A Curious Affair (18 page)

Irving.

I understand that much of the human experience is painful and try to have compassion for others, but I couldn’t seem to forgive Wilkes, however good it might be for my soul to try. And I doubted the cats would forgive, either. At least not Atherton, who had been closest to the deceased. I wasn’t sure how good the other cats’ memories were. I certainly hoped that in time they would forget what had happened and move on to happier lives. No one should allow themselves to be caught by grief and entombed with the dead. Surely having new owners and homes would help them move on.

But the cats were not the only ones being educated about new things. There was also the matter of Wilkes having learned that murder pays. What was to say that he wouldn’t kill again if it seemed expedient? Like if he thought there was gold on my land. Or Crystal’s? Maybe I was overreacting, but as the saying goes, better safe than sorry. Somehow, some way, we needed to find some definite proof of guilt and get him out of there.

“You never think that stinky-butt man deserves forgiveness, do you?” I asked Atherton.

Not from me
, Atherton replied firmly.

“Do you believe in redemption?” I persisted.

Yes. But in this case I think it will involve another death
.
Smelly butt must pay for what he’s done, and I do not believe
that sheep man will be able to do anything to him
.

I nodded and then had the stray thought: How the hell did a cat know what redemption was? The question shook me and raised all my old doubts about my sanity and the danger of his ability to talk being nothing more than a hallucination. Did I need a companion so badly that I had invested this cat with human understanding?

Jillian? What’s wrong? You look pale
.

“Nothing,” I lied.

Are you certain?

I looked out the window. I couldn’t deny that Cal’s death had left a vacancy in my head and depression had moved in swiftly. And while there wasn’t a lease agreement, mental squatters are hard to evict once they get entrenched. I thought I had finally rid myself of the pernicious visitor that caused so much doubt and pain. And maybe I had, but I would have to be careful that something even worse didn’t move into the vacancy. I had to believe in something. Part of that plan for a new life was accepting that I could hear cats talk, and that one of them was a feline Einstein.

“I’m certain. It’s just my jaw. Well, I’m off to town now. I’ll be back shortly.” My voice sounded a bit shaky, but Atherton didn’t question me further.

As I’ve explained before, the road into town is a tricky one. It’s all horse shoe curves and hairpin turns the entire way up and down the hill. The shortest distance between any two points is a line, but we don’t believe in those in Irish Camp. We like corkscrews and convolutions if it means we don’t have to quarry through solid stone.

It also makes one question whether you really, really need to go to town. Or anywhere.

The eerie half-light can play tricks with the eyes—especially mine—and that day was no exception. I was
half looking for ghosts when I saw Marie Antoinette à la milkmaid at Versailles come walking toward me up the hill. This was before the guillotining, of course, because her head was still in place.

I began to giggle, and the phantom raised a hand in a casual wave. I knew it wasn’t a ghostly apparition but only Crystal covered in a cloak of spun-sugar. Her hair was especially webbed with strands of pink crystals. She had told me weeks ago about being roped into volunteering at the Sierra Candy Company’s cotton candy booth. It was tradition that amateurs help spin the cotton candy that was given away on Good Friday. Again, what this had to do with Easter, I didn’t know, but the tradition was a lovely one, and it made the air in town smell delicious. This was also extremely messy for the volunteers, since the machine was ancient and tended to throw most of its threads up into the air to net anyone standing over it.

Crystal and I talked briefly while she did her best to stay away from the fire ants and wasps that were following her. She assured me that Tiny Bubbles was doing well. I knew that already from my feline sources, but was glad to hear that Crystal was doing well, too. I promised that we would have lunch the following week and then I let her flee for her bathtub.

I met no one else on my walk, except a family of quail who bolted for the cover of shrubbery when they heard me crunching down the road. They ran in pecking order, never breaking rank of that tiny wobbling line that ran tallest to smallest. Unfortunately, when the first bird reached shelter, it slowed down, not taking into account the welfare of the others left in the road. They were frightened and chirping, but still refused to leave their place in line. Had I been a fast-moving car, they would be dead. Cute birds. Not real bright, though.

I made it to the bank parking lot where the screeching
children had amassed, and then began following my nose. I detoured a half block back to the High Sierra Candy Kitchen where the confectionery was actually made onsite, and stopped in for some fresh caramel corn. I was probably getting contact diabetes from all the sugar in the air, but didn’t care. My mouth said it had to have caramel corn or die.

I paused a moment in front of the opera house, allowing myself a moment to appreciate the oddity of the architecture. The old hall looks like a prison and a Russian Orthodox Church mated and produced offspring. Officially it is designated as being of the Romanesque Revival style, though it has variations not seen anywhere else. It’s large, square, brick, tall and has an onion dome on top of a turret that shines prettily on a sunny day. An out-of-town investor—a cousin of our mayor’s—had wanted to buy it and use it for a car showroom, but the public outcry put an end to that idea. We knew that new money had a way of wiping out history in our town. Our opera hall was misshapen and had lousy acoustics, but that wasn’t the point. So we said no at the ballot box to the filthy lucre, even though Nolan had wanted the deal.

A troop of giggling high schoolers pushed by me as I stood smiling at the building. The kids were out for Easter break and probably on their way to the park for the concert. Seeing them made me feel wistful and a bit sad. For now they were lovely blanks, just soft contours where their adult faces would go when stress and love and loss were done carving them. Poverty, too. Few of them would ever make more than minimum wage. I silently wished them well as they rushed off to whatever urgent task called them, hoping the Divine Artist in charge of their fates would use a gentle hand on them.

I didn’t do my usual cat avoidance and weave through the backstreets as I wandered town. This time I stopped
to talk to every feline I could find and damn the consequences. Not that it did me any good taking this risk of being thought a loony: Whatever Wilkes was up to, he wasn’t getting up to it downtown.

Wilkes might have been a no-show that day, but the birds were putting on their first real spring serenade and being watched carefully by the appreciative neighborhood cats. There was one feral cat in particular who caught my eye. He was a lean creature with a striped coat and a supple body that could go from curled up and peering at his butt with his one good eye to uncoiled and halfway up a tree faster than you could say
one-Mississippi
. The robin escaped the assault, but only barely. It took a roost about four feet up a tree and began to scold. It would be sad to see the cheery little redbreast end up as someone’s snack—and far worse if there were eggs of hatchlings waiting—but I didn’t reprimand the cat. Not every animal was as fortunate as Irv’s cat. My cat. Whatever. I couldn’t ask the animal to starve or dine off rotten food in garbage cans when something yummy and alfresco was available and practically begging to be put on the menu.

My next stop was the bowling alley. It took me by the fire museum where they had rolled out the old calliope and were pushing her for all she was worth. An ancient man with a long white beard sat atop it, playing “
Bicycle
Built for Two
.” I tried to pretend that the music was cheery and not minor-key creepy, but failed. Carnival music has always seemed sinister to me, and the shrill tones hurt my ears.

The bowling alley was crowded, it being a senior bowling league day, but I wanted to talk to PJ, Double Lanes’ feline mascot. The cat was cozy with all the patrons. It turned out that I had to talk with Deputy Dawg’s ex as well, since she was working that day. Goldie may be a preacher’s niece, but she hasn’t really
embraced the whole forgive-and-forget concept. She referred to Dawg’s latest girlfriend, a nurse from Modesto, as the
slut du jour
. I didn’t argue, since I’d never met the woman, but didn’t take the accusation seriously. Goldie had thrown Dawg over, but she was still being very dog-in-the-mangerish about letting anyone else near him. Once something was Goldie’s it was always Goldie’s, and as far as she was concerned, Dawg was obliged to live in misery and die alone pining for her.

I didn’t approach the seniors at play, though I knew many of them. Most were active, healthy specimens, poster children for the benefits of calcium supplements and high doses of ginkgo biloba. But a few were not. With every decade of difference in age the teams grew frailer, until the eighty-plus group that seemed hardly more substantial than ghosts. The younger seniors laughed and cheered and high-fived. Some even bumped knuckles as they saw their grandchildren do, though more softly because of the high rate of arthritis. The older ones, like Mrs. Alcott, did not high-five, or low-five, or even pat each other on the shoulder. Any contact could lead to broken bones.

I watched Mrs. Alcott shuffle up to the yellow line and drop her child’s-weight ball. I looked on in agony as it crawled away from her, willing it to reach the end of the lane, or at least roll into the gutter so she would be spared the ignominy of having one of the employees go and fetch it for her. Eventually the ball arrived at the end of the lane and knocked down one pin. She seemed very happy as she accepted her teammates’ congratulations, but I couldn’t endure any more.
Thou too are mortal
. I didn’t want to think about it.

PJ had no news, and eventually I escaped Goldie’s post-divorce vitriol and the greasy smell of French fries that was weighing on a stomach already full of sweetened popcorn. I breathed deeply of the cool air outside,
attempting to cleanse my lungs and mind. The bright red banner hung over the street reminded me that there was a blues festival going on at the fairgrounds on Saturday. And I had a ticket I had bought from Gemmie, Abby’s eldest daughter, when she was selling them as a school fund-raiser. The thought of going was daunting, but now that I thought of it, the fairgrounds bordered Irv’s property and harbored a colony of feral cats that I should talk with, since it was possible that they had seen something.

I went up Lincoln Street and was soon pushing my way through the minicrowd in front of the courthouse where the 4-H was giving a preview of their animals destined for the County Fair. Have I mentioned my horror of being reincarnated as a dairy goat? I know it’s a strange fear, but I have actually had dreams about it. The poor creatures! Their udders are so large that they walk like bowlegged sailors and practically drag their teats on the ground. Looking at them now, it was all I could do not to shudder.

I caught a glimpse of Tyler outside the courthouse, but he was with Nolan and smiling for pictures so I gave them wide berth. As I was turning away, I realized something about Nolan that I had never noticed before. The way he stood, it made him look like his loafers were on the wrong feet. The thought made me smile, and not in a kind way.

“Enough,” I finally said to the lone, turkey-shaped cloud in the sky above the hardware store, and headed for home with the pitiful remains of my caramel corn. I had hams to buy and vets—and their cats—to interview. Also, I just recalled that I was supposed to bring my car in for an oil change that morning.

And I would stop at the animal shelter, too. Atherton and I would stop, I amended. He wouldn’t like riding in the cat carrier, but it would give me an excuse to bring
him inside when I visited the shelter. After all, what kind of irresponsible person would I be to leave an animal shut up in a car on a sunny—I checked the sky to make sure that it was still sunny—day? This would work well. He could talk to the shelter cats while I dealt with the humans.

Atherton was agreeable with my plan and sat on the desk beside me as I called Dr. Dervon to set up an interview. I already knew the horrible facts about feline leukemia but needed to have some authority figure to quote for my piece. I also rather liked Clive, the office cat. He was a bit of an aging hippie, like the doc, and never bothered me with stupid remarks about how I smell. In fact, I rarely rated more than a
Hey, Jillian
. I have no proof that the cat or vet ever smoked wacky tobaccy, but somehow it seemed likely.

I told Atherton that I would be back soon, and headed for the garage (automotive repairs, liquor, firewood and snow supplies). I was way overdue on an oil change and was reluctant to cancel my appointment again. They do a good business there, since it is the last stop for gas, chains, and snow tires before skiers disappear behind the evergreen curtain. I was also amused by the signs leading up to the garage, put up by the owners of a seasonal fruit stand that used to operate in the parking lot but had fallen into disuse a de cade ago. Once upon a time the individual placards read: slow. down. fruit. stand. ahead. But with two signs fallen, it now said: slow. fruit. ahead. I always wondered what constituted a slow fruit. One that couldn’t roll? Or did it have something to do with fruit IQ? For instance, were prunes smarter than raisins?

There was a vending machine that shared space with a glass-fronted refrigerator (live bait and cold beer) in the waiting room at Gold Rush Tires and Chains. Knowing it was probably a waste of time but feeling
very thirsty, I dropped in my entire supply of quarters and hit the root-beer button. As expected, the machine jeered and refused to give me either a root beer or my money back. I called it two bad names, but stopped there. I was too parched to waste my breath and limited saliva.