The Tell-Tail Heart: A Cat Cozy (Cattarina Mysteries) Read online

  Old Muddy stood by the stove, stirring a pot of stew, the fringe of her white cap wilted by the steam. "And where have you been?" she asked.

  "Frightening the public, as is my duty." Eddie cast off his cloak and draped it over a dining chair.

  I hopped on the woolen fabric and ignored the ache in my jaw while I decided where to hide my treasure. The closet beneath the stairs?

  "Have you been drinking?" she asked him.

  Eddie held onto the chair back for support. "I am as straight as judges."

  "Humph. Sissy and I expected you an hour ago," Muddy said to us. "The stew's nearly boiled dry and—" She pointed her spoon at me, broth dripping to the floor, and shrank against the wall. "Ahhhh! The cat! The cat!"

  Sobered by his mother-in-law's reaction, Eddie knelt and examined me for the first time since we left Shakey House. "Oh, Jupiter!" He fell back in shock, one hand on his chest.

  Sissy, an embodiment of feline grace, glided into the room. Her complexion had grown whiter in recent days, giving her the pallor of a corpse. While I feared for her health, I hadn't yet revealed my concern to Eddie. He wasn't ready. "What have we here, Miss Cattarina?" She bent down, plucked the object from my mouth, and examined it with eyes large and dark. A kitten's eyes.

  Eddie and Muddy joined her. The three huddled around the shiny half-orb that lay on her palm. Sissy leaned closer for examination, swaying the lampblack curls that hung on either side of her ears.

  "It's an eye," Muddy said. She squinted one of her own, deepening her wrinkles.

  "Of course it's an eye, Mother," Sissy said. "The bigger question is, 'where did it come from?'"

  "Astute as ever, my darling," Eddie said to Sissy. "But the even bigger conundrum is 'whom did it come from?'"

  "Quite right," Sissy said. "Quite right."

  Eddie stroked his mustache. "It has to be from the poor woman found…deceased this afternoon, Eudora Tottham."

  Muddy gasped. "The one in the paper? You don't think—"

  "I do," Eddie said.

  Sissy blinked, her confusion evident. I blinked, too.

  "You've got to turn it in to the police," Muddy said.

  "And cast suspicion on myself?" Eddie said. "I think not."

  "What are you two talking about?" Sissy asked.

  Eddie reached across and cupped Sissy's face. "We mustn't talk of such things around your delicate ears, Sissy. Serve the soup, won't you, Muddy?" He snatched the object from his wife's palm and stuck it in his pocket.

  At once, Muddy sat her daughter on stool near the stove and began dishing stew into little china bowls painted with blue dragons. Anticipating the feast to come, I riveted my gaze to the dragon bowl on the floor, the one with the chipped rim. I longed for a big chunk of mutton, not just broth and a cooked carrot that looked like a shriveled finger. How I hated carrots. When Eddie scooped me up, it was clear the contents of my bowl would remain a mystery a while longer. He carried me to the front room, a small, spare area that served as parlor, keeping room, and office. Eddie may have liked his damned stories, but they never amounted to a check-in-the-mail, something I suspected correlated to the size of our home. Though I couldn't be sure since the inner workings of human commerce were more confusing than a butterfly's drunken flight path.

  Eddie set me on his desk, hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his vest, and gave me a long look. The dying embers of the fireplace glowed behind him. "It's clear to whom the eye belongs…rather, belonged to, Catters. Anyone with a copy of the Gazette could deduce that. But where did you find your treasure? Along Coates? Near the razed tannery?" He took my toy from his pocket and tossed it in the air, catching it. "And, most importantly, did you see the fiend who dropped it? So many questions, so many murders."

  There it was again, murder. It looked as if he wanted me to talk about my discovery. While eager to tell him everything I knew, I couldn't find the words.

  * * *

  My eyeball became Eddie's eyeball following our little chat. He set it on the mantel before we left for dinner and shut the door, sealing the room from further investigation. Throughout the meal, I plotted how to recover the lost item, deciding at last on a midnight caper. Once the Poe family fell asleep, I would trip the latch on the door and take back my property. Easy as mouse pie. After we feasted—they on stew and bread, me on a chunk of mutton and crust soaked in broth—we retired to our separate chambers.

  While I longed to sleep at the foot of Eddie's bed, my place was with Sissy. I assigned myself that duty after she fell ill one winter's afternoon in our old house. We'd gathered in the parlor to listen to her sing when, in the middle of a high-note, she caught her breath, looked at Eddie with surprise, and coughed blood onto her gown. Ghastly. I'd smelled sickness on her that fall but had been unable to alert the household due to my verbal shortcomings. As penance, I provided the one comfort I could: warmth. Since then, we'd moved again and again. But try as Eddie might, he could not outrun her illness.

  The eyeball still pressing my thoughts, I accompanied Sissy to the bedroom she shared with Muddy and waited for them to peel away layers of dresses, slips, and corsets down to their chemises. I snoozed on the dresser between the tortoiseshell comb set and the hair cozy, eyes half-closed, for their routine. In my opinion, humans attached a distasteful amount of pageantry to covering their skin. Still, I pitied their lack of fur.

  Sissy slipped into her bed. "What were you and Eddie talking about in the kitchen, Mother? Before dinner? You spoke of a woman named Eudora."

  Muddy took her own bed against the opposite wall and pulled the quilt to her chin.

  "Mother?"

  "Don't trouble yourself, dear."

  "I know I'm ill, but I—"

  "Virginia," Muddy snapped, "you are not ill. You are under the weather."

  Sissy gritted her teeth. I heard it across the room. "Yes, Mother." She blew out the candle and called to me. "Cattarina, come."

  I alighted from the dresser and took my place on her chest, curling myself into a ball. As it did each night, her body trembled beneath me, shuddering and seizing with each little cough as it relaxed into a fitful sleep. I longed to heal her but didn't know how. Yes, I loved Sissy, but I loved Eddie even more, and losing her would cast a shadow over his heart that nothing, not even a litter of suns, would banish. That's why I hated to leave her.

  But the eye had possessed me.

  I tiptoed downstairs in the dark, moving like mist over the floorboards. I'd taught myself how to open the front door latch, letting myself in and out of the house at will. However, the office latch was nearly impenetrable. I knew because I'd tried it before. With no nearby bookshelf from which to launch myself, obtaining the proper trajectory and momentum had proved difficult in the past. Still, I had to—

  Scratch, scrape, scratch, scrape.

  I paused in the hall, listening to a sound I hadn't heard in days. I hastened to Eddie's office door and found it ajar, firelight streaming through the opening—a welcome sight, as he'd left the room unoccupied for days. I slipped inside to find my companion at his desk, quill pen in hand, furiously scribbling upon the page. But what had lifted his melancholy? When I leapt onto his desk, I found my answer. He'd set the eyeball near the ink blotter where it watched him.

  At once, jealousy struck me. Watching Eddie was my job. I batted the thing and knocked it to the floor, startling him. He looked up, his hair mussed, his cravat askew.

  "Catters? I didn't see you come in."

  I meowed softly, so as not to wake the women.

  Eddie set aside his pen, retrieved the eye, and sat down again with it. "Imagine, the last person to touch this was a murderer. Isn't it marvelous?"

  Firelight glinted off the glass bauble, bringing it to life between his ink-stained fingers. For an instant, I wondered if it could see us. I dismissed the thought with a switch of my tail. Preposterous. Though if Eddie hadn't taken such a liking to it, I might've carried it to the garden and buried it—just in case.

 
"In any event, it's got me writing again," he said to me, "and I have you to thank for it." He scratched me between the ears and gave me a rare smile. I liked his teeth, small and square and not the least bit threatening. When he finished petting me, he set his new muse on the desk and picked up his pen again. "If you'll excuse me, I'm deep in the middle of outlining and can't go to bed until I'm done."

  I paced the desktop and let him write. I'd gone from liking the eyeball to hating it in the span of a good yawn. But if it gave Eddie a reason to write, I'd fill the house with them. With this in mind, I disappeared down the hall, jumped to the bookshelf by the door, and sprang the front latch on the second try. If I hurried, I'd reach Shakey House Tavern before it closed. Whoever dropped the eye might've dropped another one. And Eddie would be very, very pleased to own it.

  Trouble by the Tail

  By the time I'd backtracked along Coates to Nixon, the roads had emptied of all beasts sensible enough to shelter from the dipping temperatures. Ziggety-zagging south, I scampered along a combination of alleys and main thoroughfares to reach Shakey House in about the time it takes Muddy's dumplings to boil. While a more efficient route existed, it would've taken me near the Eastern State Penitentiary. While most two-legged citizens considered it a marvel of construction, I stayed clear of it. A large tom named Big Blue lived behind the building, and I didn't know if he'd appreciate an interloper crossing through his territory.

  At Callowhill, I skittered around two salted meat barrels and ran down the block toward my destination. The way Eddie had bound eyeball and murder together, I deduced that one human had slain another over the object. Which meant tonight, I tracked a killer. Whether or not this put me in harm's way, I didn't know.

  I reached Shakey House in time to catch the last patron—Mr. Abbott—leaving. He ignored me and hurried down the empty street, glancing left and right several times, as one might during daytime traffic. As I neared the tavern steps, I caught that sharp odor again, the one that had caused me to sneeze earlier in the evening. It reminded me of medicine. Before I could ponder the association between the scent and Mr. Abbott, I ran into Josef. I tried to slink past him into the bar, but he blocked me from entering the darkened building. "Cattarina!" he said. "Are you roaming without your master?"

  The fur around my neck rose at master. We never used such foul language in the Poe house. I ignored the transgression and batted the door, hoping he'd let me in to search for another eye. But he shut it, locking it with a key that swung from a large ring.

  "If you are hunting for food," Josef said to me, "I have the leberkäse. I was saving for the walk home, but I share with you. Yes?" He reached into his coat pocket, crinkled a wrapper, and broke off a small piece of meat that smelled of cow and pig.

  I took the offering, gulped it down, and rubbed my chin along his arm to deposit my scent. Before finding Eddie, I could have been persuaded to take care of Josef. "Lucky you came now," he said to me. "I should lock up twenty minutes ago, only Mr. Abbott lost his wallet. Wouldn't leave until he searched the whole bar, die Idioten. But he never found it." He took a piece of meat for himself and ate it. "I know the cheat when I see one. Mr. Shakey will blame me"—he thumped his chest—"when I tell him customer left without paying for drinks." He stroked my back, releasing a crackle of static. "Good thing I have new job at the hospital. If I lose one, I keep the other."

  As Mr. Abbott grew smaller in the distance, my mind wandered to the scent I'd smelled upon arrival, the same one on the eye. As the feline philosopher Jean-Paul Catre once said, "There are no coincidences, only cats with impeccable timing." If that were true, then my eyeball snatcher was getting away. Correction, my murderer was getting away.

  Forgetting my manners, I dashed down the street without saying goodbye to Josef and chased after Mr. Abbott. Another prize might fall from his pocket at any moment, and I would be there to catch it on Eddie's behalf—a kittenish notion, but one that filled me with hope. He hadn't journeyed more than a half block from the tavern when I caught up with him. I followed the man with ease, dipping in and out of lamplight as it suited me. Not long ago, I'd been a common gutter cat, and I still knew how to act the part—tail in neutral, eyes downcast, ears on swivel. No one would think me a kept feline who ate from a china bowl and slept in a bed and played with ribbons.

  Mr. Abbott stopped at the corner to fill and light his pipe. Behind him, a rusty awning sign swung back and forth, squeaking with each pass of the wind. Sensing an opportunity, I emerged from the shadows and perched on a large planter of dead roses to study him. His fingers shook as he lit the match. It was entirely possible he'd killed a woman tonight. He took a long draw from his pipe, releasing the scent of burning leaves into the air, and shifted his gaze to the planter.

  "Well, if it's not Poe's cat," he said. "I've had enough of you and your owner." He stomped his foot and drove me back into the shadows.

  But he did not drive me from my task.

  Once, I stalked a mouse for an entire afternoon, from midday church bell to dinnertime until I caught the vermin beneath the couch. A grave miscalculation on his part; my paw did, in fact, extend several inches farther when I flopped on my side. Now I needed Mr. Abbott to make a similar miscalculation. If he led me to his home, I could sneak in and steal as many eyes as I, rather, Eddie wanted—enough to keep my friend's pen moving for weeks—provided a collection existed in the first place. The man would soon learn we tortoiseshells are tireless pursuers.

  Mr. Abbott waddled across the street and slipped into a darkened alley that smelled of manure. I followed him at top speed, no longer caring if he saw me. I had already bungled that part of the hunt. Once inside the brick enclosure, I skidded to a halt, avoiding a two-wheeled gig harnessed to a dappled mare. But this overcorrection sent me sideways into a wooden crate. The box clattered against the cobblestones, drawing Mr. Abbott's attention.

  He turned, reins in hand. Our gaze met.

  In a flash, he assumed the driver's seat and cracked his whip, sending the mare into a gallop—straight in my direction. "H'ya!" he shouted to the horse. "H'ya!"

  The scoundrel intended to kill me.

  Unable to flee, I crouched, quivering in terror at the chop of horseshoes and rattle of wheels. The mare's hooves struck the ground around me, avoiding my limbs and body. My tail, however, did not have the same luck. The wheel nicked the tip of it, torturing my nerves. But I dared not flinch. When the gig glided over me, it brought a rush of air that nearly froze my heart. A whisker length to the left or right, and I would've been dog meat. When the rumble of horse and cart faded, I rose and checked myself for injury. Thank the Great Cat Above, only my tail had been harmed. I smoothed it with my tongue, detecting a sprain, then dashed from the alley to catch my would-be murderer.

  To my relief, he slowed the horse to a trot after a few blocks. But after ziggety-zagging through half of Philadelphia—the unfamiliar half, I might add—my lungs grew tired. Blasted paunch. I'd retained the instincts of a gutter cat, but not the physique. I sat back on my haunches and panted as my blue-eyed mouse escaped farther south. Tonight's errand had been a foolish one. Instead of keeping Sissy warm, I'd been gallivanting about, trying to get myself killed. And what made me think Mr. Abbott had more than one glass eye in the first place? Desperation, I supposed. It thrilled me to see Eddie writing again, and this fervor had led to my own miscalculations.

  I looked across the street to a large cemetery. If Sissy caught a fatal chill because I hadn't been home to keep her warm, I would never forgive myself. I shivered, thinking it equally unwise for me to expire. So I fluffed my undercoat, trapping heat from my skin, and set off in the direction of perceived west. The sun set over the Schuylkill River—an immutable fact—and if I could find it, the water would lead me home before dawn. But I grew disoriented by the structures towering above the horizon, some eight or nine stories tall, and began to question my course. I'd lived many places in the city: the waterfront, the old house on Schuylkill Seventh, and the bo
ardinghouse between moves. But each neighborhood could have been an island, for I never strayed more than a few blocks from their center. I paused to reflect. Somewhere in this labyrinth, I recalled a park and across from it, a pale stone building surrounded by a wrought iron fence. Except I needed more than an understanding of landmarks to guide me home; I needed Eddie.

  For a time, I followed the wind, hoping it would carry the scent of the bakery next to Shakey House or the stench of the prison. But the local fishmonger and tobacconist shop obliterated all other smells. So I tried to remember the turns I'd taken on my wild gig chase. Left, right, right, left…and then? I trembled with the next gust of wind. If I didn't find Coates Street soon, I'd be forced to take shelter or risk freezing to death, granting Mr. Abbott his wish after all.

  When I neared the corner, the park and stone building I'd recalled loomed in the distance. What luck! With renewed confidence, I forged on, passing another cluster of shops and homes until a menacing growl froze me to the sidewalk. I glanced over my right shoulder. The sound had come from a nearby basement entrance. Someone had forgotten to shut both doors, giving passersby a glimpse into the unsettling abyss. For an instant, I wondered if I'd stumbled onto the Dark One's lair.

  Before I could escape, three gutter cats sprang—quick as demons—from the underworld and onto the sidewalk. The largest of them, a tom the color of fire, approached me with a slow and cautious gait. Scars marked his face, the cruelest of which intersected his lower lip, permanently exposing his left eyetooth. "You're trespassing, Tortie," he said, referring to my markings. "And we kill trespassers for sport around Logan Square."

  "I'm not trespassing," I said. I lowered my tail. The bones at the tip still throbbed, but I didn't dare show pain or weakness. "I've misplaced my home, that's all."

  "Misplaced your home?" he said. "Fancy that. I misplaced mine the day I was born. But then, I ain't been looking too hard for it."