The Tell-Tail Heart: A Cat Cozy (Cattarina Mysteries) (6 page)

Midnight
in Philadelphia

A
s I lay in the grass awaiting
Big Blue's judgment, I cleared my throat with a good cough. It didn't take much
to wind me these days. Killer, however, had fully recovered. The little
saucebox hopped circles around the older sentries, batting their tails and
flicking dirt on their toes. Had I ever been that young and insufferable? I
coughed again as Big Blue and Snow approached, their faces solemn. I rose to
greet them, still exhausted from the trial.

"I'm afraid we have a tie," Big Blue
said.

"A tie?" Killer howled. He skidded
beside us, shredding grass. "Impossible."

I lifted my chin. I hadn't won. But I hadn't lost.

"I counted them, son," Big Blue said. "A
tie's a tie. But that makes honoring my word a difficult thing. We never
discussed a draw."

"May I suggest—" I coughed again,
this time harder. The hunt had taken more of a toll than I'd thought. "May
I suggest we—" I lurched forward and belched a long, slender object at
their feet, settling the matter.

Much to Killer's dismay, I'd won by a tail.

Snow and I strolled through Logan Square Park,
intent on drawing Claw and his gang from hiding. Behind us, Big Blue and his
sentries shadowed our movements along the trail, using bushes and tree trunks
for cover. Most everyone had turned out for the skirmish, most everyone but Killer.
He'd begged to come along, but his mother denied the request, instructing him
to stay behind with Bobbin to guard the mice kills. I glanced at her. Snow's
life had taken a different path from mine—motherhood, a long-time mate, unfettered
living—but was it any better? Dead leaves crackled beneath our paws,
filling the silence until I summoned the courage to talk. "Are you happy?"
I asked.

"Very happy. I have a large family, many
friends, a big territory."

We hopped over a fallen branch and crossed into
a gloomy stretch of park that smelled of rotting vegetation. Shrubs and trees
arched overhead, forming a tunnel of sorts that cloaked us in semidarkness and
widened our pupils. Summer's leftovers—moss and fern and
toadstools—littered the path. Tinged with brown, they'd begun to lose
their grip on the season.

"You didn't ask, but I will tell you
anyway. I am happy, too," I said. "Without me, the Poe household
would collapse. I watch over Sissy, eat scraps for Muddy, and serve as muse for
Eddie. He's a man of letters, you know. Of great importance." My thoughts
drifted to my friend, provoking a half-purr that I quickly stifled. "In
return, Eddie feeds me breakfast and dinner, scratches me between the ears, and
worships me in a
most
satisfactory manner."

"You're not the only one who watches from
the field. I've seen your Eddie, and he looks very kind." Snow lowered her
voice. "Don't tell Big Blue, but I've always wondered what it would be
like to live in a house and have a human dote on me."

"Most days, it's grand." I yawned to
clear my head. "If you don't mind me asking… Why did you help me win the
contest?"

The snap of a twig stopped us.

Snow seemed relieved at the interruption. "Who's
there?" she called.

I tried to look ahead, to see beyond the shrubs
obstructing our view, but they had grown too thick. "My whiskers are
telling me this is a trap," I said.

"Then let's spring it." She trotted past
me along the curve, her tail high. I ran to catch up, praying Big Blue hadn't
lost us in the greenery. As we rounded the bend, Claw, Ash, and Stub leaped
from the bushes, surrounding us on all sides. My whiskers are never, ever
wrong.

"It's our old friend, Tortie," Claw
said. "And she's brought a friend." He studied Snow with more care
than I'd expected. "Haven't I seen you before?"

"You knew my mother," she said. "We
met when I was a kitten."

Stub rubbed along Snow's side. "You're all grown
up now, pretty molly. You looking for a mate?"

"Take care, Stub," Ash said. "Once
I finish with her, she won't be nearly as charming."

"Leave her alone," I said. "Your
quarrel is with me."

"No, QuickPaw," Snow said. "It's
with me. It always has been."

Claw arched his back. "With you? I don't
even know—" His eyes widened. He'd obviously recalled their
connection—a strong one, from his mien.

"Yes… That's it. Now you remember," she
said to Claw. "The way you chased my mother into the street." She
flashed her canines. "The way the carriage wheels dragged her over the
cobblestones. The way she died, gasping for breath in front of a little white
kitten." Snow bristled her tail and shrieked, "Now
you
will
die!"

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.