Nancy J. Bailey - Furry Murder 01 - My Best Cat (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Kim Norwich

Saturday Night

There was a little coffee shop just a block down from the show hall and when my shift was over I walked down there through the beginning of a misty rain.  A bell tinkled as I swung the door open.  The room smelled of deep fried food, a greasy smell that clung to the cheap paneling on the walls.  I was going to get a cup to take home, but heard a voice say, “Norwich!”

I looked and he was sitting in the corner with a newspaper.  He had his feet propped up on the booth seat across from him, but he put them down and beckoned to me.  “Have a seat.”

I slid into the seat across from him.  He folded up the paper and shoved it to one side.  He looked tired, but he grinned at me, stirring his cup of java with a casual air that I was beginning to recognize as typical of him.  “Heading home?”

“I was, yah.”

“You were, yah, eh?”  He grinned.  “You sound like a
Finlander.”

“That’s Finn.  My mother is.”

“Where are you from, Norwich?”

“I’m from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.  A little town called Manistique.”

He shook his head.  “Never heard of it.”

“That’s not surprising.  What about you?”

“I grew up in Colorado.”

“How’d you end up here in the Midwest?”

He smiled.  He sure did smile a lot, for a cop.  “My ex wife is from here so we moved here.  I stayed after we split up, so I could be close to my daughter.”

“I see.  How old is she?”

“She’s twenty now.  She’s studying journalism.”  He pulled out his battered wallet, thumbing through it, and pulled out a small photo.  He laid it on the table, toward me, and I watched as his fingers tapped it lovingly, unconsciously as he spoke of her.  “She’s so grown up.  It’s kind of funny.  She loves to cook and she has her own ideas about things.  She’s very independent.  But I still want to be around for her.”

I looked at the picture, the daughter beaming on a blue background, her hair pulled up on one side, her face shining with youth and intelligence.  She was blonde and to my surprise quite plain-looking.  I had expected someone dark and beautiful, more like Reynolds.

“She’s very cute, but she doesn’t really resemble you,” I said.

“Yes, I know.  She’s the spitting image of her mother.”

I nodded.  “What is her name?”

“Her name is Emily.”

I nodded again.

“Do you have children?”

“No, I wanted to, but it wasn’t in the cards I guess.”

“Oh.  I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be.  It was a matter of choice.  I think in some ways it’s a biological thing for women.  We look for a mate who will make babies like himself.  I didn’t want babies like my ex.”

Reynolds laughed.  “Why, did he have two heads or something?”

“Yeah, he was a shape-shifting mutant.  A freak.  I didn’t want any freak babies.”  I was chuckling now, too.

“Nothing wrong with a little
freakness here and there,” he winked at me unabashedly, grinned and sipped his coffee.

The waitress came up to the table then and stood, one knee bent, toes pointed awkwardly inward.  She was probably about the age of Reynolds’ daughter.  She was wearing a long grey smock top, buttoned up the front, and she pulled a note pad out of the pocket.  She had a fake tan, her skin brushed with some kind of bronze liquid makeup. A bright bit of light sparkled near one nostril, a diamond or maybe a fake diamond.  Her hair was highlighted in streaks, bright blonde among the chestnut that was her natural color. She regarded us both without hesitation.  Though her body was
gangly, nearing the end of adolescence, she spoke calmly and with confidence.  “What would you like?”

“Coffee,” I said.

“Hey, does this affect your breathing?” Reynolds said to her, pointing at the side of his nose.

Her eyes darted to him,
then back to the note pad.  “Only when I sneeze.  Sometimes it comes flying out.  That happens when I’m in the kitchen. I’m allergic to pepper.  I’ve had to dip my jewelry out of the soup several times.  Are you two eating tonight?”

Reynolds was grinning a little.  He looked over at me.

“Nothing for me, thanks,” I said.

“Well,” he turned back to the waitress.  “I was going to have soup, but you just talked me out of it.  Sounds like I could crack a filling.”

He was flirting with this kid!  I felt a surge of revulsion.  The waitress did not smile, nor show any reaction at all.  “We have sandwiches too.  The French Dip is pretty good.”

I saw
Reynold’s eyes crinkle. 

“Don’t even,” I warned, then kicked
myself.  Good God, what was I, his mother?

He sat back in the booth.  “I’ll take it.”

She turned to me, the diamond glistening.  “You sure you don’t want anything?  Some chips?  Salsa?”

“No thanks.”

“’Kay,” she said.  She tucked her note pad into the pocket of her smock and strolled away.

“Refill for me, if you would please,” Reynolds called after her.

She didn’t turn, but waved a casual acknowledgement.  He turned to me, chuckling.  “Diamonds in the soup.”

I tried to keep myself from glaring at him.

“She’s cute,” he added unnecessarily.

“She’s a smart ass.”

“That makes her even cuter.”

“You give her grief about her nose piercing?  I’m sure she hears that from everyone in our generation. 
Very unoriginal, Reynolds.”

“She handled it.”

I shrugged.  “She is cute, if you like that type.”

“Ah, she’s a kid.  What
type do you like, Shorty?”

I hesitated.  I had never liked nicknames, and this was kind of demeaning.  But coming from him, it was friendly and seemed okay.  Why was I so willing to put up with things from him that I wouldn’t take from others?  I knew all too well the reason.  What type did I like? 
His type.  Damn him! 

But I just shrugged again.

“How long were you married?”

“Eleven years.”

“That’s a pretty long time in this day and age.  Didn’t work out, eh?”

“Nope.”

I didn’t offer up any more information, and he said, “Well, mine was my fault.  She was a good woman all right.  I just worked too much, too many hours.  I took her for granted.”

This warmed me to him immediately.  I already knew his wife hadn’t been pretty.  There was something so attractive about a beautiful man who married a plain looking woman. 
Something that spoke to me of depth.

I nodded.  “I was married to a cop.”

He threw back his head and laughed, a loud, appreciative, thunderous guffaw that caused the other customers to turn and look.  “Oh, now that is good!  You poor thing!  That explains more than you know!”

I paused.  Was he laughing at me, or himself?  I didn’t quite get this guy.  He bordered on cocky but he was so affable.

“Now, don’t get that look,” he said.  “It’s not fun being married to a cop, I know that.  Men and women have a hard enough time as it is.”

“Men and women are basically incompatible.”

“Oh, do you really believe that?”

“What moron doesn’t?  Men operate from the gut. 
Women from their heads.”

“Women operate from their hearts,” he corrected.

I bridled.  “That is not true.  We are thinkers.”

“Emotional thinkers.”

“Are you saying that men aren’t emotional?”

“No, not at all.
  Men are extremely emotional, often more vulnerable than women that way.”

I snorted.  “Men are cads.  They’re obsessed with bodily functions.”

He smiled.  His cheeriness was starting to get to me.

“It’s all about self-gratification with a guy,” I added. 
“Where the next meal is coming from.  Where the next beer is coming from.  Where the next fuck is coming from.”

Reynolds
whistled, a long, low incredulous one.  “Throttle back on the hostility there, Shorty.  It’s not becoming.”

“I don’t give a shit what is becoming!  That’s another thing.  Women have all this pressure to be always ladylike, always ‘becoming’.”

“Now there’s an opening, but I’ll restrain myself.”

“Please!”

“Do you really think we’re so incompatible?  We all have the same needs.”

“Men need their egos stroked.  Their stomachs stroked.  Their heads stroked.  Their cocks – “

“Wow!”  He laughed.  “This guy really hurt you, Norwich!”

“No one can hurt me unless I allow them to.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

I felt my face getting warm.  Why did this guy get under my skin like this?  I needed to calm myself, to get off this topic.  It was far too personal.  So I asked him a question.  “What do you make of this murder, Detective?”

He paused a moment, a little thrown by the sudden change in momentum.  But then he smiled.  “You can call me Rob.”

“So what do you make of it?”

He shrugged.  “It’s pretty confusing.  The people I’ve interviewed have led me to surmise that this victim is universally hated.  Everybody seems to have plenty of motive.”

“Universal hatred isn’t unusual in the cat fancy,” I said.

His eyes narrowed and he looked at me.  That little smile continued to play about his lips.  “You don’t miss much, do you, Norwich?”

“I miss plenty.”

“I don’t think so.  I’ve watched you around people.  You follow about two steps behind everyone.  I can tell by the way you move, and you watch, that you don’t miss a trick.  Most people don’t even know you’re there.  But you hear everything.”

“I didn’t save that woman,” I said.  “I didn’t catch that one.”

His eyes softened.  “You can’t seriously blame yourself for that.”

“It happened on my watch.”  I took out my pack of cigarettes and pulled one out.  My hands trembled as always, my nervous condition.  It was a little embarrassing.  I fumbled in my pocket for a lighter but he beat me to it, presenting his, leaning across the table holding the flame before me.

“Thanks,” I said, inhaling deeply.  He nodded and snapped his lighter shut, put it back in his pocket and stirred his coffee.  I looked out the window at the street lights reflected in red and white lines on the wet pavement.  Rain spattered against the pane.

“I’ll tell you something,” Reynolds shook his head.  “You can never predict when some craziness is going to happen, Norwich.  There’s no accounting for the insanity of people.  They can be mean and they can be vindictive.  We can’t prevent these people from being who they are.  But we can sure as hell catch them afterward.  It’s important to make that distinction and not take this home with us at night.”
The way he said “us” made it sound as if I was in his category, even though I was just a security guard.  I looked at him, but he was gazing out the window too now.  His chin was resting in one palm.  His eyelashes were long and thick, tipped up on the ends, like fans.

The waitress came and poured us each a coffee, filling my cup and topping his off.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome, sir.”  She went away.

I placed my hands around my steaming cup, warming them. “You think you know who the murderer is?”

“Not a clue,” he said.  “What do you think?”

I shook my head.

He stirred his coffee.  “I have some ideas though.  I have some ideas about you, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Two steps behind.  You’re two steps behind.  You are a watcher.  You’re not participating.  Nobody waits for you, do they?  They just go on with life like you aren’t even there.  Do you like it that way?”

I just shrugged and took a sip.

“Know what I think?  I think you don’t like it.  I think you would like someone to notice you, but you are too proud to stick your neck out.”

I set the cup down.  “Please don’t try to psychoanalyze me, Reynolds.”

“Rob.”

“It’s not your job.  And that’s lucky because you suck at it.”

He smiled and sipped his coffee.
 

Chapter Twenty-Six

Cecelia Fox

Friday Night

I lay wide awake in bed, with no Kenya, and thought of cats.

My black cat used to leap up and steal birds right out of the bird feeder.  He would sit crouching below it, waiting for them to land.  When they landed he would launch himself, hang by his front legs, and just grab them.  The birds just seemed to huddle there waiting for him.  They never struggled.  He would grab them, drop to the ground and dash off.  My mother screamed when it happened.  But I admired his athleticism.  It was quick, and judging by the stunned reaction of the birds, they didn’t really grasp what was happening.

In those days cats were not generally pampered as they are today.  They lived outdoors and bred at will.  Back roads were occasionally littered with their bodies.  One of the kids in my school found a cardboard box filled with kittens beside the road.  He brought the kittens to school.  There were six of them, black and white and grey and white, all fuzzy and tickling whiskers.  They were about six weeks old, and strangely calm, as if they knew they were in the hands of fate and could do nothing about it, rather like the birds in the feeder.  I could hold them, cuddle them to my cheek.  They just hung in my hands, silent and waiting.  When finally one started to purr, all the kids laughed and sighed.  It was really
a very sweet moment then.  Pettiness and rivalries were forgotten as nerds and basketball stars and cheerleaders alike all gathered around to see these kittens.  They were magic.

Aaron Brady was the kid’s name who found those kittens.  He was a geek, a math student, very pretty though, with a shock of sandy hair that covered his forehead.  He had one tooth in the front that was chipped.  His pants always seemed a little too large.  They hung loosely on his behind, and when he walked they said, “Swish, swish.”  He wore plaid shirts that had snap buttons on the front, and the collars were a little frayed, as though they’d had a previous owner.  He carried his books gently cradled under one arm, like treasures.  When he spoke, he would lisp just a bit.  Despite his geeky qualities, he seemed to have plenty of friends.

The kittens all were distributed on the day he brought them to school.  They were entrusted into the outstretched hands of cooing girls and grinning sheepish boys.  Aaron admonished each kid, saying, “If your mother says no, you bring her back to me!  Understand?” 

He spoke with authority and his voice didn’t even crack. I immediately developed a huge crush on him.  I loved how he cared for them, the way he held them.  He was my first love.  He never noticed me though.  And I never had the nerve to try to talk to him.

I didn’t even attempt to adopt one.  They were treasures, and I was far too low in the class pecking order to consider it.  Besides, my parents would have said no.  But still, I wished it had been me who had found those kittens.  I took frequent walks along the roadsides after that.  If I saw a box in the ditch, I would run to it, hoping to find kittens inside.  I never did though.

It seemed to be a consistent theme in my life.  The magic, the special moments, belonged to others.  It was my fate to stand by and watch them, but not participate.  If I verged on winning something, achieving something, it was snatched away as if a mistake had been made.

I rolled over and looked at the clock.  The illuminated numbers read 3:16.  I sighed.  I got up and went to the bathroom.  The litterbox remained behind the toilet, with the gravel pure and undisturbed.

As I came out, I looked at the blue ceramic water bowl, filled to the brim.  “Kenya” it said in bright white letters.  I picked up the bowl and emptied it into the sink.  I rinsed it out, and filled it up with fresh water, and set it down on the floor.  He was not here to drink it, but the gesture was somehow comforting to me.

I stood for a moment staring at the wall, thinking about the day’s events, about the last time I had seen him, being borne away in Roxanne’s arms, his tail bouncing through the air happily.  He had no clue, no worries at all.

I had made the mistake of reading about witches and cats during my habitual research into cat history.  The stories came back to me now.  The
Middle Ages were a dark time for cats, beginning with the onset of Christianity.  Cats had been worshiped by Europeans to that point.  There was even a cat goddess; Freya, a Norsewoman.  She had two large cats pulling her chariot and was always surrounded by cats.  Cat rituals were often involved in her worship.  Friday was her official day – in fact the day was named after her.

When Christianity spread throughout Europe, Freya was eventually considered a demon, and with her, the beloved cats.  They bore the brunt of her downfall.  It’s a horrid and tragic commentary on humanity, what happened over the next thousand years.  Cats were tortured, burned at the stake, stoned to death. 
Cursed.

The imagery was powerful and it was hard to get this out of my mind.  The irony, of course, was that a religion had brought this about.  It even extended to the witch
trials of Salem and the superstition about how a black cat crossing your path was considered bad luck.

I read that less than ten percent of the cat population remained in the European countries, for the duration of a thousand years.  They had gone from the golden age of Egypt, where they were worshiped and the death penalty was issued to anyone who harmed them, to this.

I couldn’t help but make the comparison.  Kenya was a show kitty – a glamorous, dazzling showman, my pampered boy his entire life.  Now he had fallen into the hands of someone who didn’t love him.  What was happening to him?

I lay down again and pulled the sheets up to my chin, and raised my hand to feel the empty space on the pillow near me.

The clock rolled to 3:24 with a loud click.