The Tell-Tail Heart: A Cat Cozy (Cattarina Mysteries) (10 page)

Before long, the four of us huddled around the
dinner table, my bowl near Eddie's feet, to talk of the day's events. Truth be
known,
they
talked, not me. My mouth was too full of shad. I picked at the
fish and listened to the murmurs above.

"What do you think the killer is going to
do with them?" Sissy asked.

"What one
usually
does with two
glass eyes," Eddie said.

"And what would that be?" Muddy asked.

"He's being purposely obtuse, Mother,"
Sissy said. "He has no more idea than we do."

The clink of cutlery filled the room. My bowl cleaned
of its contents, I lay on my side—legs spread in either direction—and
rested my eyes.

"He's building an automaton," Sissy
said, breaking the quiet spell. "And needed a realistic touch for the face."

Muddy snorted. "What man in Fairmount has the
smarts to build such a thing? I think he's selling them for money. Not enough
to go round these days."

Eddie remained uncharacteristically silent, so I
raised my head to check on him. His body remained, but his mind had gone to a
faraway place, heralded by a familiar gaze that looked at nothing in particular.
This empty stare almost always preceded fits of pen scribbling. A muse knows
things a mere wife, even a
fine
wife, does not.

"My dear?" Sissy touched his arm. "Are
you well?"

Eddie smirked, rousing from a dream that had
obviously pleased him. He leaned forward and called them closer, speaking just
above a whisper. "I will tell you what he's doing with the eyes. Prepare
yourselves, ladies. He's making a doll of human cast-offs. What will he steal
next? A wooden leg? False teeth? One can only hope!" When Muddy groaned,
he tipped his head back and laughed.

"Stop, Eddie," Sissy said. "My
stomach is turning somersaults, and I need my appetite, thank you very much."

"You needn't worry, my darling. Whatever
project he's working on, I intend to uncover it. That much I
do
know."
He set his fork and knife aside. "Now that the finger of suspicion has swung
in my direction, I have no choice."

"Then speak with the optician," Sissy
said. "He may have your answers."

"Optician?" Muddy asked.

"An acquaintance of mine from…from West
Point," Eddie said quickly. "Splendid idea, my wife. I'll pay him a
visit tomorrow, provided Constable Harkness doesn't arrest me first."

The evening passed in a dull march of drudgery: dishes
and sweeping up and the like. Even Eddie forwent writing to help with chores.
Once the Poe family moved camp upstairs, I curled into a ball at the foot of
Sissy's bed, too exhausted to oversee their nightly endeavors, and let their sweet
voices lull me into a relaxed state. But images of Mr. Uppity's wizened face
and sharp blue eyes taunted me when I closed my eyes. As hunter
extraordinaire
,
how could I have let him slip through my paws so many times? Had my skills lessened
with age? No, I'd bested Killer—in the Spider, no less. I tucked my tail
around my nose. Perhaps I'd met a quarry beyond my reach. Perhaps the man would
never be caught, and Philadelphia would soon reek with the stench of his
victims.

I set aside this disquieting notion in favor of
Midnight and the adventure we'd had. A sublime specimen, he possessed qualities
I looked for in a mate: a handsome coat (black fur always made me swoon),
intelligence, long whiskers, devilish charm, and a vocabulary that rivaled
mine. In fact, he reminded me of Eddie, but with more fur and a tail. This
unsettled me more than Mr. Uppity's tomfooleries, so I thought of Snow. She'd
been so curious about human companionship; the longing in her voice had been
unmistakable. Mr. Coffin's voice held it as well the odd times he spoke to me
alone. An introduction between the fatted goose and the white cat was in order,
provided I could arrange it. Satisfied that I'd solved at least one problem
today, I drifted into a fitful slumber.

* * *

The next morning, a staccato
rap-rap-rap
on the front door startled Eddie and me. At the sound, he scratched a line of
ink across the page, spoiling an otherwise well-penned sheet of paper. "Dash
it all," he said, tossing the quill onto his desk.

We'd been at writing awhile.

After breakfast, he'd announced his intention to
work and called me into the front room, shutting the door and stoking the fire.
There, I assumed my post—the corner of his desk—with unusual cheer.
Even though Mr. Uppity was still free to kill, I'd shaken Eddie from his
melancholy, and this had been my goal from the start. Success had, indeed, come
from failure. Taking solace in this notion, I set aside my qualms over the
botched hunting expedition and immersed myself in Eddie's genius, watching his feather
dance to the complicated waltz in his head.

Until the knock interrupted the music.

Muddy greeted our guest—mumbled niceties
in the hallway—and showed him into the front room. Constable Harkness
entered, hat in hand, and eyed our meager surroundings. Eddie rose from his
chair and dismissed Muddy with a shake of his head. To comfort my friend, for I
could smell his anxiety from across the desk, I stepped over the scattered
papers and nudged his hand. He stroked my head with fingers damp from worry.

After the usual formalities, the constable stated
his business. "Well, Mr. Poe, you are officially above the district's
suspicion."

"I am delighted," Eddie said. He
relaxed his posture and leaned on the desk.

"Doctor Anderson confirmed the woman died well
before you discovered her, by several hours. Rigor mortis had just begun to set
in when we carted her over. That's when the body—"

"I am aware of rigor, sir."

Constable Harkness fingered his watch chain.

Eddie cleared his throat. "Who was she, and
how was she killed?"

"Her name is, or
was
Minerva
Paulson, a socialite who'd recently moved to Rittenhouse. Dr. Anderson spoke to
her family and confirmed she wore a prosthesis. Lost the original in a childhood
accident." He rubbed his mouth. "And she was killed like the others.
A knife to the throat."

Eddie winked at me and whispered, "It
was
the Glass Eye Killer, Cattarina. Never wager against me."

"There is no satisfaction in death, Mr.
Poe, save for meeting one's maker," Constable Harkness donned his hat in the
house, a sign of disrespect apparent to even me.

"I agree it is a tragedy. I only
meant—"

"You spend too much time dwelling on the
misery of others, Mr. Poe, and while you haven't committed any
crimes—that I'm aware of—I find you altogether disagreeable. I
bought a copy of
The Gift
this morning, read your 'Pit and the Pendulum,'
and nearly lost my breakfast on the ride over. You should stick to poetry. Good
day to you, sir."

Eddie offered no reply. He waited for the front
door to shut and then let out a sigh strong enough to stir a windstorm. "What
a relief," he said.

Muddy stuck her head in the room, her cap
strings swaying. "Mrs. Busybody's been tongue wagging to all of Fairmount
about the constable's visit." She lowered her voice. "Even the fatted
goose knows about it."

Mr. Coffin appeared over her shoulder, causing
her to jump. "Hullo, Poe," he said. "Are you in a fix?" He'd
arrived without benefit of jerky, but I forgave him since concern tempered his
usual merriment. I heard it in his voice when he spoke to Eddie about the
murder. I tried to leave and find Snow for an introduction, but someone had wrapped
a piece of leather string around the latch, preventing my escape. The old
widow, Mrs. Busybody, followed next with skirts so wide they dragged the doorframe
and knocked Sissy's bric-a-brac from the side table. "It's too horrible for
polite discussion!" she cried. "I feel a faint coming on. Who will
catch me?" She fanned herself with chubby fingers, all the while smiling
demurely at Mr. Coffin. Then came quiet Mister Balderdash, who listened more
than he spoke, and Mr. Murray from Shakey House, and Dr. Mitchell, Sissy's doctor
and long-time friend, and on and on until the front room bulged like a stuffed hen
at Christmas.

Shortly after Mrs. Busybody's arrival, I began
to suspect
I
was the guest of honor, for when Eddie recited his tale—and
he did so many,
many
times, to the delight of his audience—he spoke
my name. Though I longed to vanish into the upper floors of the house, what
could I do? With so many guests to entertain, I hopped on the mantel and provided
a living, breathing illustration to Eddie's account. With each retelling, my
friend grew more animated, flapping his arms in a sort of pantomime when he
reached the part about the vultures. I hadn't seen him this happy since he'd
gotten that slip of paper in the mail he called "the gift." Yet I
took no pleasure in his stories. They reminded me of my own futile efforts and
made my stomach go all gurgly. I had never—never!—failed at hunting.
My claws ached at the very thought of it.

During the initial stages of revelry, Sissy
crept into the room. She sat at Eddie's elbow, commenting when she could, and took
coins in exchange for his poetry pamphlets. Muddy, meanwhile, scurried between
the front room and the kitchen, exclaiming, "What's a visit without tea? Guests
must have tea!" Yet with but one jar of leaves on the shelf, each brew
grew lighter and lighter until she finally served something she called "an
invisible blend grown in the mountains of the Orient." Fiddlesticks. I
knew plain water when I smelled it.

Alas, all this excitement was not without price.

Naturally, I sensed Sissy's downturn first. But from
the first cough, Eddie stood and asked everyone to leave. "You must excuse
us now," he said to the visitors. "Mrs. Poe has grown tired and must
rest. I know you understand." By the time we reclaimed the house, midday
sun streamed through the windows.

"To bed, my girl," Muddy said.

"To bed, my wife," Eddie said.

Sissy did not object.

Once she disappeared up the stairs, I paced the
hallway with scant awareness of Eddie and Muddy's quarrel in the kitchen.
Everywhere I looked, the color blue: the cornflower shawl hanging on the coatrack,
the deep twilight covers of Eddie's leather-bound books, the tufted blueberry
pillows on the couch…the hue taunted me from every crevice of the house until it
drove me partially mad. How could I give up catching Mr. Uppity now?

When Muddy gave us permission, Eddie and I climbed
the stairs to pay Sissy a visit. The old woman met us at the landing and spoke
in hushed tones about "keeping her daughter quiet and calm." After
this solemn warning, she left to gather the guest dishes, a conclusion I drew
from the careless clink of china below. Sensing Eddie's need for privacy, I let
him enter alone but kept watch through a crack in the door. He spoke to the
dear girl and stroked her forehead with a tenderness he usually reserved for me.
Uncommonly possessive of my friend, I made the odd exception for Sissy. I batted
the door and opened it a little wider.

"I will stay here," Eddie said. His
back was to me, shoulders stooped. "I want to, my darling."

"No, please, go to Mr. Lorbin's office,"
she said. Her complexion had gone the way of the tea, turning paler with each shallow
breath.

"But Constable Harkness says I'm no longer
a suspect."

She clutched the bedcovers and restrained a
cough that could've been much deeper had she allowed it. "You want to solve
a mystery like Detective Dupin. Admit it."

Eddie grew quiet. I couldn't see his face, but I
knew the conflict that must've been written upon it because the damnable
feeling had already waylaid me in the hallway. Despite a rational desire to set
aside the hunt for Mr. Uppity, my pride would not allow it. But with this
change in Sissy's health, I wondered if I should leave the house. My tail
swished back and forth as I contemplated the dilemma. I had grown to love the
girl almost as much as I loved Eddie.

"Go," she said. "I insist."

He kissed her on the cheek. "I do not
deserve a wife as fair-minded as you, sweet Virginia."

She smiled wanly. "I will agree with you,
but only because I am too tired to argue."

Whatever she said must have convinced him to go,
for we made straightaway for the city, leaving behind the last of my
uncertainty.

Two Makes a Pair

T
wo majestic townhomes
sandwiched Mr. Lorbin's spectacle shop in the neighborhood of Logan Square, a
fact confirming all roads did, indeed, lead to the blue-eyed bandit. Eddie and
I stepped from our hired coach and approached the building with mutual urgency.
This time, however, I minded my step. At the start of our journey, I'd neglected
to match Eddie's stride and accidentally tripped him as we left the
neighborhood. He admonished me for following him—he looked genuinely
surprised that I had—but I overcame these protestations with a gentle trill,
and we were on our way.

Once we reached busy Coates Street, Eddie hired
a public carriage and told the driver to "seek out Ezekiel Lorbin's office,
full chisel." We bounced through the cobblestone streets, my bones
rattling like a sack of Mr. Coffin's nails. For my own amusement, I sharpened
my claws on the tufted velvet cushion and sniffed the horsehair that spilled
from the rips. Paradise on four wheels! From now on, I would stop running about
like a madcat and use human transportation for all my future endeavors. Eddie
ignored me and stared out the window, his brow furrowed. So I followed suit,
observing the city from the back window of the closed coach. The faster we flew,
the blurrier the people grew until I became almost dizzy.

Near the park, a group of nannies stopped their
baby carriages and waved, signaling me out to their charges. The squeal of children
seemed to shake Eddie from his preoccupation, and he began to talk again, first
about the warm weather streak, then about his books. "We sold four copies
of
Tamerlane
in an hour, Catters.
Four
," he said. He unbuttoned
his overcoat and pulled the window shade, cutting the sun. "They'd been in
storage for years—oh, how young and naïve the author!—and now they
are in the hands of readers. If I solve this mystery, what might it do for my
public profile? I could raise money for
The Penn
in no time."

The Home for Broken Humans appeared in the
carriage window. As we passed, I stared back at the building and chirped with
anticipation. When we traveled this way again, I would create a ruckus and
force Eddie to stop the carriage. While I longed to hunt in Rittenhouse, a
meeting with Caroline would have to suffice until I could detour our
investigation. Between Josef's mention of her name in the bar and Mr. Uppity's receipt
of her note, the young woman knew
something
of the crimes. I switched my
tail and wondered if the hospital door would swing open for our arrival,
because it would take this degree of precision to carry out my plan.

Our driver pulled curbside, and we departed for
the optician's shop. What a funny word,
optician
. Why didn't they just
say spectacle? I didn't know who this Lorbin fellow was, but I questioned his
usefulness. To our mutual agreement, I waited for Eddie outside on the stoop
and surveyed the street for any sign of the dappled mare and gig. Mostly
residential, this sedate piece of Philadelphia held little activity, save for a
group of mourners in the cemetery across the way. I recognized it as the burial
ground I'd passed before my confrontation with Claw. I watched as the humans
lowered a coffin into the ground with ropes, their grip unsteady and faltering.
The wailing that accompanied the event pricked my ears. For all its certainty, death's
timing is decidedly uncertain.
This
I feared most. One day, one very
unexpected day, I would wake up beneath Sissy's cold, grey arm. But I would not
wail as these humans did. I would become very, very still—

A bespectacled Mr. Lorbin opened the door,
pushing me from the step, and, mercifully, from my morbid obsessions. The
glasses magnified his eyes to an alarming size. I could've watched the twin
brown fish swim in their bowls all afternoon. "Sorry I couldn't be of more
help, Mr. Poe. Try the Wills Hospital. They should be able to help with your
inquiry."

"Thank you, Mr. Lorbin. You've been most
helpful." Eddie leapt to the sidewalk with excitement. "If you are to
follow me, Cattarina, you must be quick. I am a man in search of answers."

I scurried down the street after him, working to
keep pace. Imagine my surprise when we turned up the walkway toward the Home
for Broken Humans. Great Cat Above, I hadn't expected this! A comely woman with
slender hands and narrow shoulders greeted Eddie and invited him into the entry
hall. The smell of boiled chicken permeated the air, giving it a gelatinous feel.

"Good afternoon, sir," she said to
Eddie. "Welcome to the Wills Hospital. Are you here to see a patient?"

"No, I'm here to see Dr. Burton." He reached
to take his hat off. When he realized he'd left it at home, he clasped his
hands behind his back instead. "On the recommendation of Ezekiel Lorbin."

Not wanting the "shoo" again, I
stationed myself behind the usual potted plant and waited.

"Dr. Burton is occupied. A patient died
rather suddenly this morning, and he's been attending to the details." Her
bottom lip quivered. "Terrible tragedy the way Mr. Sullivan passed. The
police are being summoned—" She inhaled sharply and covered her
mouth with her fingertips. "You
must
forgive me. I talk far too
much."

"On the contrary." The corner of Eddie's
mustache lifted. "I find it helps during trials of fortitude. Madame, I
stand before you, eager to share in your burden. Now then, how
did
Mr.
Sullivan die?"

"I cannot speak it."

"Then show me."

She motioned to her throat, drawing her finger
across it in a line. "Who would be heartless enough to kill a man with one
leg? And then steal his artificial one?" She laid her hands along her
cheeks. "He'd just gotten it, too. Brand new steel contraption with
springs at the knee."

I slunk from my hiding place and crawled around
the room, scuttling the baseboards like a cockroach.

Eddie's eyes shone in the sunlight cascading through
the window. "Tell me more about this leg."

I left them mid exchange and entered the long
room where I'd found Caroline and Josef yesterday. Most patients sat upright against
their pillows, eating the boiled chicken from metal plates. Not all had the
strength to lift a fork, however, and had to be fed by nurses—including Caroline.
I ducked under the tunnel of bedframes to arrive at hers, making sure to stay
out of view of anyone in a white pinafore. Once the nurse left with Caroline's
empty dishes, I jumped onto the young woman's lap.

"Hello," Caroline said. "What's
this?"

I froze beneath her pale blue gaze.

"I like pussycats," she said to me in
a whisper. "I can't see you, but your fur feels exquisite."

I put my paws on her chest and examined her eyes.
To my horror, they were identical to the one I found at Shakey House and
altogether unnatural looking, giving her the appearance of a china doll. I
hadn't seen them on my last visit because she'd kept her back to me. At least
now I understood her involvement in the murders. She'd been the recipient Mr.
Uppity's ill-gotten pearls.

Caroline stroked my head. "Who let you in
here, Miss Puss?"

I glanced at Eddie in the entry hall, still deep
in conversation with our greeter. Desperate to draw his notice and draw it now,
I yowled with all my being. The patients pointed and laughed at me with riotous
enthusiasm, as if I'd provided post-luncheon entertainment. Fiddlesticks. Their
ruckus drew the attention of both Eddie
and
the nurses. The women rushed
us, causing me to ponder—ah, the burden of verbosity!—what a group
of them might be called. After all, geese had gaggles, dogs had packs, crows
had murders. I settled on
stern of nurses
and ran like the devil.

I hopped from bed to bed, exciting the broken
humans into an unmanageable state as I avoided the nurses' grasping hands. Pillows
and bedpans and spoons filled the air—hoorah! Several boys with crutches
banged them against the bedframes, creating a rhythm that drove me around the
room faster than the horse-drawn carriage. I was a lion in a jungle of blankets.
I was untouchable. I was glorious.

"Run, cat, run!" they cried. "Run,
cat, run!"

Eddie hovered in the doorway, shamefaced, his
hands in his coat pockets. On my second go-round, someone beseeched him to
help, and he reluctantly obliged. When he headed in my direction, I doubled
back, landed in Caroline's lap, and waited for truth to break the horizon. He
reached us, out of breath. "I am ashamed to admit," he said to Caroline,
"the wayward cat is mine. May I take her?"

Caroline handed me to Eddie and looked up at
him. Perhaps
look
was the wrong term.

His reaction to the girl's eyes surpassed even my
own. He stared into their depths and stammered, "Two makes a pair!"