The Tell-Tail Heart: A Cat Cozy (Cattarina Mysteries)
Read The Tell-Tail Heart: A Cat Cozy (Cattarina Mysteries) Online
Authors: Monica Shaughnessy
To
F & G
My
greatest sources of inspiration
To
my critique group
The
people who make me reach higher
To
Edgar Allan Poe
A
true literary genius
***
Adult
/ YA books by Monica Shaughnessy
Children's
books by Monica Shaughnessy
***
Acknowledgements
& Foreword
This book is a
complete
work of fiction
, however it
does
reference historical figures. Whenever
possible, the story remains true to the facts surrounding their lives. Edgar
Allan Poe did, indeed, own a tortoiseshell cat named Cattarina. While I can only
guess that she was his muse, I feel rather confident in this assertion as cats
provide an immeasurable amount of inspiration to modern writers. If you would
like to learn more about his life, several excellent biographies exist. I hope
you enjoy my little daydream; life is wonderfully dreary under Mr. Poe's spell.
Table
of Contents
The
Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe
><
Philadelphia, 1842
><
An
Object of Fascination
E
ddie was never happier than
when he was writing, and I was never happier than when Eddie was happy. That's what
concerned me about our trip to Shakey House Tavern tonight. An official letter
had arrived days ago, causing him to abandon his writing in a fit of melancholy—a
worrisome event for this feline muse. Oh, what power correspondence wields over
the Poe household! Since that time, his quill pen had lain lifeless upon his
desk, a casualty of the gloom. But refreshment only intensified these frequent
and unpredictable storms—hence my concern. Irritated by his lack of
attention, I sat beneath the bar and waited for him to stir. He'd been studying
a newspaper in the glow of a lard-oil lamp for most of the evening, ignoring
the boisterous drinkers around him. When he crinkled the sheets, I leapt onto
the polished ledge to investigate, curling my tail around me. I loved the marks
humans made upon the page. They reminded me of black ants on the march. They
also reminded me that until I found a way to help Eddie, it would be ages
before he'd make more of his own.
"A pity you don't read, Cattarina," he
said to me in confidence. "Murder has come to Philadelphia again, and it's
deliciously disturbing." He tapped a drawing he'd been examining, a
horrible likeness of an elderly woman, one eye gouged out, the other rolled
back in fear, mouth agape. "Far from the City of Brotherly Love, eh,
Catters?"
I trilled at my secret name. Everyone else
called me Cattarina, including Josef, Shakey House's stocky barkeep. He'd taken
note of me on the bar and approached with bared teeth, an odd greeting I'd
grown accustomed to over the years. When one lives with humans, one must
accommodate such eccentricities.
"
Guten Abend
, Cattarina," Josef
said to me. His side-whiskers had grown longer since our last visit. They
suited his broad face. He reached across the bar and stroked my back with a
raw, red hand, sending fur into the smoke circling overhead.
I lay down on Eddie's paper and tucked my feet
beneath me, settling in for a good pet. Josef was on the list of people I allowed
to touch me. Eddie, of course, held the first spot, followed by Sissy, then
Muddy, then Mr. Coffin, and so on and so forth, until we arrived at lucky
number ten, Josef Wertmüller. Others had tried; others had bled.
"Tortoiseshell cats are good luck. Yes, Mister
Poe?" the barkeep continued.
"I believe they are," Eddie said
without looking up. He turned the page and folded it in half so he wouldn't
disturb me.
"Such pretty eyes." Josef scratched
the ruff of my neck. "Like two gold coins. And fur the color of coffee and
tea. I take her for barter any day."
"Would you have me wander the streets alone,
sir? Without my fair Cattarina?" Eddie asked, straightening. "Without
my muse?"
"
Nein
," Josef said, withdrawing
his hand, "I would never dream." He took Eddie's empty glass and
wiped the water ring with a rag. "Another mint julep. Yes, Mr. Poe?"
At this suggestion, Eddie turned and faced the
tavern full of drinkers. A conspiracy of ravens in black coats and hats, the men
squawked, pausing to wet their beaks between caws. Eddie called out to them,
shouting over their conversation. "Attention! The first to buy me a mint julep
may have this newspaper." The bar patrons ignored him. He tried again. "I
say, attention! The first to buy—"
"We heard you the first time, Poe,"
said Hiram Abbott. He sat by himself at his usual table by the door. His cravat
had collected more stains since our last visit, some of which matched the color
of his teeth. Once the chortling died down, he challenged Eddie. "A
newspaper for a drink? I'd hardly call that a fair trade."
"Perhaps for a man who can't read,"
Eddie said.
Laughter coursed through the room, ripening the
apples of Mr. Abbott's cheeks. I longed to understand Eddie the way other
humans did, but alas, could not. While I possessed a large vocabulary—a
grandiose
vocabulary in catterly circles—I owned neither the tongue nor the ear to
communicate with my friend as I would've liked. Yes, I knew the meaning of oft-repeated
words: refreshment, writing, check-in-the-mail, damned story, illness, murder,
madness, and so forth. But a dizzying number remained beyond reach, causing me
to rely on nuance and posture to fill gaps in understanding—like now.
Whatever he'd said to Mr. Abbot pricked the man like a cocklebur to the paw.
Eddie continued, "My news is fresh,
gentlemen, purchased from the corner not more than an hour ago. The ink was
still wet when I bought it."
"You tell a good tale, Poe," said Mr. Murray,
a Shakey House regular with a long, drooping mustache, "but I've already learned
the day's gossip from Silas and Albert." He jabbed his tablemates with his
elbows, spilling their ale.
"I see. Then you and your quilting bee are aware
of the latest murder."
Murder
set the ravens squawking
again. Josef, however, remained silent. He wrung the bar towel between his
hands, blanching his knuckles.
"Speak, Poe!" said Mr. Murray. "You
have our attention."
A chorus rose from the crowd. "Speak!
Speak!" Mr. Abbott sank lower in his seat.
Eddie shooed me from my makeshift bed, folded
the sheets, and waved them above his head. "The Glass Eye Killer has
struck again. The penny dreadful tells all, in gory detail." His mustache
twitched. "And for those of strong stomach…pictures on page twelve."
The portly man who'd kept his shoulder to us most
of the evening lunged for the paper, knocking Eddie with his elbow by accident.
I returned with a low-pitched growl. The man stepped back, hands raised in
surrender, and asked Eddie to "call off the she-devil."
"I will if we can settle this like gentlemen,"
my friend said.
The man tossed coins on the bar, prompting Josef
to deliver a julep and Eddie to calm me with a pat to the head. But I had more
mischief in mind. I sprang for the glass, thinking to knock it sideways and end
our evening early. Muddy would be expecting us for dinner; she worried so when
we caroused. But Eddie's reflexes were still keen enough to prevent the "accident."
Disappointed, I hopped to the floor in search of my own refreshment.
Weaving through the forest of legs, I sniffed
for a crust of bread, a cheese rind, anything to take the edge off my hunger.
If I didn't find something soon, I'd sneak next door to the bakery for a pat of
butter before they closed. I could always count on the owner for a scrap or
two. Above me, the room returned to its usual cacophony.
