Софи Келли - Final Catcall

“I think Professor Moriarty has probably turned in for the night,” I said. “Why don’t you come inside?”

A bat zipped by, probably coming from the bat house in the Justasons’ backyard, one house above me on the hill. Hercules whipped his head in my direction. I couldn’t see the glare in his green eyes, but I knew it was there.

“No, that wasn’t Professor Moriarty. That was a bat.”

“Meow?” he said. Was I just imagining the question in that meow?

“Yes, I’m sure,” I said.

I waited on the top step while he looked all around one last time, then jumped down and came across the grass.

There was no sign of Owen in the kitchen. “I’m home,” I called.

Nothing.

“Are you hungry?” I said to Hercules.

The cat meowed softly again and stretched, almost as though he was saying, “I could eat.”

I put away my sweater and briefcase, washed my hands and looked in the fridge for something quick and easy for a late supper. I felt a cat rub against my leg.

“Hi, Owen,” I said, reaching for the eggs and cheese.

“Merow,” he said.

“You hungry?”

That got another meow, with a slightly pitiful tone to it. I grabbed the little dish of sardines, too.

I scrambled a couple of eggs with some cheese and a bit of an orange pepper. While the eggs cooked, I toasted the last piece of Mary’s orange-raisin bread and put a sardine in each cat’s dish. Owen immediately began sniffing the oily little fish, the way he did with everything he ate. Hercules, on the other hand, cocked his head to one side and looked inquisitively at me almost as though he was wondering why I’d given them each a treat without suggesting they might be a little spoiled.

“Haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘Don’t look a gift sardine in the mouth’?” I asked.

For a moment he seemed to be considering my words. Then he started to eat.

I sat at the table with my feet propped on another chair and picked up my fork. Owen had decided there was nothing “fishy” about his sardine and was blissfully eating it. Hercules was doing the same, although he kept shooting me little glances from time to time. Somehow he knew something was off. I’d finished about half my eggs when he came over to the table. Without waiting for an invitation, he jumped onto my lap, put his white-tipped paws on my chest and looked unblinkingly at me. I knew that look. It meant What’s going on?

I stroked the soft black fur on the top of his head. “Do you remember me telling you about Hugh Davis?” I asked.

Hercules seemed to think for a moment, then he murped what I decided to believe was a yes .

“He’s dead,” I said, putting my fork down so I could rub the side of my head.

The cat’s green eyes stayed locked on my face.

I let out a breath. “Andrew and I found the body at the Spruce Point lookout.”

I wondered if Marcus was still at the marina. Did Ben or Abigail know what had happened yet? What would this do to the New Horizons Theatre Festival?

Hercules walked his front paws up my chest and bumped my chin with the top of his head. Either he was after more details or he wanted a bite of my scrambled eggs. I decided to go with the idea that he was looking for more information, since I knew Roma would frown on me feeding him eggs with cheese and peppers.

I picked up my fork and in between bites told the boys what had happened at the library, how Andrew and I had ended up in the marina parking lot, and how I’d raced him up the stairs and then almost fallen over Hugh Davis’s body.

Hercules turned his head to look at the schedule for feeding the cats at Wisteria Hill.

“Yes, Marcus was there,” I said.

Owen had finished his sardine and was licking the remaining fish oil out of his dish. At the sound of Marcus’s name his head whipped around like it was on a swivel and he and his brother locked eyes. Some kind of unspoken message seemed to pass between the two cats. Then Owen dropped his head again and Hercules brought his attention back to me. It seemed a little . . . well . . . crazy to think the two of them could somehow communicate without making a sound, but considering their other talents, it wasn’t really that far-fetched. Was it?

Hercules gave me another head butt.

I slid down in the chair and scratched the place just above his nose where the white fur of his face met the black fur on the top of his head. “And yes, I talked to him,” I said.

He made a small murp. “Nothing’s changed,” I said with a sigh. “Except I seem to be mixed up in one of his cases. Again.”

Owen had come to sit by my feet. He gave an enthusiastic meow.

“No, that’s not a good thing,” I said testily. More than once in the past couple of weeks I’d almost gotten the sense that the cats wanted Marcus and me to get back together. The rocking chair had been in the living room for more than a week now, but as far as I could tell neither cat had tried to sit in it, although they’d tried to herd me—deliberately, it seemed—to sit in it a couple of times.

I looked at one cat and then the other. “I’m not talking about Marcus,” I said firmly.

Owen stared at me for a minute, then turned to look expectantly at the back door. A second passed, and then another and then I heard a knock.

I stood up and set Hercules on the floor. “How do you do that?” I said, bending down to give Owen a quick scratch behind one ear. All I got for an answer was a twitch of his whiskers. I padded out to the porch door in my sock feet. Andrew didn’t give up easily. I rolled my head from one shoulder to the other and then opened the door.

It wasn’t Andrew standing there. It was Marcus.

6

“Oh, hi,” I said stupidly.

“Do you have a few minutes?” he asked. “I have a couple more questions.” His hair was windblown and in the light I could see he needed a shave.

“Sure,” I said. “C’mon in.”

He followed me into the kitchen. Owen and Hercules were sitting by the refrigerator.

I gestured at the table. “Have a seat. I was about to make some hot chocolate. Would you like some? Or I could make coffee.”

“Hot chocolate’s fine. Thank you,” he said. Then he leaned forward, hands between his knees. “Hello,” he said to the cats.

“Meow,” Owen said. Hercules was content to just dip his head in acknowledgment.

I put milk in the microwave to warm and got two mugs and my stash of marshmallows out of the cupboard. Then I leaned against the counter. “You have questions.”

He nodded. “Tell me again how you found Hugh Davis’s body.”

I repeated the story while I waited for the milk to heat, leaving out how I’d tried to race Andrew to the top of the stairs.

“And you didn’t see anybody up on the lookout?” Marcus asked as I set a steaming mug in front of him.

“No. But it was starting to get dark.” I dropped a couple of marshmallows into my cup. The scent of vanilla mixed with the cocoa. I pushed the container across the table to him. “Would you like a marshmallow?”

Marcus squinted into the little china bowl. “They don’t look like marshmallows,” he said.

“That’s because they’re homemade.”

“You made marshmallows?” He still had that skeptical look on his face.

“I didn’t make them,” I said. “Maggie got them for me at the farmers’ market. The Jam Lady makes them.”

“What do they taste like?”

I laughed. “You’re as bad as Owen. Try one.” At the sound of his name, Owen, who had been washing his tail, lifted his head.

Marcus picked up the dish. “Well, what do you think?” he asked the cat.

Owen tipped his head to one side and his whiskers twitched as he sniffed the air.