Boo Who (31 page)

Out on the floor, Wolfe was happy to help a few customers while Mr. Bishop handled the register. Maybe if he stuck with it long enough, he’d be relieved of his romance novel duties.

“Wolfe?”

Wolfe turned at the voice. “Hi Martin.”

“Listen,” Martin said, his tone quietly serious, “I have to know how your novel ends. I didn’t ask before. But I need to know. I know it sounds crazy, but maybe there’s something in there that could save the town.”

Wolfe led Martin to a vacant aisle. “Martin, I know my book. I know everything I wrote in there. I made up a story. It couldn’t possibly be relevant to what this town is going through.”

Martin nodded. “I know, I know. But I’m desperate, Wolfe. I won’t lie to you. Mayor Wullisworth loses touch with reality more and more every day. And I’m losing this town. In the not-so-distant future, we might be a ghost town.” Martin’s eyes shone with urgency.

Wolfe sighed, looking around to make sure there were no customers in need of help. “Okay, fine. But I’m telling you, there’s no secret mystery locked in the pages of my book. I know what I wrote, and it’s just a story. That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“So how’s it end?”

“As I told you before, the town realized how strangely the cats were acting and believed them to be cursed. Finally, after a lot of effort, the cats vanish, nearly overnight. And the town seems to be heading toward recovery. But then, tragedy strikes.”

“What happens? Do the cats come back in bigger forces to kill the humans?” Martin’s eyes widened with each word.

Wolfe smiled. “No. In fact, most everyone in the town dies in an earthquake.”

Martin’s hands found his hips. “What? What kind of ending is that?”

“The cats weren’t acting strangely because they were cursed. It was
because they were trying to warn the people an earthquake was coming. It is documented that many animals, including cats, have the ability to sense weather changes and impending seismic catastrophes. The town lay on a fault line, and it was well known throughout the town that it had a chance of succumbing to that sort of disaster. In fact, that is why the forefathers of the town kept a lot of cats around. They knew the cats would forewarn them of disaster by their behavior. But through the years, the people had forgotten this. They’d focused primarily on their future and forgotten their roots. If they’d remembered what their forefathers had done for the town, they might have known why the cats were acting in such a strange way and then escaped in time.”

Martin rubbed his chin. “So … the cats were trying to warn them. That’s why they were acting strange.” Martin’s eyes darted to the window.

“Martin,” Wolfe said calmly, “our cats aren’t acting strangely. They’re just being cats. Remember, this is just a story.”

“But the note said the answer to this town’s problems is in your book.” Martins fingers fidgeted with the buttons on his shirt. “Maybe the black cats will start acting strangely.”

“Martin, Indiana isn’t exactly known for its earthquakes.”

“You know as well as I do that an earthquake can strike anywhere.”

Wolfe scratched his forehead, trying to figure out how to convince Martin his book did not hold the secret to this town’s future. “Martin, look, the only thing my
fictitious
town and Skary, Indiana, have in common is their search, or lack thereof, for their history. My town didn’t care about its roots. Skary is searching for hers. That is the only correlation between the two books I can see.”

“Other than the plethora of black cats.”

“Yeah, but I got my idea for the book from our problem. Don’t you see? It’s just a story. That’s all. A horror novel. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Martin did not seem convinced. He was staring at a large poster of the book hanging from the ceiling.

Wolfe decided to tell Martin something he’d convinced himself was not necessary before. “I know who sent you the note.”

Martins head snapped around toward Wolfe. “You do?”

“Yes. I wasn’t going to tell you before, because mingling with this person can only cause one trouble. I learned the hard way.”

“Who sent it?”

“Miss Peeple.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she visited me on Christmas, handed me a copy of
Black Cats
, and told me the key to the towns future was in my book.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Martin demanded.

“Because it’s absurd. I know my book, and I know it has no such mystical solutions to a towns problems. It’s just a story!”

Martin scowled, but upon further thought, his expression softened and he looked at Wolfe. “Maybe I should go see Miss Peeple anyway. Find out what her agenda is.”

“I’m sure she has one. It’s usually to cause trouble.”

Martin buttoned up his coat and shook Wolfe’s hand. “Thanks for the information.”

“Be careful,” Wolfe said, escorting Martin to the front door of the store.

“Of the cats?”

“No, Martin. Of Miss Peeple.”

“Oh.”

“And Martin?”

“Yes?”

“The townspeople caused their own troubles through paranoia. Their fears drove them to be blinded to reality and to create things that did not exist. In the story, I mean.”

Martin pulled his gloves on, swept his scarf around his neck and continued out the door. Headed in the direction of Miss Peeple’s house.

CHAPTER 25

M
ARTIN KNOCKED
several times, each time more furiously than the last. Eventually, he was pounding, which caused a neighbor to step outside and take a peek. Martin offered a friendly wave, and the neighbor smiled and pretended to need something on the porch.

“Miss Peeple?” Martin called. He peered through the window and didn’t see any movement. Maybe he should break in, see what he could find before she returned. Of course, that would be illegal … if he was caught.

Martin squeezed his eyes shut to the tempting thought.
It’s illegal even if you don’t get caught,
he reminded himself. Still, something urged him and his heart raced at the thought. He’d never done anything illegal in his whole life!

He looked around. The inactive street behind him seemed to nod in approval. “What am I doing?” he breathed, but went ahead and rattled the doorknob. To his surprise, it twisted, popping the door open. “Oh!” he cried, then quickly shut it. Sweat trickled down his temples.

He turned his back against the door, his fingertips nearly clawing its wood. His head whipped back and forth as he scanned the streets for any sign of a potential witness. Only a cat here and there.

Martin could hardly breathe. With one hand he clutched his chest. With the other he wiped his sweat. This was it! He could go in, find some clue about why Missy was sending him secret notes, and be out of there without a trace.

He checked his watch. He would give himself five minutes. If he found nothing, he would leave.

Reaching behind him, he opened the door and slid backward into the house, shutting the door quietly. He glanced out the window once before hurrying through the house. What he was looking for, he did not know. He decided there was really no need to tiptoe, though his paranoia nearly demanded it. Walking lightly across the room, he tried to take in everything at once. He wished the smoking gun would stand up and announce itself, but he knew he was probably going to have to sift through some drawers.

In the kitchen, he opened one drawer, looked in it, decided there was nothing there, and closed it. He did this several more times before realizing a minute had passed because he was being so careful about everything.

As he walked into the living room, a pungent mixture of stale mothballs and dust caused him to sneeze. Luckily, he had quite a petite sneeze, which had embarrassed him in high school but was now coming in pretty handy. Nobody was going to hear him.

He’d never been any further than the living room in Miss Peeple’s house. Walking down the hallway nearly seemed like a crime by itself. He peeked into the bathroom, but the sight of a pair of stockings hanging from the tub was all he needed to quickly shut the door again.

Then he decided to venture into the bedroom. The thought caused him a seismic tremble from head to toe. But it was the only room he hadn’t been in. And he had two minutes left.

The door was halfway closed. With a single finger, he pushed it open, and it creaked to a standstill a few inches from the wall. He could see a vanity table, a dresser, and a small window from where he stood, plus the end of the bed, where a quilt was neatly folded.

“What am I doing, what am I doing?” He pushed the palm of his hand into his forehead, as if this might shift his brain enough to make him think clearly. What kind of person breaks into people’s homes? Of course, what kind of person sends eerie, anonymous messages? Miss Peeple knew something, and he was determined to find it out.

He stepped into the room and looked around. Taking one more step in, he decided he would look in the—

“Ahh!”
He stumbled backward, knocking himself into the vanity.
“Ahhh! Ahhh!”
His high-pitched squeal scared him as much as the sight before him. But when he finally got ahold of himself, he realized something even more horrifying.

Before him, tucked quietly into her bed, was Missy Peeple. Her eyes were closed, and she wasn’t moving. Like a hungry seagull, his mind dove into dark waters, fishing for reason. Was she dead? And he had broken into her house … This wasn’t going to look good! His fingerprints were everywhere! He gasped for air. He was going to be a murder suspect! Maybe he should just sneak out of the house. But … but he didn’t murder her. And if someone saw him sneaking out of her house, then he’d look even more guilty.

“Oh dear, oh dear.” His fingers came to life and crawled up his chest and over his chin to his mouth, where he nibbled at a fingernail that had already been tattered earlier when he received the note.

Then. A moan. He resisted the urge to squeal again. She was alive! Alive! Alive? Now what? Obviously something was wrong. Miss Peeple was always quite ashen, but her skin tone was completely devoid of color. She moaned again, as if in pain.

His hand clapped over his mouth to keep the shriek down in his throat. He ran out of the room and back to the living room, panting in fear. He couldn’t just leave her here, could he? He must call for help.

He walked over to the phone and closed his eyes.
This
was why he never did anything wrong in high school. He knew he’d get caught.

He dialed the police.

Oliver ran out of the shed as fast as he could, slamming the door and fumbling with the lock until it closed. He stood in his backyard, wondering what he should do, so frightened he thought his knees might collapse. He backed up until his hands found the brick of his home, keeping an eye on the shed.

What
should
he do? He’d caught one, but now what?

He ran into his house, locking the back door. He didn’t know why. He’d tied it up with rope and gagged its mouth.

He leaned on the kitchen table, trying to catch his breath. He could feel his heart straining under the intense adrenaline that pumped it. Blowing like a woman in labor, he managed to at least stop shaking and sweating.

“Oliver?”

With a yelp he turned around, his face contorted in a paralyzed expression of fright. Luckily he didn’t scream, “Don’t kill me!” because it was only Melb.

“Melb,” he breathed.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Are you feeling all right?”

He nodded, managing a weak smile. “W-when did you get here?”

“Just a few minutes ago. Went to the bathroom. I saw your car was here, so I figured you were out puttering around in the shed.”

He nodded and gulped. “Yes. Just, you know, messing around.”

“Why are you breathing so hard?”

“Went for a jog.”

“In the shed?”

“No. No.” He tried to laugh, but his lungs didn’t hold enough air yet, so it sounded more like a wheeze. “Just, you know, back and forth in the yard.”

“Why are you jogging?” Her hands were now on her hips, and he knew that was the last place you wanted any woman’s hands.