The Tell-Tail Heart: A Cat Cozy (Cattarina Mysteries) Page 5

  At this, Big Blue and his sentries sprang from the hedges to attack the miscreants. Claw, Ash, and Stub met the challenge with furious rounds of scratching and biting. I backed away, giving wide berth to the brawl, and took refuge behind a tree trunk. Flying Feline! What hissing! What screeching! I may have missed the freedom of the street, but I didn't miss the conflict. At one point, Ash jumped on Snow's back and flattened her, forcing me to intervene. After a series of challenging calculations, I climbed onto a leggy, low-lying tree limb and brought it down upon their struggle, breaking the two apart. My weight, at long last, was an advantage.

  Once the whirlwind of paws and tails sputtered out, I emerged and surveyed the splatter of blood. The three demon cats lay on the earth, beaten and battered, but still very much alive. They'd fallen from their throne in a hail of spent fur and spittle, giving me the passage I needed. I don't know what became of Claw after I left the park that day, but I never saw him again.

  * * *

  Joy is a shadow cat that comes and goes when it pleases. A mere figment of mood, it slinks in from the ether and creeps beside you for a time, vanishing at the first sign of ownership. It delighted me with its company as I traveled south of Logan Square. Unlike yesterday, however, the longer I walked, the more familiar my surroundings grew until I became convinced of my bearings. I had lived here, or very close to here, near the nexus of Schuylkill Seventh and Locust, in the home where Sissy had taken ill. What fine times, before darkness descended on the Poe family and snuffed out the candles of gaiety and innocence.

  While some buildings had come and gone since the spring move, the character of the neighborhood remained intact. A mishmash of dilapidated and divine, this parcel of Brotherly Love had remained an architectural contradiction. Brick townhomes still rubbed yards with shacks of yore. A good sneeze would've reduced most of the older structures to firewood, but they were no less charming to a cat with their fluttering clotheslines and free-roaming chickens. I know because we lived in one for a short period before settling on Coates.

  While the houses coexisted without loss of dignity, I could not say the same of the humans. Ladies and gents kept to the right of the sidewalk, downtrodden to the left. As for me, I chose the middle path and traveled along the gulley of space between them—an unpleasant strip of classism that crackled with animosity—until I reached a butcher shop overrun with women robed in silk and fur. From my previous jaunts, I knew the refuse here to be of high quality. As I dug through the trash pits behind the store, I wondered whether my preference for elite butcheries made me a hauteur as well. Then I turned up a trout head and ceased to care. Delicious.

  Stuffed with fishy bits, I lay on the stoop of a new three-story home next door and watched the skirts and cloaks whisk by on the sidewalk. I flexed my claws. The finery needed a good shredding, like curtains upon the breeze, and I was just the cat to give it. But what of Mr. Abbott? He needed a good shredding, too. I'd just chided myself for forgetting him when a tom padded toward me, a thin blue ribbon around his neck. Save for a patch of white upon his chest, his coat had the all-over hue of burnt candlewick, and it billowed about him like a cloud. He stopped and appraised me, the tip of his tail crooked.

  "Hello," he said. "What brings you to my doorstep?"

  I tried to suck in my gut, but my lungs nearly collapsed from the strain. "Your doorstep? Forgive me. I'll move along." After the row in Logan Square, I didn't want trouble.

  "You can stay, miss. I'm just here for my midday snack."

  I hadn't noticed before, but he had a bit of a paunch. It didn't swell like mine did after a pot roast luncheon. Instead, it rounded his figure, giving him a relaxed, well-fed appearance that hinted at a want-free life. "So this is your home?"

  "Yes, but take heart. A cat with beautiful markings like yours will find an owner."

  Cats don't blush as humans do, thank the Great Cat Above. "I must confess…I have a home. A human dwelling, like yours."

  "I should've guessed. You've too fine a coat to be living on the streets." He hopped up the steps to join me. "Do you live in Rittenhouse as well?"

  "Kitten house?"

  "No, Rittenhouse."

  "Oh, that's what you call it. I used to live a few blocks from here, but moved."

  He lifted his nose. "Well, parts of it are becoming very uppity."

  My whiskers vibrated. "Uppity? Do you know the man from Shakey House Tavern?"

  "Who?"

  "Mr. Uppity."

  "I'm afraid you've lost me."

  "Well, you said his name. So naturally I thought you knew him." He stared at me, his pale eyes fixed and unblinking. I continued. "Never mind. I'm not here for him. I'm here for a Mr. Hiram Abbott. He's oldish and fattish and has teeth the color of gravy."

  "Turkey gravy or beef gravy?"

  "Turkey. Definitely turkey."

  "Haven't seen him. But I can help you look. I know the streets better than any cat."

  "Splendid. What about your snack?"

  "My tuna can wait. Little Sarah never tires of feeding me." He shook his head. "Or tying ribbons around my neck." He leapt to the sidewalk and waited for me to descend the steps.

  When we were eye to eye again, he presented himself as Midnight, a somewhat predictable name for a cat of his coloring, but one I liked. Humans, on the whole, exercised little imagination when labeling their pets or themselves. In our area alone we have three Johns and four Marys, with no similarities among them save for gender. Dogs, too, are subject to this illogicality, as every other one answers to Fido, though most are too dumb to mind. I offered Midnight my particulars, bragging about my Eddie and our "country estate" on Coates, and thus began our adventure.

  We toured the stately homes around Rittenhouse Square, a park not unlike Logan Square, looking for Mr. Abbott. Along the way, we debated the contradiction of domestic life: how it both liberates and hobbles cats. We also spoke of our commonalities, including a shared interest in piano strings, clock pendulums, and needlepoint cushions. And while we'd spent our kittenhoods differently—mine on the streets, his on a velvet pillow—we couldn't deny our harmony. When we didn't find Mr. Abbott in or around the green space, my guide took me to the livery stables to look for the dappled mare and gig I'd told him about.

  Alas, I didn't find my quarry that day.

  Hungry from the search, we crept into the grocer's to steal a snack—Midnight's idea, not mine, but one to which I agreed. Having conquered both Claw and the Spider this morning, my confidence had soared to an untold zenith. War may have been human folly, as Big Blue suggested, but we cats suffer no less from bravado. To wit, I volunteered to liberate a rope of sausages from a hook inside the door. Once we agreed on a plan, Midnight and I hid behind a sack of potatoes in the corner—the perfect spot to study the hook and its proximity to a soap display. The clerk, a young man with a mustache I first mistook for a dead caterpillar, had just finished stacking a table with the lavender bricks.

  "What are you waiting for, Cattarina?" Midnight nudged me. "Just give it a jump."

  "I should say not." I thumped the end of my tail. "The physics involved are staggering. One doesn't 'give it a jump' and succeed with any poise. That is for rabbits. Besides, I'm waiting for the right moment." And it had arrived. When the clerk turned to help a woman load turnips into baskets, I sprang to the table, scaled the soap pyramid, soared to the hook, caught the sausages between my teeth, and arced to the ground where I landed—there should be no doubt—on all fours. Not one bar of soap fell. Not one. The look of admiration on Midnight's face was worthy of any aches and pains these acrobatics would earn me in the morning.

  "Well done, Cattarina!" Midnight shouted. "Now run!"

  The Thief of Rittenhouse

  Sausages in tow, I took Midnight's advice and ran from the shop. Yet in my haste, the links caught in the door's hinge, sending me catawampus and snapping my confidence back into place. Midnight came to my aid, but not in time, for the clerk and woman turned round and caught us at o
ur little game. Upended baskets and rolling turnips and high-pitched screams came next. My accomplice gnawed through the meat casing near the hinge, allowing us to escape with our remaining plunder. The clerk, nevertheless, gave chase. Our luck returned when I accidentally knocked over a cluster of brooms by the front window. They clattered to the sidewalk, tripping the young man and granting our freedom.

  Behind the grocer's, we split the links and feasted on the dry, waxy beef, commending each other between chews. Then, full of meat and mischief, we stretched our limbs and groomed ourselves in the sun-bright strip between buildings. I wiped my face with my paw. It still held floral notes from the soap.

  "You've never stolen anything before, have you?" Midnight asked.

  "No, never," I said. "But it's just as thrilling as hunting. Maybe more so."

  "I rid my home of mice long ago. But now I occupy myself in other ways. I'll bet I'm the best thief in Rittenhouse. Maybe even the city. Name anything, and I can take it." He puffed out his chest, expanding the small white ruff around his neck.

  "A whole chicken."

  He offered a bored expression, lids half closed.

  "A leg of lamb."

  "Give me a hill, and I'll roll it home."

  "A side of beef. Now you couldn't possibly—"

  "Oh, I'll steal it. One bite at a time if I have to." He raised his face to the sun, looking more regal than the embroidered lions on Eddie's slippers. Ah, the glorious Thief of Rittenhouse. Even if he hadn't led me to Mr. Abbott, Midnight might still be able to give me insight into the man's behavior.

  "A good thing you're qualified, because I need your opinion." I paused, considering the best way to phrase my question. "What do you make of humans who steal body parts?"

  "Arms? Legs?"

  "No, no…eyes. And not real ones. Fake ones made of glass."

  "Would this have anything to do with Mr. Abbott?" His ears twitched when I didn't answer. "Very well, Cattarina. There are two types of pilferers—those who steal for necessity and those who steal for pleasure. Get to know your man, and you'll know why he does what he does."

  I gazed upon Midnight's black fur, admiring its luster in the full light. He'd stolen my admiration as easily as the wind steals leaves from a tree. But he wasn't, as he stated, the best. Eddie held that title, having chastely taken my heart long ago. As a man of letters, he cares about language, nay, the proper use of language more than any other human I've ever met, which thrills me because for some time, I've fancied myself a cat of letters. No, not of written ones, but of ones passed down in the oral tradition. To say that Eddie and I are sympathetic to one another's needs is a grotesque understatement. For his sake and his alone, I ended my Rittenhouse adventure. Besides, teatime was nigh, and I yearned for the comfort and ritual of the Poe house. Muddy would be putting on a kettle, laying out salted crackers and jam and, if I were lucky, cheese.

  With reluctance, I called an end to our hunt and asked Midnight if he would escort me part of the way home. Ever the gentlecat, he took me as far as Logan Square, the uppermost reaches of his roaming ground. I paused at the entrance of the park and examined the pale stone building across the street. Yesterday, Mr. Limp had taken great interest in the structure. "Do you know anything about that place?" I asked Midnight.

  "I've never been inside, but I've heard rumors. It's where they keep the broken humans," he said. "The ones with shriveled legs or missing arms. The ones that bump into things."

  The ones like Mr. Limp.

  Our tails overlapping, I sat beside Midnight in the waning afternoon. Clouds of clotted cream drifted over the Home for Broken Humans, cushioning the white marble façade. Above it, a brilliant stretch of sky—eyeball blue, to be exact. "It's been a lovely day," I said. "Thank you."

  "Don't thank me. We didn't find your man."

  "There is always tomorrow."

  He stared at me with eyes as wide and pale as the moon. "Will I see you again?" he asked.

  "When I'm in need of a whole chicken or a leg of lamb, I'll know whom to call upon."

  We touched noses and parted—a sad but necessary event. While I hoped to come across Midnight again, Eddie was my world, and it would take more than the cleverest, handsomest thief in Rittenhouse to change that. I waited until Midnight became a black smudge in the distance before approaching the home. I climbed the stone steps, fearing the horrors inside. Broken humans. The very thought of it thickened my blood. Still, if Mr. Limp lived here, it would be rude not call on him and thank him for saving my life. To quote the ancient philosopher, Ariscatle, "Without propriety, we are but dogs."

  Tucking myself into a loaf, I balanced at the edge of the small porch and waited for the door to swing open. I'd give it half a catnap, nothing more. If no one appeared in that time, I would depart for the Poe house and be home in time for tea.

  A rattling harness stirred me from slumber as a closed coach pulled alongside the curb and stopped. The horse team danced back and forth, eager from the brisk air, but the driver set the brake and settled in to wait. Unless I missed my guess, someone would eventually exit the building and climb into the conveyance. I stood and stretched, readying my limbs. Just as I'd surmised, the door opened, revealing a man with a wooden leg and a lady in a long white apron and cap. I'd seen similarly dressed women before at the hospital Sissy visited, so I concluded this building served a similar function. Thankfully, this drained most of the terror from my visit. I waited for her to help him down the steps, then darted inside without notice.

  * * *

  Even in the shade of late day, the white walls and numerous windows lit the interior, giving it a cheery air, although further inspection put me to rights. The architecture may have been breezy, but the clientele was anything but. As I slunk along the corridors looking for Mr. Limp, I found the broken humans of which Midnight had warned me. At the time, I thought he meant their bodies. Now I knew he meant their spirits. A group of these pour souls—more than I could count on my toes—lived together in one long room that spanned the back portion of the building. Their beds lined the walls on either side, leaving a walkway up the middle for more ladies in white aprons. Nurses, I think they call them. Medicine bottles in hand, they tended their charges, engaging in lighthearted chitchat as they worked. I stood in the doorway and surveyed the room but did not see Mr. Limp. Then my eyes settled on the stocky man sitting by the bed of a young woman. It was Josef Wertmüller. I had never seen him this far from Shakey House before.

  Using the beds as an on-again, off-again tunnel, I crept closer to the barkeep and his lady friend. Though she lay with her back to me, the young woman bore a passing resemblance to Sissy with her long dark mane and pale hands, making her all the more appealing. But unlike Sissy, emaciation had ruined the woman's body and thinned her hair. Her sparse locks spilled along the pillow like rivulets of the Schuylkill. I hid under an adjacent cot and listened for language I might recognize.

  "Caroline," Josef said to her in a soothing voice, "where were you last night?"

  Caroline. Now I knew what, or rather, who had troubled him the previous evening.

  "I was here, Josef. You saw me." She tugged her blanket higher. "You emptied my bedpan, didn't you? Filled my water glass?"

  "Nein, miss. I work the mornings."

  "Why do you ask?"

  He rubbed his side-whiskers and squinted. "No reason. No reason at all."

  "You know I can't go anywhere in my…current condition." Her voice trembled. "Please go. I consider your questions rather unkind."

  Josef stood. "Ich bitte um Verzeihung. I leave now. Just don't tell Dr. Burton I was here."

  "Wait." She stretched her hand and took his arm. "Can you deliver a note to my friend? He usually visits in the evenings, but it can't wait."

  "Of course."

  "Good. I will give you his address." Caroline gestured to the stationery and pencil on the nightstand with one fragile hand. "Can you write it for me?"

  He shuffled his feet.

&nbs
p; "I will help you spell," she added.

  Josef picked up the implements and sat down again.

  Caroline began the dictation. "Dearest Owen…" I'd seen Sissy take down Eddie's words when his hand grew too tired to write, just as Josef did now. He licked the end of the pencil and scratched marks on the paper.

  She continued, "I have missed you terribly. Please do not come tonight as Uncle has promised to visit, too. You know how he dislikes our courtship…"

  Bless the girl. She'd given me time to think. Last night, news of the murders shook Josef more than I would've expected, eliciting great anxiety over this Caroline woman. But why? I ducked when the patient above me jostled the mattress. At first, I'd thought Mr. Abbott guilty of the crime. I had, after all, detected the same medicinal scent on him as on the eye. But now I wondered if the smell had come from Josef instead. I wiggled my whiskers. He couldn't be the killer. I fancied myself a skillful judge of character, and he'd shown no signs of amoral behavior. And yet…

  Josef folded the piece of stationery and rose to leave. "I go, Caroline. Just as you said. To Rittenhouse."

  I stiffened. Rittenhouse. That infernal neighborhood lay at the center of the mystery. If I didn't follow Josef, I would never put my suspicions to rest, and they had grown much, much stronger these last few moments. Before he could leave, I backtracked through my bed tunnel and waited behind a potted plant by the door. But he opened and shut the portal with such force that I did not have time to dart through it. So I waited for someone else to let me out. When no one came, I meowed.

  I will say this: marble provides splendid acoustics.

  A slack-chinned nurse escorted me out with more vigor than I'd anticipated, yelling "Shoo! Shoo!" as I left. To emphasize her point, she nudged me from the porch with said shoe, as if I needed help understanding the word. I paid her no mind; I had a two-legged mouse to catch. I sprinted outside and found Josef but made sure to stay several paces behind him. Mr. Abbot may have caught me following him, but my new quarry would not.