The Black Cats (6 page)

Mr.
Eakins laid down his twig and closed his book. When he rose to help Silas, he
brushed the tablecloth with his leg, revealing the cage hidden beneath it. I could
not be an inmate of parrot prison again! Terrified, I leapt to the ground and
ran straight home. There had to be another way to help Snip.

For
Sale: One Muse

“THAT IS NO WAY to hammer a
nail,” Muddy said. She stood under the western eave, surveying her son-in-law’s
handiwork. Eddy, meanwhile, had removed one of his shoes and was using it to chastise
the threshold. He brought it down repeatedly on the board, much to Muddy’s
consternation. “You’ll never fix it,” she said.

I
approached them, fresh from Mr. Eakins’s house, to observe the undertaking.

“I
will
fix it,” Eddy said. “You will see.”
He raised his shoe again, laces swaying, and smacked a protruding nail head. Everyone
in Poe House had either tripped over the errant barb or snagged clothing on it
since moving here this spring. Though physical labor disagreed with my
companion, he persisted in a manner most enthusiastic. Sweat formed on his
brow, and his hair flopped forward into his eyes.
Smack! Smack!
With every blow of his shoe, he grunted.

“I told
you,” Muddy said. “It will never work. You need something harder.”

“Your
head, perhaps,” Eddy muttered under his breath. He struck the nail again.

“A shoe
is no substitute for a hammer,” she said.

“We
don’t
have
a hammer, Mother,” Sissy
called from the open kitchen door. “And the Poyners aren’t home, so we can’t
borrow one from them.”

“Then tell
your husband to buy one.” Muddy crossed her arms over her stomach and addressed
Eddy. “I’m sure the Irishman deals on credit.” She turned and disappeared into
the house.

Eddy
stood and slipped his foot into his shoe. “Catters, old girl, why don’t we
visit Fitz together?” He reached to stroke my back, releasing a puff of fur. “Muddy
won’t let up until the nail is fixed. What’s more, ‘The Black Cat’ isn’t coming
along like I’d hoped. I think fresh air and a trip to the store would help with
both. But we’d better hurry. He’s closing soon.”

We journeyed
down Minerva, the westward sun on our faces. As we walked, I recalled the day’s
events: a murder, a catnapping, a romantic rekindling. Why, I’d had enough
adventure to last the summer! I glanced at Eddy, his dark silhouette a comfort.
The life he provided was thrilling enough; did I need to seek diversion
elsewhere? No, in this happy moment, I was content to leave the affairs of the
black cat to the black cat himself.

The
feeling lasted until we reached the sassafras tree.

Snip’s
body had long since been removed, yet sorrow marred the courtyard, thickening
the air like chowder. I pictured the little tom, running circles around Silas
and Samuel, working, as Midnight said, for the laugh. I swished my tail. I
could not overlook his murder now that I’d come to know him. But I needed to
find a way to help that didn’t involve Mr. Eakins.

Eddy entered
Fitzgerald Hardware with a spry hop. Humans were a pitiable species, but I
envied their dull senses at times like these. I stepped inside the narrow store,
pausing behind my friend. Glass cases stocked with an assortment of nails,
metal fittings, and hinges lined the space. Atop the cabinetry, more items had
been arranged: lanterns, tin funnels, boxes of gunpowder, downspouts, cast iron
spiders…almost too much to behold. We found Mr. Fitzgerald in the back, dusting
a row of pot-bellied stoves. The floorboards creaked, announcing our arrival.

“Afternoon,
Mr. Poe.” Mr. Fitzgerald laid down his duster and winked at me. “If you’ve come
for the
craic
about the cat, sir, I
don’t know a thing about it.”

My ear
flicked at the mention of
cat
.

“No,
Mr. Fitzgerald, this call is strictly business.” Eddy clasped his hands behind
his back. “I’m in need of a hammer. Do you carry them?”

“I have
claw, mallet, sledge, tinner’s… What kind are you looking for?”

“The
kind that punishes nails.”

“I have
just the one.” The man stepped behind a long glass case and pointed to a row of
tools inside. I joined the men, hopping to the counter to peruse the objects
below me. I was no expert, but they looked better at pounding nails than Eddy’s
shoe. The men spoke at length, exhausting the topics of
hammers
and
hardheaded women
.
Since I did not think Mr. Fitzgerald sold the second, I decided the implements
in the case must be the first. I had no interest in either. My attention
drifted, settling on an attractive box of twine balls at the end of the counter.

And
then I saw it.

The now-familiar
rope hung on a peg near the pot-bellied stoves. I traversed the cabinetry and studied
the cord’s composition:
brown and tan
jute, the former dyed with a bitter solution that smelled of walnuts, the
latter left au natural.
Great Cat Above, I’d located the source of the murder
weapon! I narrowed my eyes at Mr. Fitzgerald and watched him share a joke of
some sort with Eddy. The two men laughed. It baffled me that a human of gentle
demeanor could commit such a cruelty. But Mr. Fitzgerald, indeed, had been the
one to kill the black cat. I yowled to catch Eddy’s attention.

“We
will leave soon, Catters,” he said. He gave the shopkeeper a somber look. “Now
about your store credit…”

Mr. Fitzgerald
had already killed one cat this morning, and I, for one, didn’t want to be the
second. So I nudged the box of twine balls from the counter to accelerate my plot.
They bounced and rolled along the floor, coming to rest beneath the pot-bellied
stoves. The men stopped speaking and looked at me. Splendid.

“Catters?”
Eddy said. “What on earth are you doing?”

I
knocked a tin of thingamabobs to the floor. One needed a glossary just to shop here.

“Catters!”

When both
men approached, I leapt to the rope to draw notice. Naturally I brought it down
on top of myself. Rationation is not without peril. I poked through the heap of
loops and meowed for Eddy. He would recognize this as the same material from
which the killer had made this morning’s noose, and Mr. Fitzgerald would be exposed
as a torturer and a fiend. The neighbors might turn against him, but this
mattered less than the truth. Three cheers for me, the greatest cat in all
of—

“Cattarina, stop this tomfoolery at once!”
Eddy said.

Mr. Fitzgerald
stood behind Eddy and peered over his shoulder. “Well, I’ll be graveled. Think
she’s chasing a mouse?”

“I
think she’s chasing her sanity,” Eddy said.

I sank
my teeth into the jute and held fast to the clue. To quote the famous
philosopher, Cato, “We are twice armed when we bite in faith.” I had just
become a formidable opponent.

Eddy tried
tugging the line from my jaws. Then he pulled me around the floor like a
child’s toy—a wooden cat on a string. When he paused to rethink this
strategy, I doubled my efforts, tangling and winding into the coil until I’d knotted
myself to the bitter end. With enough tortitude, any problem could be solved, I
reasoned. Soon, Eddy would appreciate the significance of the rope, and I could
let go of the blasted thing. I hoped it happened before dinner.

“Well,
that is that, I’m afraid. Good day, Mr. Fitzgerald.” Eddy placed the hammer in
his pocket and dragged me toward the door, my teeth still grasping the clue. To
my horror, my fur cleaned a path on the dusty floor behind us. Still I did not
let go.

“Wait!
Mr. Poe!” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “Don’t mean to start a chafe, but I can’t let
you to leave without paying for that item.”

Eddy paused
near the entrance. “I have already purchased this hammer on credit. Perhaps we
can make a similar arrangement for the rope?”

“We
have a limit, and you’ve reached it.”

Eddy
scowled at me, his cheeks red. “Then would you like to buy a cat?”

The
shopkeeper eyed me. “At the moment, no.”

“A
barter, then.” He took a deep breath. “The hammer for the rope.”

“That I
can do, Mr. Poe,” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “That I can do.”

Eddy
left the hardware store, dragging me belly up in the dirt behind him. At least
we were no longer in the company of a murderer. Tabitha and Abner Arnold watched
us from the doorway of the shoemaker shop next door. Abner appeared to have recovered
from his trip to Jolley Spirits and stood a little straighter. Tabitha,
meanwhile, hadn’t changed a whit. She scowled at us, unamused by our conduct. Throughout
the courtyard, I wished for street. When we reached Franklin, I wished for soft
earth. Cobblestones are for paws, not backs. The entire trip home, Eddy did not
speak to me. And he
certainly
did not
speak to the neighbors, try as they might to engage him.

“You’ve
got an odd anchor, Poe!” Mr. Cook shouted from his front stoop. “It’s got teeth
and tail!”

Mrs.
Cook stuck her head out of an upstairs window and pointed. “Look! He’s caught a
cat
fish on his line. I know what Mrs.
Clemm is cooking for dinner!”

Their
jeers held no meaning. I had a job to do, and nothing would stand between me
and my quarry, not even my pride. Just the same, I hoped I wouldn’t encounter
the tabbies, George and Margaret, or the Coon Cats, Samuel and Silas. Vanity
aside, I still prized my dignity.

Eddy continued
in silence, stopping every few houses to see if I’d let go of the rope. But he
never once looked—really
looked—
at
the object between his fingers. With each passing stone that scraped my back, my
course grew more certain. Midnight was right. To help Snip and protect the cats
of Philadelphia from Mr. Fitzgerald, I had to steal Mr. Eakins’s book.

JUST AS I LICKED the last twig
from my tail, Muddy served dinner. Unfortunately, my harrowing drag was for
naught. Nothing came of these heroics, save for a bruise in a very delicate
place; my bottom had polished every cobblestone on Franklin. In the absence of
a hammer, Eddy pressed a candle stub onto the nail head, preventing Sissy or
Muddy from tearing their skirt again. But what skills he possessed in shirking handiwork,
he lacked in hunting. To snare Mr. Fitzgerald required the cunning of a cat,
nay, a
tortoiseshell
cat.

I
pondered the complexities of the crime during the evening meal. I’d detected no
lavender or citrus anywhere in Mr. Fitzgerald’s shop, and I remembered smelling
it on the noose this morning. Further, what possible reason could he have for
killing Snip? And had he been Snip’s owner? Lastly, I judged him a fair human.
I have been mistaken or misguided on occasion, even ill advised, but I have
never been wrong. Doubt over his role in the murder abounded. I prayed Mr.
Eakins’s book would provide answers.

Once
I’d downed Muddy’s feeble offering of chicken broth, I proceeded to Green
Street, stopping first at the Beal residence for help. The grey tom and orange
molly napped on the stoop, warming themselves in the dwindling sun. I thanked
the Great Cat Above for the long stretch of summer daylight. It made my
investigation that much easier, and quite an investigation it had been. I’d
done more today than I had all spring. I climbed the terraced steps and chanced
upon a crockery bowl of water. I took a sip of the cool liquid, thinking the
Quaker cats would not mind.

George
lifted his head, one eye still closed. “Cattarina?” He nudged Margaret. She
awoke with a start and sprang to her feet.

“Y-you’re
alive,” she said to me. “But how? Every cat tongue on Green Street is a-wag. They’re
saying the Butcher got his hands on you.”

“He
did,” I said. “It was quite an ordeal.” I licked the water from my lips.

George
sniffed me. “And you’re not dead?”

I
shifted to my hindquarters, minding the bruise. “You should be asking about the
Butcher.”

“The
way you talk!” Margaret said.

“Were
you terribly frightened?” George asked. “How did you escape his sausage
grinder? Skeletons. Were there cat skeletons in the home?” He backed into the
water bowl, spilling it. “Do tell us, Cattarina! Do tell us!”

“You
misunderstand Mr. Eakins,” I said.

“Who is
Mr. Eakins?” George shook the water from his paws and licked them.

“The
Butcher. Please keep up.” I flicked the end of my tail. “From what Silas and
Sam— I mean, the Water Giants, tell me, he is a kindly old man who
rescues homeless cats. Though he
may
have a small flea problem.”

Margaret’s
eyes grew wide. “You met the Water Giants?”

“They
are not dead, either,” I added. “You may meet them yourself.”

George
and Margaret sneezed, one after another—a clear rejection of my proposal.

“I
assure you, I am serious. In fact, I would like you to accompany me to the
Butcher’s home.” I rose to all paws, keeping my tail low. “He is in possession
of a clue, and I need your help obtaining it.”

“A
clue?” Margaret asked. “What is a clue?”

I told
them the story of Snip, the book, and Mr. Fitzgerald. I’d even come up with a
plan on the way over, which I explained to them now. I softened the danger by
calling it a game of cat and mouse with unorthodox rules. This seemed to calm
George a bit, for he relaxed his ears toward the end of my speech.

“We don’t
condone stealing,” he said once I’d finished. “Taking the book would be against
our code. Mr. Beal would be unhappy if we—”

“Don’t
think of it as stealing,” I said. “Think of it helping a fallen…
friend
.”

Margaret
blinked. “Very well. We will help you. But once you enter the Butcher’s home, you’re
on your own.”

***

For all
the wailing, I would’ve thought George at death’s door. He lay on the walkway
leading to Mr. Eakins’s home, legs kicking in spasm. When I explained he would
be the
mouse
, not the cat, in our
charade, he took some convincing. But I am nothing if not persuasive. I
crouched in the holly bushes next door and waited for the game to begin.

“What
do you think of my performance?” George asked me.

“Can
you cry louder?” I asked. “The Butcher is old and does not hear so well, I
imagine.”

George
obliged, shrieking at full capacity. Another cat down the block screeched in
reply. Every performance needed an audience, I supposed. In a fashion, the
caterwaul lured Mr. Eakins outside, parrot cage in tow. “Heeeere kitty, kitty.
I’ll fix you up.”

“Run,
George, run!” I shouted.

George
needed no prompting. He leapt to his feet and disappeared from the garden like
a puff of smoke. Mr. Eakins gave chase, but the tom was in no danger of being
caught, not without aid of a net and perhaps a horse and driver. When George
reached the street, he signaled Margaret. She streaked across the old man’s
path, and the two tabbies ran ziggety-zag, luring Mr. Eakins down Green Street
and away from his home.

I
slipped inside Mr. Eakins’s front hall and headed for the kitchen. Having been
a “guest” this morning, I navigated the rooms with ease, finding no Coon Cats. The
cat
-pendium lay on the tabletop,
waiting for my perusal. I climbed topside and pushed the book open to search
for Snip’s entry. Spotted cats, striped cats, black cats— I paused on
Midnight’s page. Mr. Eakins had captured his likeness quite well. I continued
flipping until I reached Snip’s page. The black cat stared back at me with both
good eyes. I’d been right about him losing one after his rescue. Had Mr. Fitzgerald
taken it? I studied the marks beneath Snip’s sketch and wondered if they told
of his new owner and street address. I switched my tail. This I would leave to Eddy,
my man of letters.

I tried
to lift the volume with my teeth. It dropped to the floor with a weighty thud. Fiddlesticks.

A thump
and a crash rang out on the second floor. The Brothers Coon?

I tried
nudging my prize from the kitchen to the parlor. I gave up when my nose hit the
raised threshold between rooms. Too many cobblestones lay between here and home
to continue in this manner. I knew this firstpaw or rather, first
bottom
. I swiveled my ears and caught
the sound of footfall upon the stair—Silas and Samuel, without a doubt. I
opened the book again to Snip’s entry. If I could not take the whole clue, I
would take a piece of it. Minding the precious black marks, I gnawed the page
near the binding. Despite my swift action, Silas and Samuel entered and caught
me with a mouthful of paper. I had been reduced to a common woodchuck.

“Don’t
look now, brother,” Silas said to Samuel, “but Cattarina is back, and she is
eating from the Book of Cats.”

“How
very curious,” Samuel said. “Our Robert usually
reads
from the Book of Cats. Doesn’t Mrs. Poe feed her?”

Silas
twitched his whiskers. “One look at her stomach, and you’ll know the answer.”

I spat
a mouthful of paper. “I do not have time for this!”

The
Coon Cats stared at me.

“At
this very instant, Snip’s killer runs free,” I said. “And Mr. Eakins’s Book of
Cats may hold the scoundrel’s identity. I must, simply
must
be allowed to take this page.”

“Snip’s
killer?” Samuel cocked his head. “You mean he is dead?”

Silas
grew quiet.

“That
was the hanged cat I spoke of this morning,” I said. “You did not hear the
gossip?”

“I told
you,” Samuel said. “We stay inside much of the day. Locked doors. Locked
windows. Mr. Eakins doesn’t let us wander like other cats. He talks about
danger
and
disease
and all sorts of bad things, most of which we don’t
understand. But we know he means to keep us safe.”

“I
thought you spoke in jest.” I had heard of indoor plants, indoor rugs, and
indoor wicker. But
indoor cats
? How
barbaric. The beautiful Coons were no more than furniture. I prayed this
new-fashioned practice would end with Mr. Eakins.

“Dear brother,
our Robert was right!” Silas wailed. “It
is
dangerous out there!” Samuel tried to comfort him with a sideways rub. Silas
pushed him away. “I wish we had never found that hole in the roof. ‘Sneak outside
at night,’ you said. ‘He’ll never catch us,’ you said. We could’ve been killed,
just like Snip!” He left the room, dragging his tail behind him.

“Forgive
my brother,” Samuel said. “He has a nervous condition.”

“I
agree with Silas,” I said. “The world is a dangerous place. But Snip’s human
killed him, not illness or accident. Say, do you happen to know the new owner’s
name? This will save me much work as I am on his trail.”

“I’m
afraid not. We meet some of the humans Robert works with, but not all.” He
glanced at the book. “Taking this page will help you find Snip’s owner?”

“Yes.”
I considered explaining the black marks and what they might mean but decided against
it. In the end, the simplest answer won out. Samuel helped me tear Snip’s page
from the book and walked me to the door. Whether or not the paper contained Mr.
Fitzgerald’s information remained to be seen.

“Good
luck with your hunt, Cattarina,” he said. “If there’s anything else we can do,
let us know. We are able to come and go by a hole in the roof. Silas will take
some coaxing, but we’ll be there if you need us.” He watched Mr. Eakins huff
and puff toward us down the street, his cage empty. “Snip was a good friend. I
hope you find his murderer.”

I bade
him farewell and left with Snip’s information, escaping past Mr. Eakins by the
garden gate. The old man gasped at the torn page in my mouth, but George and
Margaret had winded him, and he could not give chase. He scratched his ribs and
yelled, “You are much too curious for your own good, Cattarina! Some secrets should
stay buried!” This sounded like a warning.

Near
the corner of North Seventh, I detected the stench of rotting flesh. I followed
it all the way to Poe House and around to our kitchen garden where someone had committed
the unconscionable.