Моника Шонесси - The Black Cats

And then I saw it.

The now-familiar rope hung on a peg near the pot-bellied stoves. I traversed the cabinetry and studied the cord’s composition: brown and tan jute, the former dyed with a bitter solution that smelled of walnuts, the latter left au natural. Great Cat Above, I’d located the source of the murder weapon! I narrowed my eyes at Mr. Fitzgerald and watched him share a joke of some sort with Eddy. The two men laughed. It baffled me that a human of gentle demeanor could commit such a cruelty. But Mr. Fitzgerald, indeed, had been the one to kill the black cat. I yowled to catch Eddy’s attention.

“We will leave soon, Catters,” he said. He gave the shopkeeper a somber look. “Now about your store credit…”

Mr. Fitzgerald had already killed one cat this morning, and I, for one, didn’t want to be the second. So I nudged the box of twine balls from the counter to accelerate my plot. They bounced and rolled along the floor, coming to rest beneath the pot-bellied stoves. The men stopped speaking and looked at me. Splendid.

“Catters?” Eddy said. “What on earth are you doing?”

I knocked a tin of thingamabobs to the floor. One needed a glossary just to shop here.

“Catters!”

When both men approached, I leapt to the rope to draw notice. Naturally I brought it down on top of myself. Rationation is not without peril. I poked through the heap of loops and meowed for Eddy. He would recognize this as the same material from which the killer had made this morning’s noose, and Mr. Fitzgerald would be exposed as a torturer and a fiend. The neighbors might turn against him, but this mattered less than the truth. Three cheers for me, the greatest cat in all of—

“Cattarina, stop this tomfoolery at once!” Eddy said.

Mr. Fitzgerald stood behind Eddy and peered over his shoulder. “Well, I’ll be graveled. Think she’s chasing a mouse?”

“I think she’s chasing her sanity,” Eddy said.

I sank my teeth into the jute and held fast to the clue. To quote the famous philosopher, Cato, “We are twice armed when we bite in faith.” I had just become a formidable opponent.

Eddy tried tugging the line from my jaws. Then he pulled me around the floor like a child’s toy—a wooden cat on a string. When he paused to rethink this strategy, I doubled my efforts, tangling and winding into the coil until I’d knotted myself to the bitter end. With enough tortitude, any problem could be solved, I reasoned. Soon, Eddy would appreciate the significance of the rope, and I could let go of the blasted thing. I hoped it happened before dinner.

“Well, that is that, I’m afraid. Good day, Mr. Fitzgerald.” Eddy placed the hammer in his pocket and dragged me toward the door, my teeth still grasping the clue. To my horror, my fur cleaned a path on the dusty floor behind us. Still I did not let go.

“Wait! Mr. Poe!” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “Don’t mean to start a chafe, but I can’t let you to leave without paying for that item.”

Eddy paused near the entrance. “I have already purchased this hammer on credit. Perhaps we can make a similar arrangement for the rope?”

“We have a limit, and you’ve reached it.”

Eddy scowled at me, his cheeks red. “Then would you like to buy a cat?”

The shopkeeper eyed me. “At the moment, no.”

“A barter, then.” He took a deep breath. “The hammer for the rope.”

“That I can do, Mr. Poe,” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “That I can do.”

Eddy left the hardware store, dragging me belly up in the dirt behind him. At least we were no longer in the company of a murderer. Tabitha and Abner Arnold watched us from the doorway of the shoemaker shop next door. Abner appeared to have recovered from his trip to Jolley Spirits and stood a little straighter. Tabitha, meanwhile, hadn’t changed a whit. She scowled at us, unamused by our conduct. Throughout the courtyard, I wished for street. When we reached Franklin, I wished for soft earth. Cobblestones are for paws, not backs. The entire trip home, Eddy did not speak to me. And he certainly did not speak to the neighbors, try as they might to engage him.

“You’ve got an odd anchor, Poe!” Mr. Cook shouted from his front stoop. “It’s got teeth and tail!”

Mrs. Cook stuck her head out of an upstairs window and pointed. “Look! He’s caught a cat fish on his line. I know what Mrs. Clemm is cooking for dinner!”

Their jeers held no meaning. I had a job to do, and nothing would stand between me and my quarry, not even my pride. Just the same, I hoped I wouldn’t encounter the tabbies, George and Margaret, or the Coon Cats, Samuel and Silas. Vanity aside, I still prized my dignity.

Eddy continued in silence, stopping every few houses to see if I’d let go of the rope. But he never once looked—really looked— at the object between his fingers. With each passing stone that scraped my back, my course grew more certain. Midnight was right. To help Snip and protect the cats of Philadelphia from Mr. Fitzgerald, I had to steal Mr. Eakins’s book.

Buried Secrets

JUST AS I LICKED the last twig from my tail, Muddy served dinner. Unfortunately, my harrowing drag was for naught. Nothing came of these heroics, save for a bruise in a very delicate place; my bottom had polished every cobblestone on Franklin. In the absence of a hammer, Eddy pressed a candle stub onto the nail head, preventing Sissy or Muddy from tearing their skirt again. But what skills he possessed in shirking handiwork, he lacked in hunting. To snare Mr. Fitzgerald required the cunning of a cat, nay, a tortoiseshell cat.

I pondered the complexities of the crime during the evening meal. I’d detected no lavender or citrus anywhere in Mr. Fitzgerald’s shop, and I remembered smelling it on the noose this morning. Further, what possible reason could he have for killing Snip? And had he been Snip’s owner? Lastly, I judged him a fair human. I have been mistaken or misguided on occasion, even ill advised, but I have never been wrong. Doubt over his role in the murder abounded. I prayed Mr. Eakins’s book would provide answers.

Once I’d downed Muddy’s feeble offering of chicken broth, I proceeded to Green Street, stopping first at the Beal residence for help. The grey tom and orange molly napped on the stoop, warming themselves in the dwindling sun. I thanked the Great Cat Above for the long stretch of summer daylight. It made my investigation that much easier, and quite an investigation it had been. I’d done more today than I had all spring. I climbed the terraced steps and chanced upon a crockery bowl of water. I took a sip of the cool liquid, thinking the Quaker cats would not mind.

George lifted his head, one eye still closed. “Cattarina?” He nudged Margaret. She awoke with a start and sprang to her feet.

“Y-you’re alive,” she said to me. “But how? Every cat tongue on Green Street is a-wag. They’re saying the Butcher got his hands on you.”

“He did,” I said. “It was quite an ordeal.” I licked the water from my lips.

George sniffed me. “And you’re not dead?”

I shifted to my hindquarters, minding the bruise. “You should be asking about the Butcher.”

“The way you talk!” Margaret said.

“Were you terribly frightened?” George asked. “How did you escape his sausage grinder? Skeletons. Were there cat skeletons in the home?” He backed into the water bowl, spilling it. “Do tell us, Cattarina! Do tell us!”

“You misunderstand Mr. Eakins,” I said.

“Who is Mr. Eakins?” George shook the water from his paws and licked them.

“The Butcher. Please keep up.” I flicked the end of my tail. “From what Silas and Sam— I mean, the Water Giants, tell me, he is a kindly old man who rescues homeless cats. Though he may have a small flea problem.”