Read Scratch the Surface Online
Authors: Susan Conant
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Detective and mystery stories, #Detective and mystery stories - Authorship, #Cats, #Mystery fiction, #Apartment houses, #Women novelists
Scratch the Surface (32 page)
FORTY-ONE
Edith recognizes the
scent of unwashed llama. To Edith, Janice reeks of hunger, cold, and fear. In search of safety, the heavy-footed Edith runs upstairs to the bed she now prefers, the big one that offers warmth and companionship, the prime spot in this new household. So trusting is she of this secure place that instead of hiding under the bed, she hops up and settles on her usual pillow, where she rests undisturbed until Brigitte races into the room and onto the bed. With the unmistakable air of a cat looking for trouble, Brigitte sidles up to Edith and pinches the thick flesh at the base of Edith’s big skull.
scent of unwashed llama. To Edith, Janice reeks of hunger, cold, and fear. In search of safety, the heavy-footed Edith runs upstairs to the bed she now prefers, the big one that offers warmth and companionship, the prime spot in this new household. So trusting is she of this secure place that instead of hiding under the bed, she hops up and settles on her usual pillow, where she rests undisturbed until Brigitte races into the room and onto the bed. With the unmistakable air of a cat looking for trouble, Brigitte sidles up to Edith and pinches the thick flesh at the base of Edith’s big skull.
Edith flattens her ears against her head. Her eyes glow with suppressed rage. Still, she refrains from striking. Determined to awaken the wild ancestral feline that sleeps beneath Edith’s infuriating air of civilization, her tedious contentment, her dull placidity, Brigitte withdraws to the foot of bed. Her eyes closed, her body relaxed, she pauses to enjoy a few moments of meditation. After taking two deep, full, cleansing breaths, she conjures the image of herself in her very own special place of perfect safety, and once she sees the place vividly with her inner eye, she relishes the sounds and smells of the place, its feel beneath her paws, and the tranquility of spirit with which it blesses her. After benefiting from her sojourn in the imaginary place, Brigitte says good-bye to it, gradually opens her eyes, and slowly returns to the foot of what was formerly Felicity’s bed. The remarkable feature of Brigitte’s imaginary place is that it is almost identical to the real pillow still occupied by Edith. The only difference between the real place and the imaginary one is this: Where Edith is, there Brigitte belongs.
Relaxed and refreshed, strong and self-confident, Brigitte eases forward, crouches, and springs on Edith, who rouses herself, hisses at Brigitte, and, propelled by her mighty hindquarters, jumps off the bed and zooms into the hallway and toward the stairs. Brigitte follows in close pursuit. Little and fast, she is a sports car to Edith’s limousine, a sports car that catches up to the limo, trails it, edges forward, and smashes into its side, determined to force it off the road.
FORTY-TWO
“I’ll manage,” said
Janice. “I’m stronger than I look, remember? Just close the box. Don’t lock it. Now, move over there.” She gestured to the opposite side of the bed. When Felicity had complied, Janice bent over a little, wrapped her left hand and forearm around the metal box, and lifted it to rest on her hip. “Let’s go. You first. Walk slowly.”
Janice. “I’m stronger than I look, remember? Just close the box. Don’t lock it. Now, move over there.” She gestured to the opposite side of the bed. When Felicity had complied, Janice bent over a little, wrapped her left hand and forearm around the metal box, and lifted it to rest on her hip. “Let’s go. You first. Walk slowly.”
Felicity obediently moved to the door and into the hallway, where she scanned for the cats. Janice had done nothing to threaten them. She hadn’t aimed the revolver at either of them, hadn’t spoken about taking them hostage, hadn’t done a thing, really. Then again, she hadn’t said outright that she’d shoot Felicity before making off with the money, had she? She hadn’t needed to. Was she simply going to depart, leaving Felicity free to tell the whole story to the police? Did she expect Felicity to make so preposterous an assumption? Apparently so. Felicity knew better. Maybe Janice would kill her here in her own house, or maybe she’d force Felicity into a car, either her own clunker or Aunt Thelma’s Honda, and then commit her second murder somewhere else. Near Jamaica Pond? In the parking lot at Angell? What did it matter! This house would be her best choice, Felicity thought. Perhaps Janice would stage a suicide. She’d fire her weapon point-blank at Felicity’s heart. Or head? She’d wrap her victim’s hand around the gun to leave prints. A good forensics expert would spot the ruse, but by then, Felicity would be dead. And Edith and Brigitte? Brigitte was so annoyingly interested in
everything
. It would be just like her to get in Janice’s way. And both cats were so hideously vulnerable. Edith was big and solid, like an old-fashioned doorstop, but against a malevolent human being, she’d be defenseless. Where were they? Edith had probably taken refuge under the bed that had once been exclusively Felicity’s. Where was Brigitte?
everything
. It would be just like her to get in Janice’s way. And both cats were so hideously vulnerable. Edith was big and solid, like an old-fashioned doorstop, but against a malevolent human being, she’d be defenseless. Where were they? Edith had probably taken refuge under the bed that had once been exclusively Felicity’s. Where was Brigitte?
As Felicity moved toward the top of the staircase, with Janice right behind her, she experienced a sudden revelation: To her astonishment, she was more worried about Edith and Brigitte than she was about herself. Although a revolver was aimed at her back, her own fifty-three years were not passing before her eyes; rather, she was gripped by images of creatures who had just entered her life.
She prayed silently. “Dear God, You are on the verge of letting Janice Mattingly kill me. Why You should thus have botched the plot of a cozy mystery is Your business and not mine, but I can’t refrain from pointing out that unless You’ve been publishing under an assumed name—if so, what is it?—I have more experience in these matters than You do, and it’s my professional opinion, and that of other published mystery writers, that the amateur sleuth, namely, me, is supposed to survive to the end of the book, and that the murderer is supposed to get caught. Readers like to see order restored and justice done. If Your sales are lousy, You’ll have only Yourself to blame. Anyway, I don’t have time to critique Your efforts in full because, as You can see for Yourself, I’m about to die and would consequently like to put in a few last words. First, if there’s one thing readers hate, it’s the death of animals, so You would be ill advised to kill Edith and Brigitte. Second, on the subject of my immortal soul, in writing Your review, please ignore everything my mother has to say about me. She is wrong. I
am
capable of love. In particular, I love Edith and Brigitte. Love counts for something, doesn’t it? If not, it should. Respectfully yours, Felicity Pride”.
am
capable of love. In particular, I love Edith and Brigitte. Love counts for something, doesn’t it? If not, it should. Respectfully yours, Felicity Pride”.
Felicity rested her right hand on the banister and began to descend the stairs. A scrap of her award-winning Latin came to her:
Facilis descensus Averno
. Virgil.
The Aeneid
. Easy is the descent to Hades. Ha! Her own route to the underworld was steep and uncarpeted. Why hadn’t Uncle Bob hired an architect instead of buying a house from a developer! Money. Always, money.
Facilis descensus Averno
. Virgil.
The Aeneid
. Easy is the descent to Hades. Ha! Her own route to the underworld was steep and uncarpeted. Why hadn’t Uncle Bob hired an architect instead of buying a house from a developer! Money. Always, money.
“Slow down,” Janice ordered her.
Only three steps from the top, Felicity paused. In the stillness of the big house, the sound of Janice’s footstep was unnaturally loud. Then, breaking the silence, came a hiss, a quick snarl, and the familiar and uncatlike pounding of Edith’s paws, followed immediately by a melee of sounds and sights as Edith rocketed down the stairs with Brigitte in close pursuit while, simultaneously, the metal box banged its way down after the cats, the revolver clattered after it, and Janice, tripped by the cats, lurched into Felicity’s left shoulder, lost her balance, and, with a short, hideous scream, plunged down the steep, hard steps to the slate floor of the hallway. Felicity, who had no recollection of saving herself, found that she was huddled against the wall near the top of the staircase, still only three steps down, with her derriere planted on the wooden tread and both hands locked on the banister. Her eyes were on Janice Mattingly, whose motionless body lay below, face down on the gray slate. Near the door to the vestibule was the fireproof box. Close to it was the revolver.
The cats again broke the stillness. Brigitte, truly possessed of little cat feet, darted lightly up the stairs and past Felicity. The little cat’s fluffy coat showed damp patches. With the unmistakable air of a victor, Edith strolled into the hallway from the direction of the kitchen, calmly seated herself on her haunches, casually bent her head to lick her front paws, and, with a glance up at Felicity, uttered her tiny meow, a single high-pitched note that Felicity somehow found reassuring.
With the brittle composure induced by emergencies, Felicity pulled herself to her feet, carefully descended the stairs, and stepped around the bundle of ugly greenish-yellow sweater, chinos, and dark hair that was Janice, who lay only a few yards from the spot in the vestibule where she had dumped the body of Quinlan Coates. Janice, however, might still be alive. Perhaps she was unconscious. Perhaps she’d merely had the wind knocked out of her. Felicity made for the revolver. Ever the mystery writer, she pulled the cuff of her right sleeve over her hand before touching the weapon. Knowing almost nothing about firearms, she was unable to identify the safety, but assumed that there was one. On or off? Why couldn’t murderers use poison! Slowly and cautiously, she carried the revolver to the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and hid the weapon behind six bottles of single malt scotch. Then she called 911. She needed the police, she said. And an ambulance. And please tell Detective Dave Valentine!
After completing the call, she returned to the hallway, where Uncle Bob’s shabby old fireproof box lay on the slate floor by the door. As Felicity had already worked out in detail worthy of the Scot she was, the cash in that box represented the sale of a great many books. The cover price of
Felines in Felony
was $22.95. She received a ten percent royalty, that is, $2.295 per book, of which fifteen percent went to her agent, Irene, leaving the author $1.95075 for each hardcover sale. Uncle Bob’s cash, $120, 555.00, thus represented the sale of 61,799.307 copies of the hardcover edition of
Felines
. Even with the publicity she’d get now that she’d be allowed to grant interviews about her very own murder, she’d never sell anything close to sixty thousand copies. Furthermore, her calculations about book sales excluded the state and federal taxes she’d have to pay on her royalty income. Uncle Bob’s cash was tax free. Felicity walked briskly to the fireproof box, lifted it with both hands, walked around the motionless Janice, climbed the stairs, and put the box back in its hiding place, which is to say, back where it belonged.
Felines in Felony
was $22.95. She received a ten percent royalty, that is, $2.295 per book, of which fifteen percent went to her agent, Irene, leaving the author $1.95075 for each hardcover sale. Uncle Bob’s cash, $120, 555.00, thus represented the sale of 61,799.307 copies of the hardcover edition of
Felines
. Even with the publicity she’d get now that she’d be allowed to grant interviews about her very own murder, she’d never sell anything close to sixty thousand copies. Furthermore, her calculations about book sales excluded the state and federal taxes she’d have to pay on her royalty income. Uncle Bob’s cash was tax free. Felicity walked briskly to the fireproof box, lifted it with both hands, walked around the motionless Janice, climbed the stairs, and put the box back in its hiding place, which is to say, back where it belonged.
She returned to the hallway. As she had just reminded God, she was not a heartless person. In learning to love Edith and Brigitte, she had proven herself capable of love. She was also capable of decency to her fellow human beings. To her credit, she regretted never having learned CPR. She did summon the courage to lift the layer of lanky dark hair that covered Janice’s face. One eye was visible. It was open and had a frozen, flat look. Felicity quickly let go of the hair. She had been wrong to touch the body at all.
FORTY-THREE
Alerted by an
anonymous caller, a major Boston television station sent a crew to Newton Park. The media arrived only moments after the police and the emergency medical vehicles. In the powerful lights, night became day. Because the corpse lay inside Felicity’s house, her abode became an official crime scene. In her interviews with Detective Dave Valentine and with the reporters sent by Boston television stations, radio stations, and newspapers, she modestly gave all the credit for solving the murder of Quinlan Coates to her beautiful Chartreux cats, Edith and Brigitte.
anonymous caller, a major Boston television station sent a crew to Newton Park. The media arrived only moments after the police and the emergency medical vehicles. In the powerful lights, night became day. Because the corpse lay inside Felicity’s house, her abode became an official crime scene. In her interviews with Detective Dave Valentine and with the reporters sent by Boston television stations, radio stations, and newspapers, she modestly gave all the credit for solving the murder of Quinlan Coates to her beautiful Chartreux cats, Edith and Brigitte.
In describing Janice Mattingly’s fatal fall, Felicity said nothing of the cats’ role. Janice, she maintained, had intended to hold Edith and Brigitte hostage until morning, when Felicity was supposed to go to her bank, withdraw a large amount of cash, and give it to Janice, who, she said, had never specified the amount. Intending to incarcerate Edith and Brigitte in their cat carrier until Felicity had paid up, Janice had forced Felicity upstairs at gunpoint in search of the cats. After failing to find them there, she was on her way back downstairs, just behind Felicity, when she tripped and fell. Yes, the stairs were steep and uncarpeted, and the floor at the bottom was made of slate. Yes, Janice Mattingly had been recovering from acute food poisoning. Against Felicity’s advice, she had consumed a considerable quantity of wine. And, yes, the entire story of Quinlan Coates’s murder and its solution certainly did bear a remarkable resemblance to what one found in Felicity’s own books. The latest, by the way, was called
Felines in Felony
. It was available wherever books were sold.
Felines in Felony
. It was available wherever books were sold.
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