Nine Lives: A Lily Dale Mystery (15 page)

A few of the kittens have formed a squealing little heap with a tufted tip of black tail barely poking from beneath.

“They’re just trying to stay warm,” Helen tells him. “It’s okay. It’s what they do.”

“You must have mom instinct, too.”

She smiles a sad smile and shakes her head. “I’m not a mom.”

“Why not?”

“It just . . . it wasn’t meant to be. But I did grow up on a farm, and I’ve been around plenty of newborn litters, so I guess I have . . . kitty instinct.”

“I’m glad,” Bella says, “because I’m new to this.”

“In that case . . . be prepared to keep them all.”

Predictably, Max says, “I
want
to keep them all.”

“I wish we could, sweetie, but we can’t.”

“Then I’ll just keep Spidey,” Max decides. “And Chance the Cat, too.”

“How do you know which one is Spidey?” Helen asks.

“He’s the teeny tiny black one under there. His name is Spider, but I call him Spidey for short, because he’s short. Extra short. He’s a boy. There are four boys and four girls.”

“Wow! You’re not such novices if you can already tell what they are, because that’s tricky when they’re this little,” Helen says.

“Oh, we can’t tell. Max is guessing.”

“I’m not guessing! Four boys and four girls. I’m not sure which is which, except Spidey is a boy. And I’m worried because his mommy dropped him outside and now he’s the only one who’s not eating.”

“Let’s have a look. Come here, Spidey.” Helen gently reaches into the pile of kittens to extract the black one, and gasps. “Oh, my goodness. He’s a true runt.”

“What’s a runt?”

“It’s a baby that’s much smaller and more fragile than his littermates.” Cradling the mewing, writhing kitten in her hand, she tilts it so that they can get a better look.

Bella realizes Max wasn’t exaggerating much when he indicated that Spider would fit into the fraction of space between his thumb and forefinger. The others may be tiny, but they’re twice his size.

“This litter is too large for one poor tired mama cat to feed,” Helen says, as a door creaks open upstairs followed by footsteps in the hall. “And this fellow is too weak and tiny to get his fair share. I don’t want to alarm anyone, but he needs to see a vet right away. He needs nourishment immediately.”

Max clutches Bella’s arm. “We have to go to Doctor Bailey!”

“Max, we—”

“Please! Don’t let him die!”

“Don’t let
who
die?” a deep voice asks from the top of the stairs.

She looks up to see Grant Everard standing there. He’s changed into a pair of jeans; sneakers; a T-shirt that reveals tanned, muscular forearms; and, indeed, a watch she can tell is expensive even from where she stands. A sweatshirt is slung over his arm, and there are keys in his hand. Even dressed down, he gives off an air of casual sophistication.

“Spidey needs to go to Doctor Bailey right now!” Max tells him. “It’s an emergency!”

“It’s going to be okay, Max.” Bella puts a calming hand on his shoulder. “Come on, we’ll go borrow Odelia’s car and take her.”

“You’ll have to take them all,” Helen tells her.

“What do you mean?”

“If you take her away from her mama, she might be rejected even if she survives. And the others are nursing nonstop, so mama can’t leave them either,” she continues, as Bella absorbs the seriousness of the situation. “But Odelia is at the service. She’s not scheduled to read until the end, so she won’t be done for a while, and you can’t pull her away. You don’t have a car?”

“It’s in the repair shop.” She remembers that the Adabners arrived in a cab, so they can’t help her.

Grant walks down the stairs and peers at the kitten still cupped in Helen’s hand. “What’s going on?”

As Helen briefly explains the situation, Bella can see exactly where this is going.

Sure enough, he says, “I’ll drive you to the vet. I was just going out to find some food.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m afraid he does. You really need to get this kitten some help right away,” Helen says anxiously, stroking the kitten’s black fur with her forefinger.

Grant nods. “We’re on our way. Let’s go.”

“Thank you, Mister . . . um . . .” Max hesitates. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Grant.”

“Grant?” Helen raises her eyebrows, looking surprised. “Are you Leona’s nephew?”

“I am.”

No, you’re not,
Bella thinks, wondering why he doesn’t bother to correct the mistaken assumption. True, Leona is the one who, for whatever reason, had told everyone she was his aunt rather than his foster mother, but it wouldn’t be that big a deal for him to clear that up now, would it?

It’s a white lie, and not even his own—or so he claims—but still, it doesn’t sit well with her.

Even though you yourself called your godmother Aunt Sophie?

She wasn’t Bella’s aunt. She wasn’t even a blood relative—just Mom’s best friend and the person who stepped in to do all the things a mom would do: bake birthday cupcakes, make her a first communion veil, and help pick out a prom dress.

“I’d shake your hand, but I can see that it’s full.” Grant gives Helen an easy smile. “It’s nice to meet you . . .”

“Helen. Helen Adabner. I’d heard about you from Leona. You’re not quite what I pictured.”

Wondering what she’d pictured, yet knowing now isn’t the time to ask, Bella tells Grant, “You don’t have to drive us to the vet. When Odelia gets out of the service, we’ll borrow her car and go.”

“Not to upset anyone,” Helen speaks up, directing a meaningful glance at Max, “but I don’t think you can afford to wait that long.”

“I have to call the animal hospital to tell them we’re coming.”

“You can do it from the car.” Grant jangles his keys—and alarm bells jangle in Bella’s brain as she watches him pull on his sweatshirt: a dark-colored hoodie.

“Drive faster, Mr. Grant! Please?” Max says, buckled into the back beside the crate containing the cat and kittens.

“You got it, buddy.”

Undaunted by the winding road, inky black beyond the headlights’ glow, he gives the luxury sports car a little more gas.

Sitting in the front beside him, Bella watches the speedometer edge even higher above the speed limit. She flexes her foot as if there’s a brake beneath it and wishes she could tell him to slow down. But time is of the essence, according to Doctor Bailey, who told her to come right over with the kitten.

Besides, Grant isn’t a reckless driver, just a confident one, and the car handles well.

Somehow, he seems to know exactly where he’s going, even though he said he’s never been to the animal hospital before. When she pulled it up on her phone and showed him the map, he glanced, nodded, and said he knows where it is.

She’s been trying to convince herself that isn’t unusual for someone who isn’t from the area and supposedly doesn’t visit very regularly.

Supposedly? So you don’t believe him?

She isn’t sure that she doesn’t . . .

She just wishes she were sure that she does.

Her thoughts are muddled, and he seems lost in his own. He hasn’t spoken much, other than to ask Max how the kitten is holding up.

Each time, the answer is the same: “He’s sick. He’s crying. Can you go faster?”

Of course he can. Bella has a feeling Grant would drive too fast even without an endangered newborn kitten on board.

Suddenly, though, he slows the car and makes a sharp left turn off the highway.

Startled by the abrupt move, she looks down at the map on her phone. They’ve just veered off course.

“What are you doing?” she asks, and her voice sounds too high-pitched. There goes that jackhammer in her chest again.

“I’m driving the car. What are
you
doing? Besides holding on for dear life and pressing your imaginary brake, I mean.”

Under drastically different circumstances, that might have struck her as amusing. Right now, she’s in no mood for banter.

“You were supposed to stay on the highway.”

“I’m taking a shortcut. It’ll shave off a few minutes. Trust me.”

She doesn’t.

I don’t like this. Not at all.

The winding road, bordered closely by dense woods, is paved, but so pothole ridden that Grant has to weave into the other lane to miss one, and then another.

There’s no oncoming traffic, yet she finds herself white knuckled. It isn’t just the harrowing car ride, it’s . . .

It’s him.

What if . . .

Come on. How can you think such a thing?

Is it just because he’s wearing a dark hoodie?

No. But that doesn’t help matters.

Lots of people wear them, though. She herself had one on the other night. Sam’s hoodie.

The weight that’s constricted her chest for months has transformed into a crushing boulder, making it all but impossible for her to breathe.

How long can you hold your breath?
Jiffy Arden had asked Max just the other day, outside in the sunshine.
How long?

What she wouldn’t give right now to be able to breathe again, safely back home in Bedford again with Sam and Max.

Sam is gone. Home is gone. Safe is gone.

And I am slowly suffocating.

And the answer to Jiffy’s question is
forever.

This is how it will always be: holding her breath, careening through the night, feeling helpless and afraid.

Right now, it’s as if she’s being tailgated by death itself, a stranger at the wheel and her frightened son in the backseat with a new mama cat and fragile babies, one of them barely clinging to life.

But what if . . .

Again Grant swerves, avoiding another gaping pothole, and her brain does the same to evade the awful thought. But it looms like glaring headlights on a blind curve, slamming her like an eighteen-wheeler.

What if he isn’t who he claims to be?

There it is: the possibility that, when it first fluttered into her consciousness, had seemed as outrageous as . . . as believing in ghosts, fairies, or murderous pirates, for that matter.

Leona is dead.

What if he’s just some . . . some strange man, posing as her next of kin?

As far as she knows, he’s had no contact with anyone in the Dale other than her until the moment he emerged from his room tonight. Helen—who’s been here many times before—didn’t recognize him.

Why would she, though? She’s never met him before.

Thank goodness her inner voice of reason is persistent. Almost as persistent as the absurdly paranoid part of her that conjured this idea in the first place.

Odelia herself mentioned that Grant comes and goes infrequently. It’s possible that he’s never crossed paths before with the Adabners or some of the other guests, but most likely, some of them have met Leona’s “nephew” Grant. And certainly, Odelia would immediately know he’s an imposter.

But she hasn’t seen him yet. No one has.

Was he really sleeping behind closed doors? Or was he . . . hiding?

Bella fights back the urge to protest as he transports them deeper and deeper into the woods.

What if she’s right about him?

Then it’s better not to let on that she’s suspicious, isn’t it? Better to go along with this shortcut charade and wait for an opportunity to make an escape.

Right. Just bolt on the spur of the moment—with a kid, a cat, and eight kittens in tow.

That’s not going to happen. Bella has to focus on the matter at hand: getting help for poor little Spider. She has to believe, for now, anyway, that Grant really is Grant. And that he’s a good Samaritan rushing to save an innocent little life.

He brakes again and makes a right onto a road she didn’t even notice was looming off to the side.
So how did he?

He makes a left, and then another right, and they’re driving deeper and deeper into dense woods, and then . . .

“There it is!” Max shouts, pointing to a sign. “That’s it! Look, Mom!”

It’s on the opposite side of the road this time; they came from a different direction. It was, indeed, faster. Much faster. The drive that had taken Bella nearly half an hour on that first night took about fifteen minutes, tops.

A shortcut, just like he said. Okay.

The boulder shifts. Not entirely, but enough so that she can catch her breath.

Grant doesn’t seem to have lost sight of the kitten whose frail life is at stake. He jumps out of the driver’s seat and opens the back door. “How’s our little guy doing, Max?”

She’s struck by the concern in his voice and the fact that he remembers her son’s name—and used it.

I was wrong about him.

Well, of course she was, imagining that this man is some—some crazed killer, carrying out an elaborate masquerade.

How could she have entertained such a ridiculous notion?

It was just for a few moments. A few irrational, sleep-deprived moments.

“He’s kind of quiet right now, Mr. Grant. He’s not moving. Maybe he’s sleeping.”

At her son’s hopeful words, Bella deflates. How is Max going to handle yet another heartbreak? This isn’t anywhere near the catastrophic loss of Sam, and it doesn’t even hold a candle to the loss of their home, but . . .

It isn’t fair. She knows better than to think that life should be, but Max is just a little boy.

“Yeah, he’s hanging in there,” she hears Grant say. “I think he was just sleeping. Listen, he’s crying again. He’s feisty. Come on.”

Fortified, Bella gets out of the car and hurries to catch up as Grant strides toward the building with the crate, Max running alongside.

The door opens before they even reach the porch. Doctor Bailey is waiting for them, wearing his lab coat and an expression of concern.

“That was fast,” he says, flicking a curious glance at Grant.

“We need you to help Spidey,” Max says. “Please! Can you save him?”

Bella is grateful that the vet doesn’t even acknowledge the question as he reaches out to take the crate from Grant’s arms. Silence is better than offering Max false hope or gloomy statistics.

She had already confirmed, courtesy of a quick Internet search on her phone when they first set out, that Helen wasn’t being overly dramatic about the kitten’s condition. It is dire.

“Should we come with you?” Bella asks as Doctor Bailey carries the crate toward an open examination room door.

He doesn’t turn or stop walking. “Just one of you. The room is small.”

She hesitates. The only thing that makes any sense is for her to go, but that would mean leaving Max alone in the waiting room with Grant.

Grant, who took on this rescue mission and delivered them here safely.

But is that just one side of him? Is there another side? A dark side?

Too muddled to remember exactly why she even thought that in the first place, she makes a snap decision. “I’ll be right back,” she says—a reassurance for Max and perhaps a warning for Grant.

In the examination room, Doctor Bailey is already handling the little black kitten with tenderness and efficiency. The crate is on a low counter next to the examining table. Chance lies inside nursing the rest of the litter, but her head is upright, eyes fixed warily on the vet as he places Spider on the table and shines a bright light on him.

“It’s okay, little guy,” he croons, gently checking over the mewing kitten.

“Have you dealt with many cases like this?”

He nods. “With a litter this size, the runt sometimes starves to death because there isn’t enough milk to go around or because the siblings shut him out. Sometimes, the mother is overwhelmed and she rejects it altogether, and once in a while, she even kills it.”

“Kills her own kitten?” she asks in horror. “Why?”

“Maternal instinct.”

“That sounds like the exact opposite.” Bella is nothing if not overwhelmed herself, but if anything, she’s more protective of her child.

“Ever hear of a little thing called Darwin’s Theory of Evolution?”

“Oh. Right.” She nods. “I guess my emotions got the better of me for a moment there. I’m a science teacher, so—”

“So then you know all about nature and survival of the fittest.” As he talks, he holds the kitten on the table with one hand and opens an adjacent cabinet and rummages around with his right. “If the mother senses a birth defect or an illness that threatens the rest of the litter, she might sacrifice one offspring to improve the odds for the others.”

“Chance isn’t going to hurt her baby,” Bella says firmly. “I’ve seen how she is with him.”

When they left the house, she was gently licking little Spider and keeping him warm beneath her arm, shielding him from the squirmy sibling fray.

“I hope that’s the case, but you just never know,” he says. “When were the kittens born?”

“I’m not sure what time, but it was today.”

Again, she thinks about how Chance mysteriously vanished from the bedroom this morning. Obviously, she was seeking a private place in which to deliver her litter—but how on earth did she manage to get out of the room? And how did she get into the train room the first night?

Either she’s a magical cat who can lock and unlock doors—or walk through walls—or someone let her in and out.

“The good news,” Doctor Bailey lines up several items on the table and closes the cabinet, “is that this little guy he can be syringe-fed kitten formula through a feeding tube. I’m going to try that now, and we’ll see how it goes.”

She watches as he measures out a length of tube along the kitten’s body, marks it with a Sharpie, and draws some liquid into a narrow syringe.

“It’s so hard to listen to him crying.”

“Crying is actually a good sign. It means he’s hungry. If he weren’t crying, I’d be worried.”

Holding the kitten so that he’s lying on his belly, Doctor Bailey gently places the tip of the tube into his mouth. Amid continued high-pitched wailing, he eases the tube inside, gradually getting it all the way down the kitten’s throat and into its belly.

“The first time is always hard,” he says, “but once they get used to it, they swallow the tube more easily, knowing food is coming.”

With the tube inserted, he presses the syringe ever so slightly. As the first few nourishing drops hit the mark, the crying stops.

“There we go. That’s it, little guy,” Doctor Bailey says softly.

Bella leans over his shoulder to see. “He’s eating?”

“Yes, he is. Like a champ,” he adds with a laugh.

She swallows hard, so unexpectedly moved that it takes her a moment to find her voice. “Do you think he’ll live?”

“I think he has a fighting chance.”

For a few minutes, they watch in silence punctuated only by the squeaky cries from Spider’s siblings in the crate.

Then she asks quietly, “What about the puppy?”

“Hmm?”

“The puppy. The one you were trying to save the other night, when we were here. He’d had surgery. Did he make it?”

He looks up. “So far. He’s still here, out back, recovering.”

“So you’ll keep the kitten here, too?”

“Do you mean boarded, as a patient?” He shakes his head. “The queen hasn’t rejected him, and we don’t want that to happen, so he should continue to nest with her and the littermates.”

“The queen?”

“The official name for a feline nursing mother.”

“Queen Chance the Cat. I can’t wait to tell Max she’s royalty.”

Doctor Bailey flashes a brief smile. “I’m going to give you everything you need to hand-raise him, and I can loan you a good book on the subject, too.”

“Wait—hand-raise . . . ?”

“It just means you’ll do the feeding, and the queen will do the rest—grooming, litter-box training, socializing. She’ll instinctively handle everything he needs to become self-sufficient. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For now, you’ll have to feed him every two hours around the clock for the first week, then every three hours for the next—”

“Wait,” she cuts in again, “I don’t even live here. Max and I are leaving on Monday.”