The Tell-Tail Heart: A Cat Cozy (Cattarina Mysteries) Page 3

The other two cats, a grey tabby and a mottled Manx, yowled with laughter.

  "Listen, please," I said. "I have a home and a companion and—"

  "Companion? You mean owner," the tabby said. The molly flicked the tip of her tail, clearly amused. "Hear that, Claw?" she said to the lead tom. "Wretched little thing is someone's property."

  My claws scraped the sidewalk as they unsheathed. "It's not like that. Eddie and I have an evolved and symbiotic relationship that transcends—"

  "Hah! Listen to the tortie talk," said the Manx. No, not a Manx. His tail had been cut off three inches above the root. My own appendage felt better already. "What a sharp tongue she has." He nudged past the tabby and joined Claw. "Can't wait to rip it from her mouth."

  "Me, first, Stub," the tabby said to him.

  "You went first last time, Ash," Stub said. "Remember the three-legged fella we took down near the tack shop?"

  I flattened my ears and spat in warning. "If you think my tongue is sharp, try my teeth and claws." When they didn't back down, I struck the first blow, raking their leader across the side of the face and catching the scar near his mouth. This upset his balance, but Ash and Stub wasted no time in retaliating. The she-devil clamped down on my neck while her assistant held me and snarled in my ear. I turned and wrestled from their grip, but Claw clobbered me. He bowled me over with a strong jab that sent me into the street.

  The cobblestones battered my ribs as I bounced along their surface. With my last remaining strength, I let out a screech and dashed toward the park a block away. The three demons followed me into the landscaped garden, matching my fence leaps and underbrush dives to the measure. My lungs caught fire as I raced through the bare trees, scattering leaves in my wake, but I could not outrun them. Swifter than wind, Claw outpaced me and flanked my right, Stub, my left. A seasoned hunter myself, I knew if I didn't break away, Ash would overtake me while the other two closed off my passage. And in my fatigued state, the three of them would end me with little effort. Then I pictured Eddie's face, sad and pale and ponderous, and wondered if he would weep for me the way he soon would for Sissy.

  No, I would not put him through that hell.

  With a final surge, I shot a tail-length ahead and ran into a pair of trousered tree trunks with a head-ringing crash. The human—definitely not a tree—scooped me up and rescued me from my pursuers. "What we got here?" I recognized him at once from Shakey House.

  Plague of Mystery

  Claw, Stub, and Ash scrambled to a stop against the man's dirty working boots. Not only had the country gent stopped the fisticuffs between Mr. Uppity and Mr. Abbott in the tavern, he'd helped me out of a predicament as well. The demon cats hesitated, as if they might rebel against my liberator, but they scattered with a wave of his cap. Before the three retreated into the underbrush, Claw offered a final warning: "Without the human's help, you would've been mine. Until next time, Tortie."

  I wriggled to escape the man's arms, but he held me fast in the folds of his black-smudged coat. "Good thing I took the long way home, kitty cat," he said. He examined me with soft brown eyes, not unlike Sissy's. Moonlight filtered through the branches and glowed along the edges of his clean-shaven face, bouncing off the tip of his up-turned nose. Though he was fully grown, his skin, teeth, and sun-touched hair still held the assurance of youth. "Wait. Haven't I seen you before?" He pushed back his cap to get a good look at me. "I declare! In the tavern! I would've said hello—I like cats, you know—but that old man wouldn't let up. Kept running his mouth about President Tyler. Gets into a fella's brain until he can hardly think straight."

  I offered a feeble and helpless meow, hoping he'd show me mercy.

  Brow furrowed with uncertainty, he looked through the trees to the pale stone building across the street. After a brief rest, he started back up the trail, traveling deeper into the park. I hadn't noticed in the tavern, but he walked with a limp. Drag-step-drag-step. Despite not knowing our destination, the warmth of his coat lulled me into complacency, causing a purr to rise from my throat. Any man who used the term "kitty cat" couldn't be that bad, I reasoned. Unsure of his true name, I gave him my own for the duration: Mr. Limp.

  We soldiered on through the cold air until the canopy of trees gave way to a man-made canopy of shop awnings. As we strolled, Mr. Limp opined at length about digging and graves and diseases, giving me insight into his occupation—gravedigger. His choice of employment would have fascinated Eddie. My stomach lurched at the thought of my friend. Was he now, this very instant, pacing the floor with worry? The smell of baking bread interrupted this useless line of inquiry, and my purr grew louder. Now I understood where we were headed. A half block later, my savior set me on the steps of Shakey House—not home, but close enough. "There you go, kitty cat," he said. "Safe as wet dynamite."

  I meowed in both gratitude and apology. In my fervor to free myself, I'd smeared the collar of his coat with blood. That tabby would pay for puncturing my neck. At least she hadn't struck a vein.

  Mr. Limp acknowledged my meow with a tip of his cap, then left the way he'd come. As I watched him go, I wondered if he'd end up in that building by the park. I licked my paw and cleaned my face. Strange that a shabby, unkempt man lived in such a grand abode. Yet Eddie, the dandiest man I knew, cohabitated with a family of cockroaches, a number of silverfish, and three—correction—two mice. Human manner and human condition didn't always coincide. The clank of pans inside the bakery reminded me of the time. I wanted to be home before sunup lest Eddie send a search party for me.

  A leap ahead of the sun, I arrived at our home on Coates, panting and wheezing from my run along the railroad tracks. What a foolish cat I'd been. No eyeball was worth the risk of Claw or Mr. Abbott ending me for good. I would have to find another way to lift Eddie's spirits. Or he could darned-well lift his own. I pushed through the still-cracked door—no one had shut it—and entered the hallway to a mournful wail.

  "No! No! No!" Eddie shouted. "It's all wrong!"

  I trotted to the front room to find my companion at his desk. He sat in much the same position as before, but he'd rolled up his sleeves and kicked off his shoes. His hair stood on end from, I assumed, being tugged by frantic hands, and his cravat lay on the floor like a dead snake. He'd allowed the fire to burn out, letting an autumn chill into the room.

  "It was so easy with the Rue Morgue story, Catters," he said to me. Judging by the occupied look on his face, he had no idea I'd been missing for half the night. Perhaps it was better that way. "That plot came to me as if in a dream. But this new story vexes me beyond comprehension. It's not the who or the what, but the why." He stood and pulled the eyeball from his pocket. "And this trifle is doing me no good. It's lost its magic." He crossed to the fireplace and set it near the mantel clock with a finality I hadn't expected. Then he turned and dropped to one knee. "Come here, my Cattarina."

  I obliged him, taking pleasure in the rug beneath my paws. It had been a long night of cobblestones and brick.

  "Did you sleep well?" He stroked my fur. "Did Sissy?"

  I arched my back at her name and curled into his hand. I hoped she'd fared well last night without my company.

  Eddie picked me up and sat us in Muddy's empty rocking chair, stretching his stocking feet toward the hearth. "If I knew more about the murder, Catters, I might be able to fix things on the page. But as it is…" He held me up to his face and repeated that word again, murder. "Cats know nothing of the kind, you lucky soul. Alas, I must dwell on such atrocities." He settled us into the chair and began to rock. "Madness, Catters. I know madness is the cause. It must be." The rocking slowed, he whispered murder one more time. Then his lips parted in sleep.

  Silly of me to think the glass orb had intrigued my friend. On the contrary! The means by which it had been acquired fascinated him, and this conundrum had evidently overwound his brain. Eddie had the mutability of a boundless sky: he could blind us, almost burn us, with his brilliance one day, then fall into a black and starless despair the ne
xt, never lingering too long at dawn or dusk. And no one in the Poe household was immune to these changes. Why, last full moon he broke one of Muddy's dragon plates after merely reading a newspaper article. He'd read it aloud, but it muddled my ears with strange language like supercilious and commonplace. I had a hard enough time keeping track of our current vocabulary. Today, however, I sensed a difference. This riddle gripped him from the inside, as it did me. I wound tighter in his lap to keep from falling since his arms had gone limp, and though I shut both eyes, sleep did not come. I had a feeling we wouldn't get much until I solved the mystery that plagued us both.

  The Fickle One

  Some time before dawn, I left Eddie's lap and crept into Sissy's bedroom to lie next to her. Even after old Muddy rose to stoke the kitchen fire, we stayed in bed a while longer, lingering in the relative warmth of the thin blanket. When a shaft of sunlight lit the room, I stretched and flexed my toes. My tail still smarted from last night's mishap, but less so than before.

  Sissy yawned and pushed an errant lock of hair from her face. Pinpricks of blood dotted the neck of her white chemise, yet her cheeks held color—a good sign. "Where were you last night, Miss Cattarina?" she asked. "I was so cold without you." She rubbed the space between my eyes and smiled. "You were sleeping with Eddie, weren't you?"

  I rolled onto my back and offered her my belly. She took my suggestion and smoothed the fur on my stomach. After breakfast, I'd devise a plan for bringing Mr. Abbott and his alleged crime to Eddie's attention. While I hoped some measure of justice would come to that pernicious tail runner, my primary concern was my friend's writing. As long as the ink began to flow again, the Poe house would be set to rights, and I would have fulfilled my job as muse.

  Before long, the scent of frying mutton roused us from the covers. Sissy crossed to the wardrobe to dress, while I hopped into the chair by the door to supervise. I had no idea what humans did before cats crept from the primordial forest to observe them. Whatever the activity, it couldn't have been that important.

  "Can you keep a secret, Cattarina?" Sissy opened the tall wooden chest and withdrew her corset—an item she reserved for her "good days" when coughing spells were at their lowest. "I intend to look into this eyeball business. I know Mother would object, and Eddie, too, but I want to prove that I'm useful. That I'm not just a consumptive invalid. You understand me, don't you?" She winked at me, then laced the corset around her chemise, keeping it loose. Petticoat and gown followed. I watched with fascination as she twisted her long, dark locks and secured them to the back of her head with a comb. I never tired of that hairstyle. It reminded me of a snail's shell.

  She continued, "Eddie and Mother think they're keeping unpleasant things from me. But I read about them in the papers." She turned from the mirror and whispered, "You know. The murders."

  I cocked my head, surprised by her knowledge of the term. I welcomed any assistance, of course. Yet in her debilitated state, I questioned how much she could offer. When Muddy called us to breakfast, we padded downstairs, the temperature climbing as we neared the kitchen. Once the "good mornings" had been dispensed with, Eddie, Sissy, Muddy, and I ate small plates of fried leftover mutton and fried leftover porridge. Ash may have belittled me yesterday, calling me someone's "property," but I was also the one eating a nice warm bowl of food today. I knew from experience that living feral meant living by the pangs of one's stomach.

  Once I'd cleaned the bowl, I licked away the last bit of grease and groomed the dragon painted on the rim of the bowl. Then I retreated to the corner near the woodstove for my morning spruce-up. I'd come home filthy last night, but hadn't had the energy to give myself a bath before retiring. I began with my forepaws, still sore from my jaunt, and listened to Eddie drone on about this and that with a voice craggy from lack of sleep. He didn't speak of the eyeball. I turned and worked on my hindquarters. In order to find Mr. Abbott and learn if he really had committed the crimes I suspected him of, I needed to visit—what had Claw called it?—the Logan Square area and explore the uncharted south. I assumed the man lived in the direction the gig had traveled. Except returning meant facing that horrid gang of demons.

  "What are your plans today, my dear?" Eddie asked Sissy. He crossed his ankles under the table.

  "A little of this, a little of that," she said breezily. She lifted her coffee cup and let the steam rise to her lips. "I may go out later if the weather stays fair."

  "Out?" Muddy frowned. "Do you think that's a good idea? It may turn windy later."

  Sissy shot me a furtive look, though I knew not why. "I'll be fine, Mother."

  "As long as you're feeling up to it, let's take tea outside," Eddie said to Sissy. "We'll have a little picnic along the river." He pushed his chair from the table, scraping its legs along the floor. "Now if you'll excuse me. I saw Mr. Coffin poking around this morning, and I want to talk to him about—"

  "The wobbly porch rail," Muddy said at once. She stood and gathered the dishes. "And the cracked window in the parlor."

  "Just what I had in mind," he said.

  "And don't let that fatted goose convince you we owe money. We're paid up until the end of October."

  Eddie drummed his fingers on the table. "Catters?"

  I looked up from a rather indelicate grooming pose, one leg high above my head.

  "Let's visit Mr. Coffin," he said. "Shall we?"

  The remainder of my bath could wait. I followed Eddie outside, where we found Mr. Coffin hammering a board onto Ms. Busybody's broken stoop next door. He looked up as we approached, a row of nails clenched between his teeth. Though I hadn't known him long, Mr. Coffin had already secured a spot on my "favored humans" list. A gentle soul with the temperament of fresh, cold milk on a hot day, he'd never once raised his voice, not to Eddie, not to Muddy or Sissy, and most of all, not to me. Besides which, I rather liked fatted geese.

  Mr. Coffin stood with a grunt and removed the nails from his mouth. He tossed them into his toolbox, along with the hammer. "Hullo, Poe."

  "Good morning, Mr. Coffin," Eddie said.

  "How is your dear wife? Any change?"

  "Virginia is well. Very well."

  I wove between Mr. Coffin's legs, gifting him with fur. When a fresh breeze blew in from the Schuylkill, I lifted my nose, reveling in the scent of fish. The pastureland we lived in now smelled better than our previous haunt, a dense city neighborhood that reeked of garbage and other human wastes of which I dared not think. Fairmount was a tree climber's paradise, and I, for one, hoped we never left.

  "Any news about your job in the Custom House?" Mr. Coffin wiped his hands on a rag he took from his back pocket. "I faithfully scour the papers each morning, hoping for a glimpse of your name."

  "The machinations of the federal government are beyond my meager comprehension. In the meantime, I am hard at work on my future—The Penn magazine. We are still looking for investors. Have I mentioned it before?"

  "You may have," Mr. Coffin said.

  Eddie flashed his teeth. Devoid of merriment, the gesture intuited nervousness. Cats, I might add, are incapable of such subterfuge. He picked a piece of chipped paint from the finial. "Say, Mr. Coffin, what do you know about the murders near Logan Square? As alderman, your brother-in-law must have some insight into the crime."

  "What is it about violence that fascinates you?"

  "I have so few hobbies. Without them, I might perish from boredom. Then who would pay my rent?"

  Mr. Coffin laughed. "You got me there, Poe." He replaced the rag in his pocket and turned to me, his double chin stretching with a smile. "I see you've brought God's favorite creature round this morning. Hullo, Cattarina. Have you missed me?"

  I nudged his leg.

  With great fanfare, he took a sliver of jerky from his pocket and dangled it above me, his fingers a baited hook. Yet I made no move toward the treat. So he knelt down on one knee—a task that took real effort—and held it out for me. When he realized the futility of his scheme, he handed the jerky
to Eddie, who in turn handed it to me. I wasn't above taking food from Mr. Coffin. Things just tasted better from Eddie's hand, and I ate from it when I could.

  "She's the fickle one, isn't she?" Mr. Coffin said. He stayed low and helped himself onto the bottom step of Ms. Busybody's stoop. "Now about those murders." He paused, squinting into the sun. "I take it they're research for a story."

  "Yes. I don't have a title yet, but I do have a draft of the opening lines." Eddie cleared his throat and recited a speech that, from its timbre, seemed to carry importance.

  "TRUE!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story."

  He coughed, mumbled apologetically about the "anemic opening," then continued:

  "It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever."

  Eddie finished by bowing to Mr. Coffin. Mr. Coffin applauded. It was all too much for me. I sat on a sun-warmed patch of earth and kneaded my claws in the grass, the problem of Claw still taxing me. Perhaps I could offer him a bribe for safe passage. But he and his gang surely had all the mice they could handle. A carriage might move me through danger if I could sneak onto one heading the right direction. A meadowlark landed in the dust near our porch and hopped about on little stick legs. Had I not been so full of Mr. Coffin's jerky and my own questions, I might've dispensed with the nuisance for flaunting such nauseating patterns this early in the day.