s fine. I can handle it. Please, don’t worry.”

  I finished mashing, setting the utensil aside, hoping she wouldn’t realize I was terrible in the kitchen before I could convince her to let me assist. “Just tell me what to do,” I said. “I’m here for you.”

  The relief on her face made me want to hug her.

  She had me stirring gravy next, while she finished the cupcakes. I hesitated to ask her about the mouse issue, not wanting to add to her troubles, and let it go for now. There would be time to bring it up after dinner, when she wasn’t so overworked. The last thing I needed was for her to accidentally poison us because I’d upset her.

  It was clear to me we needed to recruit more aid. “I’ll be right back.” I stepped out into the hall, planning to wrangle Lou Ellen to assist before Helen could protest, only to spot Daphne outside the bathroom door, Natasha in her face, the pair in a clear argument though the hissing nature of it made it impossible to know what the conflict was about. Well, the pregnant woman had told me she knew Natasha, so it was possible this confrontation had to do with whatever past they brought with them.

  More surprising was the sight of Fern, a small movement giving her away, where she had tucked herself just inside a doorway with it almost closed on her, though she was clearly eavesdropping. When she spotted me watching, the small woman flinched and slipped out again, heading away from the arguing pair, leaving me to shake my head.

  Hey, I’d been known to listen in on a conversation or two in my day. For all I knew, Fern wanted to go to the bathroom but had no desire to again have to deal with Natasha. Whatever her reason for running off, it was hers and hers alone.

  The fight broke up, Natasha entering the washroom, Daphne heading for the dining room, their departure a bit of a relief since I already had an issue to handle and wrangling them would interfere with dinner being served. I waved to Lou Ellen who emerged from the dining room door, noting Shauna entering the front door at the same moment, both of them coming toward me, though it was clear Shauna realized her mistake right after my friend headed my way.

  “Helen needs us in the kitchen,” I said to Lou Ellen, smiling at Shauna. Fern peeked out, came our way as well, joined us as I tried to figure out how to send the two participants off without letting them know we were kind of in a pickle.

  “It’s dinner,” I said at last. “Helen’s staff didn’t show.”

  “I used to serve in college,” Shauna said, super casual, no judgment.

  “I was a line cook at a diner,” Fern said, voice very low and almost apologetic.

  “Perfect.” I grabbed my friend, pushing her through the door and into the kitchen, motioning the other two to follow. “I’m sure Lou Ellen will be happy to give you a refund for the assistance.”

  And that’s how I saved dinner.

  You’re welcome.

  Chapter Five

  The only glitch in the evening’s offering was the encounter with (you guessed it) a few more unwelcome furry guests, one that squeaked at me when I opened the pantry door and hoofed it out of sight faster than I could inhale in surprise, and two more that apparently the cat had already taken care of but again left behind after creating said carnage.

  I was beginning to think the ginger huntress a bit of a savage with a penchant for serial killing, no snacking to be seen. Maybe the thrill of terrifying the poor little rodents into heart failure—not one had a mark on them—gave her the joy she needed to make her life worthwhile. Though I’d heard cats were rather ferocious and cunning murderers without any sort of compassion for their prey, I was starting to wonder where this particular kitty was finding all of her new playmates.

  That thought had me alarmed enough I vowed to ask questions of Helen once dinner was successfully wrapped up.

  Once the bulk of the creating and serving was complete, I was able to slip into my seat at the large dining room table, helping myself to the roast chicken and a small dollop of potatoes I’d so faithfully mashed, a thick slice of homemade bread and real churned butter making me groan in appreciation. While Helen might have been on her own, she’d been determined to deliver, and had she. What could she accomplish with a full staff, I wondered? Unless the sea air and hard work (mental and physical) had altered my appetite, this was honestly the most delicious food I’d had in ages.

  I noted that while she did join us for the meal, Natasha didn’t speak to a soul except to snap at seat mates to pass things she couldn’t reach herself, almost knocking over someone’s wine glass when they didn’t move fast enough for her liking. And though she cleaned her plate and took seconds, when Helen came to the door with a weary and nervous smile to ask how everything was, our resident complainer was the first to speak up.

  “The chicken was cold,” Natasha said, “and I found lumps in my potatoes.” Everyone stared at her, mouths open, me included, why the ironic continuation of her filling her own gaping maw did nothing to silence her whining. “And we ran out of butter at this end of the table.”

  Helen rushed instantly forward to offer the partial dish from a quickly responsive guest, Natasha taking it without thanks while I glared and barely kept from commenting. The only thing that silenced me was the pinched, unhappy expression on Lou Ellen’s face and the fact that I was positive if I focused hard enough I could do something awful and permanent to Natasha through sheer will alone and never be blamed for it because my awesome mental abilities were untraceable.

  Yeah, I was living in a fantasy world. Do you really blame me?

  “That was delicious, Helen,” my friend said, everyone else aside from the still eating Natasha murmuring their agreement. “Thank you so much.”

  Helen bobbed an awkward little curtsy before heading back to the hall and the kitchen, I imagined. I thought about getting up, going to help her clean up, and decided to give myself a minute for my food to digest while talk fired up around the room again.

  “—mouse in my closet,” someone said to my right. Whoops, had to deal with that issue.

  “—gave me a headache, but I think it was my fault when I forced that pose.” Another complaint, likely due to one of Lou Ellen’s self-hypnosis yoga sessions. I never did get into that form of exercise, nor hypnosis itself, aside from using suggestion to help clients get into the moment, the only place they were able to heal anything.

  “—storm front,” another voice said to my left. “Freak weather off the coast—”

  “—sister would have loved this,” that was good to hear. “I’ll bring her next—”

  “Seph.” I hadn’t noticed Lou Ellen stand and circle around behind me, too busy eavesdroppi
ng on conversation snippets. I looked up, smiled, noted her tension and sighed as I joined her, exiting and heading for the kitchen. While not my job, we couldn’t have the owner of the inn pass out on us because she had to do everything herself.

  Except, when we were about ten feet from the dining room, Lou Ellen stopped and turned to face me, hesitant and more than a little anxious.

  “I’m not sure I want to do the demonstration tonight.” She’d been looking forward to it, planned a live hypnotherapy session for one or more of the guests, not quite a show but close enough.

  I could guess why she hesitated. “You’re worried Natasha will want to participate.” That could end one of two ways. In total and utter disaster when the horrible woman proclaimed Lou Ellen’s method was a waste of time and in total and utter disaster when… well. You get the idea.

  The problem was, she’d printed it in the itinerary and I knew many of the guests were looking forward to it. “It’ll be fine,” I said, knowing that word was about as inadequate as any, didn’t wince, but close enough. “Just pick someone else. I’ll run defense, okay?”

  She flashed a smile that held only nervousness. “Okay. If you think so.”

  Oh boy. Don’t put this on me, woman. Not my retreat, not my monkeys.

  Though, as the ladies assembled in the larger sitting room at the front of the main building, all twenty-four in attendance and even Helen coming to stand at the doorway to watch, I realized it kind of was my responsibility for all. And had every intention of shutting Natasha down at the first sign of trouble.

  As for Lou Ellen, she seemed to have settled by the time everyone was ready for the session to begin, folding chairs assembled in the middle of the room, regular furniture pushed back out of the way. Her smile lit her face, as genuine as ever and her kind and compassionate heart shining in her eyes.

  “I’d love to guide one or more of you through the evolutionary process of transformational hypnotherapy.” Smiles and whispers followed, a few hands going up, everyone eager for the experience.

  All my plans to protect Lou Ellen ended in a crash and burn when, instead of waiting for her turn, Natasha instead stood up and marched uninvited to the front of the room, plonking herself (oh yes, so graceful) into the seat beside my friend and crossing her arms over her substantial chest.

  Well, craptastic.

  “It’s not all about you, you know.” I was surprised Daphne spoke up, her lovely face creased in anger. “Though I wouldn’t expect someone like you to put other people’s needs ahead of yours.”

  Natasha scowled at her. “You chose to get pregnant,” she snapped, “so you deal with the morning sickness. I was born with this condition.” Her haughty tone screamed denial and unwillingness to actually do anything to commit to what it took to change. She was the epitome of an impossible client and I didn’t envy Lou Ellen one bit.

  My friend, rather than deny Natasha, instead reached out and gently freed her hand, holding it between her own. The normally resistant woman seemed startled by Lou Ellen’s gentleness and didn’t fight, Natasha sitting forward a little when the hypnotherapist nodded to her.

  “In order to assist you,” she said, “I’ll need to know what condition it is you’d like to address tonight.”

  Natasha wriggled in her seat, the glance she shot at the gathering clear indication of her sudden discomfort. “I have a food addiction,” she said, sharp enough she had to have expected some kind of pushback, even ridicule.

  Self-fulfilling prophecies often came from familiar places. Daphne’s barking laugh was followed by some hissing disapproval from others, but she ignored them. “You don’t say?” She seemed to enjoy the chance to humiliate Natasha, as though turning tables had been her hope all along. “Never met a cupcake you didn’t like, right, Tash?”

  I almost (almost, so close, like, this close) felt sorry for Natasha in that moment. No one deserved to be treated that way, especially in a room of grown women. This wasn’t high school. Then again, she’d been the one to bring it up, obviously knew the reaction she’d get from Daphne since they were already acquainted (and maybe more than that). I held off interfering while Lou Ellen ignored the heckler and focused on Natasha.

  “Addictions of that type are so hard to deal with on your own. I’m happy to help if I can.” Natasha’s nose wrinkled, mouth still turned downward, but she didn’t protest Lou Ellen’s words. “Shall we begin?”

  I knew from the get-go my friend would fail. Whatever willingness her patient might have felt initially, whether Natasha intended for this to work for her or not (cynic here knew not), there was no way Lou Ellen was getting through to the grim, antagonistic and walled-off woman who glared at the hypnotherapist the entire time, not even attempting to follow instructions.

  I had to hand it to Lou Ellen, though. She didn’t quit on Natasha, not once, trying everything she could to soothe the savage beast. But when it was obvious the woman wasn’t even going to close her eyes, after about ten minutes of encouragement, Lou Ellen finally let Natasha’s hand go and sat back with a sad smile.

  “Hypnotherapy is a powerful tool,” she said, “but only if you’ll let it be.”

  Helen had just walked through the door, a tray of cupcakes in her hands. I spotted Daphne, saw her evil grin, moved to cut her off but was too late. The pregnant woman had a confection in hand and was hustling faster than someone in her late stage should have been able, just in time with Lou Ellen’s words to shove the sweet treat in Natasha’s face.

  “Hear that?” Daphne laughed, not a pleasant sound. “It’s your fault after all.”

  Natasha stood abruptly, surging to her feet, grabbing the cupcake from Daphne. Her glare challenged everyone in the room. “Just like a hack to blame me for her fraud not working.” She made no mention of Daphne or her interruption, pouring all the guilt on Lou Ellen. “Just as I expected. This whole weekend is a sham and a waste of time and I’m going to make sure my followers not only avoid it in future but ensure neither of you,” how nice of her to include me in the attack, “ever practice your flimflam ever again.”

  Natasha stormed off out of the room, past Helen who ducked out of her way, the rest of the participants watching her go before Daphne did a slow-clap at her exit.

  “If you want even a taste,” she drawled, “you’d better get it now, ladies, because Tash will be in the pantry at 2AM eating everything you leave behind.”

  That was about enough of that.

  Chapter Six

  I topped up Lou Ellen’s gin with another ounce, adding some ice and a splash of cranberry before pouring myself my second. She sipped silently, staring out into the still and star-filled evening as the pair of us sat on the narrow balcony just outside my room, enjoying the warmth of the late June sea air.

  She tucked the sweater she’d borrowed from me around her narrow shoulders, the sound of her bangles missing now that she’d taken them off, leaving them behind in her room when she came to see me for a bit of comfort.

  “This was a terrible idea,” she said.

  “It’ll all work out,” I said. Saluted her. She clinked back but without feeling. “She’s one crazy person, Lou. Seriously.”

  “You know I don’t like that term,” she frowned at me.

  That made me laugh. “I’m the degreed psychologist. I’m the one who isn’t supposed to use words like that. The thing is, it’s just a word, Louie. We can’t heal what we’re afraid of.” I sipped gin, so glad I left the academic part of my job behind for the exploration of what really healed people. Not talk. Action. While many of my compatriots wouldn’t agree, I found much more success in allowing my patients—clients, Seph—to use tools to uncover their buried hurts, not talk endlessly and just relive it and the trauma all over again.

  Lou Ellen emptied her glass in two big swallows, set it aside before I could refill it again. “You’re right,” she said. “I will not let one woman and her clear intent to ruin this weekend ruin this weekend.” She stood, hugged me awkwardly fro
m that position, and left with a soft good night.

  I took my time finishing my gin, wondering at how calm the evening felt, before heading to the bathroom to rinse both glasses in the sink and stopped at the threshold when I turned on the light.

  Sighed at the dead mouse on the floor and performed what I hoped was my last funeral before going to bed.

  I really had to talk to Helen.

  * * *

  A crashing roar of thunder woke me, paired with the thudding swing of the window I’d left ajar as a gust of wind slammed it against its hinges. It took me about ten seconds to get over the bleary realization, to slip out of bed, now hissing my displeasure in the sudden chill, to catch the wavering window bobbing from the airflow pressure and to close and latch it firmly against the sudden shift in weather.

  What had been a deliciously calm evening turned to what looked like the beginning of a storm front, lightning flickering close enough for discomfort while the building rocked from another gust. With the now ten-degree temperature drop making me shiver, I quickly donned a robe and slippers, even as another giant flash of lightning, this one illuminating the entire sky for a moment, crashed somewhere in the vicinity of our power source.

  How did I know? Because the moment it hit the entire distant town of Wallace went dark and so did all ambient light from downstairs. Amazing how much even a little bit of brightness can be ignored, the clock at the bedside table now black, the sounds of distress from other rooms loud as doors slammed, voices calling out, asking what happened, as the building shuddered under yet another buffering from the Atlantic’s firm breath.