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

  After a few blocks, Josef passed the same grocer's that Midnight and I had visited this morning, an indication we'd crossed into Rittenhouse. He turned the corner at the park, walked along the sidewalk for a time, and then stopped at a three-story townhome built of ornate limestone. While the structure impressed me, the landscaping did not—leggy bushes grew this way and that like uncombed hair. I flattened myself in the uncut grass. Eddie's Detective Dupin from The Murders in the Rue Morgue was no match for me. I'd heard enough about the gentleman's exploits to form this educated if somewhat biased, opinion.

  Josef climbed the steps to the porch and rang the bell box. Almost immediately, the door opened, revealing another familiar face from Shakey House Tavern: Mr. Uppity, the man who'd purchased Eddie's newspaper. Josef faltered, his eyebrows lifted in surprise, then handed him Caroline's note.

  I hadn't bothered with Mr. Uppity's details before other than to note his shoes and his weight, but his features intrigued me: white side-whiskers, long, hooked nose, and a fetching pair of sky-blue eyes. I wiped my face with my paw and looked again. Yes, they were the exact same color as the eyeball I'd found in the bar. There are no coincidences, only cats with impeccable timing. This physical evidence convinced me more than Josef's or Mr. Abbott's loose association.

  My teeth chattered, longing to bite Mr. Uppity, the real Thief of Rittenhouse. I had found my murdering eyeball stealer at last.

  Garden of the Dead

  Teatime had almost ended when I arrived at the green-shuttered home on Coates. I tried to rush home to warn Eddie about Mr. Uppity, truly I did. But after the day I'd had, running turned to skittering, skittering turned to loping, and loping, well, let us say that my tender paws surrendered before my spirit. To make matters worse, I found no cheese or crackers waiting for me. I wandered through the unusually quiet first floor until I came across Muddy in the front room. She sat alone by the fireplace with a cup in her hands, sipping and rocking and gazing into the embers. I longed to ask her Eddie's whereabouts, but she and I didn't share the required empathy. A search of the second and third floors bore nothing, so I returned to the yard and climbed an ancient hemlock for a kite's-eye view of Fairmount.

  Between the needled boughs, I could see the Water Works, the elbow bend of the Schuylkill, and further south, boat masts poking above the docks. Dash it all. Too many humans populated these areas for my aerial search to be of use, though it did turn up a wake of buzzards circling in the distance. I looked north to the near-deserted landscape above the Water Works and, to my surprise, discovered Eddie and Sissy frolicking in a graveyard. Many old, forgotten burial grounds lay along the riverbank. I knew because I'd explored them in my kittenhood, finding solitude among the tilting tombstones. But why, for kitty's sake, were my companions visiting one now?

  After a short walk—anything was short compared to my trek from Rittenhouse—I squeezed through the wrought iron fence surrounding the cemetery. Trees obscured the river, but the rush of water and honk of geese served as a reminder. On my quietest paws, I snuck up to Eddie and Sissy and hid behind a statue of a winged lady. With expressions ranging from doleful to dreadful, these monuments were frightfully common in graveyards. But if they marked the burial place of flying humans, why hadn't I seen them fluttering about the streets of Philadelphia? I switched my tail. Cattarina, have you seen your companion today? Why yes, he's flapped to the market for a bag of seed. Squawk! Flying humans—what vulgar creatures.

  In need of rest between escapades, I lay down on the soft earth and watched the pair with rapt attention. A basket between them, Eddie and Sissy dined on an old woolen blanket Muddy had sewn from cast-off coats. Now here lay the banquet: a block of Swiss stuck through with a knife, a gingerbread loaf, a jar of stewed apples, honey, and a pot of strong black tea. My belly rumbled. Surely Mr. Uppity would keep long enough for me to take part in the feast.

  Eddie reclined on his side, head propped in one hand, and ate a piece of the rich, brown cake. When he finished, he lay back and stared at the sky. The setting sun lit the clouds, spinning them into gold. "What a splendid idea, Sissy. Tea al fresco. We haven't dined outside since…"

  "Since I became sick. Yes, I know." She poured herself a cup of tea and drizzled in a spoonful of honey. She'd changed from her everyday dress to her town dress, a fawn-colored brocade gown with slim sleeves and a nipped bodice. A matching knitted shawl—the one I napped on whenever she left her wardrobe ajar—livened the costume. "But we shouldn't dwell on the past. I'm feeling well today."

  Eddie sat up, set her teacup aside, and took her hand. "You give me hope, my wife. I've been so worried. You know I don't do well when you're under the weather. I become utterly lost."

  Sissy blushed.

  "Ah, pink." He touched her face and smiled. "Now that's a fine color for cheeks." The romantic interlude passed when he turned to carving the cheese. He served her a piece from the edge of the blade, then sliced one for himself. "I always fancy graveyards as gardens of the dead." He chewed the Swiss thoughtfully. "You plant the remnants of human frailty, wait for a time, and then a monument grows in its place, declaring—in rhyme no less—the totality of a man's worth. Some are flowers. Others are weeds."

  Sissy gave him a sidelong glance.

  "I assure you, I am quite genuine." He tapped the headstone next to them. "Read it. Go on if you don't believe me."

  Sissy brushed a cobweb from the chiseled letters. "Here lies Jacob M. Weatherly. A man of great sin, he cheated his kin. Heaven he'll never be." She burst out laughing. "A dandelion, indeed!"

  Eddie gazed at her with affection, eyes alight. Pish posh. I stepped through their feast, making spongy prints on the pancakes, and meowed with gusto. Teatime was over; me time had arrived.

  "Catters!" Eddie scooped me up. "I turned around this morning, and you were gone. Mr. Coffin was beside himself. He had a pocket full of jerky and no one to give it to."

  The corner of Sissy's mouth lifted. "Mr. Coffin ate it, naturally."

  "Naturally," Eddie said. He held me up and stared into my eyes, trying to divine something from them. "Where have you been, naughty girl?"

  "I'll bet she has a beau," Sissy said with a wink.

  "If that is true, Catters," he said, "then at least leave your heart with me for safekeeping." He broke off a piece of cheese and fed it to me. My mouth watered at its sharpness.

  "You spoil that cat too much," Sissy said. She nibbled her own cheese like a mouse.

  "Creatures provide such comfort." He scratched behind my ears. "Besides which, she is my muse, and she earns her title every day." He set me aside and took a piece of paper from his pocket. "Speaking of which, would you like to hear from my new story?"

  "Yes, please!" Sissy said.

  Eddie requires an audience for his writing, and I am often the one to grant it. So I lay down to listen, keeping one eye on the buzzards circling the Water Works. The wake had grown rather large, and while the birds' presence seemed innocuous, it hinted at something more sinister.

  After a slight preamble, my man of letters began the tale:

  "Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it j
ust so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye."

  "Ghoulish, but still of literary merit," she said. "Rufus Griswold would be impressed."

  "Rufus Griswold." He shoved the paper into his pocket and took out the blue eyeball, turning it between his fingers. "To quote old Weatherly, heaven he'll never be."

  She patted his shoulder. "I have some news you might find interesting. News about the eye."

  My ears shot forward at the coveted word's mention.

  "I traveled into town this afternoon," she continued. "While Mother was napping, I—"

  "You didn't walk, did you? You know exertion isn't good for your lungs."

  "No, no, Mr. Coffin took me and brought me back in his coach." She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "I spoke to an optician—a Mr. Ezekiel Lorbin—about your find."

  Eddie's shoulders tensed.

  "Don't worry," Sissy said. "I didn't tell him how you found it." The breeze blew her earlocks along her cheeks. She brushed them away. "He said that glass prostheses are a new product from Germany. Not many places carry them, and they're quite expensive, at least as far as the common man is concerned. Perhaps the murderer is selling them for profit?"

  "I can think of easier ways to make money," Eddie said. "I should know because I've chosen one of the hardest," he added with a chuckle.

  I tired of the conversation. At this very instant, Mr. Uppity could be hunting his next mouse, ahem, victim. I hopped onto Eddie's lap, pressed my front paws into his chest, and stared at him with wood-boring strength. But I could not break through. Unaware of the urgency, he pushed me aside to study the orb again. To quote Genghis Cat, "Where empathy fails, force prevails." Or was it Cattila the Hun? History be damned. I had to shake my friend from his self-indulgent stupor. Human life depended on it. So I did the unconscionable.

  I bit him on the hand.

  Eddie yowled like a rabid tom and dropped the eye, just as I hoped. I picked it up and shot across the cemetery, pausing at the gates to see if he'd follow. But he didn't. I paced as he spoke to Sissy, his hands clasped round her shoulders, his face laden with concern. She waved him on, her smile visible even at this distance, and began packing their tea things. Then and only then did he give chase.

  With Eddie behind me, I left the burial ground with the eyeball still in my mouth and headed south into the landscaped gardens of Fairmount Water Works—a fascinating complex of river locks, reservoirs, and pump houses. In the glow of the setting sun, men and women strolled its walkways, creating a circus of parasols and canes. Ziggety-zag, zigggety-zag, we ran between them. "Excuse me!" Eddie shouted behind me. "Pardon me!" Had I not been in such a hurry, I would've slowed to admire the fountains and topiaries. As I clambered up the hillside staircase toward Fairmount Basin at the top, I wondered what lunacy had taken me on this detour. Cutting through our neighborhood would've been a far superior—and level—route to the city. Perhaps it was the circling buzzards. Perhaps it was madness. With the smell of raw flesh, however, my uncertainty vanished. The humans around me didn't appear the least bit alarmed. They likely hadn't detected the scent yet.

  Dashing up the remaining steps, I reached the plateau to find it emptied of humans. Well, live ones at any rate. Quite different from the scenic grounds below, the reservoir had been built for function and therefore attracted fewer tourists. At this late hour, the isolated hilltop—jutting some ten to twelve stories into the air, higher, even, than the tallest buildings of downtown—offered enough privacy for one to murder with discretion. The act, however, hadn't escaped the notice of turkey vultures. A great many flapped about the woman's body on the ground calling scree! scree! Eddie and Sissy hadn't been the only ones to dine al fresco this evening.

  Behind me, Eddie gasped as he topped the staircase. I, on the other hand, approached the scene with equanimity. When you've lived on the streets as I have, you learn to take death for what it is—a certainty. That, and I'd become too embroiled in this affair to let a little thing like a carcass befuddle me. After setting my orb down, I approached the body, keeping a respectable gap between the vultures and me. Even at a distance, I knew this had to be Mr. Uppity's handiwork. I sat back, dismayed at my inability to stop a killer, and stared at the woman's two empty eye sockets.

  A Considerable Mystery

  "Oh, Jupiter!" Eddie exclaimed. With a pallor matching the victim's, he staggered to the edge of the retention pond and scattered the vultures. Pity. The birds had already made a meal of her, pecking and ripping her face to sausage meat. What's more, the smell of excrement permeated the area; the woman had given her daily due. Due to her recent killing, she'd not begun to rot yet. Cats, on the whole, are not a squeamish lot. This, I'm certain, applies to the rest of the animal kingdom—but not to humans. Men hold death in great regard, always waxing about the waning of life. But present them with a body, and they fall to pieces faster than a teacup dashed against the hearth. For all his macabre interests, Eddie was no exception to the rule. He knelt beside the woman, one trembling hand against his mouth.

  "Just awful," he said. "What's become of this poor soul?"

  Now that the carrion creatures had flown, I took a closer look at the body. Grey hair, wrinkles, a thickness about the waist—these marked a woman of advanced years. Her clothes, while wet with water from the reservoir, were of the highest quality—tight stitching, smooth gabardine, silk flowers at the bodice. If there's one thing I know, it's dresses. I doubt Snow or Big Blue could differentiate between summer-weight and winter-weight wool or crepe de chine and charmeuse. Having clawed countless examples in my time, I excelled at such things. Visitors of all walks frequented the Poe house—a testament to my friend's standing—and, like any good host, I greeted them as they entered. No hem escaped my welcome.

  Vultures had made a mess of her neck and face, but the empty eye sockets told me what I needed to know. The right side was a flowing cup of detritus, the left, a barren well. Even I possessed enough knowledge of anatomy to know she'd lost one organ to bird claw and the other to accident or disease. In all likelihood, she'd worn an artificial eye. This also meant any doubt I had in Mr. Uppity's role—and there was precious little—had disappeared. And while I hadn't caught the fiend in the act, I'd at least involved Eddie in the mystery.

  "Catters, we must do…something," he said. "We must help."

  I knew the definition of help, and she was beyond its reach.

  "Her windpipe looks as if it's been cut by a knife, but that's not what interests me." He gestured with his pinky finger. "Look there, at her face. One socket appears to have been surgically altered in recent years. I can't prove it, but I'm sure she wore a glass eye." Blood rushed his cheeks as he leaned over the body, his earlier uneasiness gone. "The buzzards have eaten most of her other eye…but wait! The tattered shreds of a pale blue iris. I knew it, Catters, I knew it!" He jumped to his feet, fled to the staircase, and shouted to the people below. "Summon a constable! A woman's been murdered!"

  On his return, he snatched the eyeball I'd dropped and stuck it in his pocket as sightseers flooded the plateau. At first, they kept their distance. But when they crowded the body, Eddie commanded them to leave "for the sake of the crime scene," he said. Some listened, some did not. At last, two dour-looking gentlemen arrived and ran off the remaining onlookers. The first and older of the two wore a dark overcoat and carried a leather-bound notebook. The second I took for a night watchman, judging by his heavy cloak, wide-brimmed hat, and long brass-tipped stick. I'd befriended many over the seasons and always found them agreeable. They shifted towards us, two greying apparitions in the twilight.

  "I'm Constable Harkness, Spring Garden District," the older man said. His large white mustache covered his mouth. When he spoke, his bottom lip wiggled beneath the whiskers. "This is Watchman Smythe. Are you the one who found the body?"

  "Yes, at first candle-light," Eddie said. "I was out, strolling with my cat—"

  "Sorry, your cat?"

  Sensing the n
eed for my input, I meowed to clear up whatever confusion had arisen.

  Constable Harkness wrote something in his notebook with a pencil stub he pulled from his vest pocket. He dotted the page with sharp tap of the lead.

  Watchman Smythe poked the woman's body with his stick. "Cold as a wagon tire," he said.

  These two simpletons did not impress me. What was a "constable" any way? And why had Eddie involved one in our private mystery? Surely we could've handled things on our own. At this stage, we needed fewer how dos you dos and more hunting. But since humans are impossible to herd, I sat idly by, waiting for them to catch the wave that had already swept me into deep water.

  The older gentleman continued, "Your name?"

  "E. A. Poe," Eddie said.

  "As in Edgar Allan Poe?" Watchman Smythe rested the end of his nightstick on the ground and leaned on it. "Why sure, I've read your stories." He turned to the older man. "You've heard of him, haven't you, Constable? He writes the popular pieces for Graham's Magazine."

  "I don't read the popular pieces," he replied. From his sour face, "popular" must've been one pickle of a word.

  "'The Murders in the Rue Morgue' was all-out sensational!" Watchman Smythe said. "You don't find 'em much smarter than Detective Dupin."

  "Balderdash." Another sour pickle face from the constable.

  The watchman tipped his hat at Eddie. "The wife will have a conniption when she finds out I met you, Mr. Poe. She fancies the way you kill people."

  Constable Harkness raised an eyebrow.

  Eddie loosened his cravat with a finger. "They're just stories, Mr. Smythe. Flights of imagination."

  "Be that as it may, Mr. Poe, I still find your presence here most…interesting," Constable Harkness said. "Do you know this woman?"

  "No. I've never seen her." Eddie tucked his fingers in his vest pockets. "But I'm not sure anyone could recognize her in her current state. Buzzards. They got to her before I did, I'm afraid."