Моника Шонесси - The Black Cats

An Apology

Depending on which version of The Tell-Tail Heart you read, the spelling of Eddie’s name may have changed to Eddy. While researching this book, I found that some historians referred to him as “Eddie,” while others called him “Eddy.” This, too, could be said of Cattarina. I found three different spellings of her name. Misinformation about the past is rampant. Even tour guides were mistaken about the historical name of the street where Poe lived (I caught this one!). To quote Cattarina, “It was enough to drive a cat mad.” So I picked the most logical spelling of Mr. Poe’s nickname and proceeded with The Tell-Tail Heart .

About a month after publication, I stumbled onto a source document—a letter written by Mr. Poe himself. And he’d signed it “Eddy.” This piece of information haunted me throughout the creation of The Black Cats . Should I risk the ire of readers and do justice to the past? Or ignore this trifle and spread more misinformation?

In the end, I sided with historical accuracy, inasmuch as this is possible. Please forgive my need to make this small but important change.

Monica

To F & G

My greatest sources of inspiration

To my critique group

The people who make me reach higher

To Edgar Allan Poe A true literary genius

***

Other Books in the Cattarina Mystery Series

The Tell-Tail Heart

To the River - Rescue by the Schuylkill

Adult / YA books by Monica Shaughnessy

Season of Lies

Universal Forces

The Trash Collector (Short Story)

Children's books by Monica Shaughnessy

Doom & Gloom

The Easter Hound

***

Acknowledgements & Foreword

This book is a complete work of fiction. However, it does reference historical figures. Whenever possible, the story remains true to the facts surrounding their lives. Edgar Allan Poe did, indeed, own a tortoiseshell cat named Cattarina. While I can only guess she was his muse, I feel rather confident in this assertion as cats provide an immeasurable amount of inspiration to modern writers. If you would like to learn more about his life, several excellent biographies exist. I hope you enjoy my little daydream; life is wonderfully dreary under Mr. Poe's spell.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Front Matter

Back Matter

“The Black Cat” by Edgar Allan Poe

Excerpt from The Tell-Tail Heart, Cattarina Mystery #1

><

Philadelphia, 1843

><

The Black Cat

THE BODY HANGING FROM the tree spoiled our glorious constitutional. While Eddy and Sissy abhorred the discovery, it enraged me, filling me with desire for revenge. During my last adventure, I’d become accustomed to the transience of human life, perhaps too accustomed, developing a relationship most informal with Death. So much so that when our neighbor, Mrs. Busybody, swallowed her false teeth and expired last winter, my whiskers barely registered the passing. But this morning’s butchery shocked me more than the ones that plagued Philadelphia last fall. Why? Because a fellow cat had been murdered.

I shuddered at the black tom overhead, at once suspicious of our new neighbors. Eddy had insisted on moving, and I, fulfilling my role as feline companion and muse, had followed him on his quest for new air . We’d settled apparently, in the darkest, cruelest part of the city. Though I had no idea how dark and cruel when we set out this morning.

Shortly after breakfast, Sissy, the lady of the house, summoned Eddy to the kitchen and uttered one of my favorite phrases. “Let’s go for a stroll,” she said to him. “I am in need of a breeze, and from the snap of bed linens on the clothesline, God has provided one. The market would be lovely today. Besides, Mother’s out of rosemary.”

Eddy rested his fingertips on the windowsill above the sink and looked into the side yard. I hopped to the table for a peek myself. Muddy lingered near the clothesline with a basket of laundry and a mouthful of clothespins. One by one, she removed the little wooden teeth from her lips, using them to peg the sheets. “I suppose your mother will be busy for a while,” he said. “Join us, Catters?”

He meant me, of course. Eddy seldom used my full name, Cattarina. I wasn’t sure of his question, so I gave an all-purpose meow that meant both yes and maybe at the same time. Catspeak is not without subtlety.

Once Sissy changed into her rose-print town dress, we left to marvel in the ripe delights of summer. Such a merry prelude to murder! In this new and strange part of the city, Spring Garden Street unbuttons down the center into an outdoor market filled with fish, hot corn, pickles, gutted pigs, fish, paper whimsies, tobacco products, tin wind-up toys, and fish. Yet I grieved for the wide-open fields of Fairmount. Nothing could replace the tickle of Indian grass beneath my paws.

Entering the market before Eddy and Sissy, I wound this way and that between their legs, guiding them without suspicion while they chatted. When humans are preoccupied, directing their actions is mere kitten’s play. So it took little effort to steer them to the appropriate stall. “Get my fish! In yer dish!” the monger shouted. “Shad enough to grant yer wish!” His sign held the usual marks: FISH. From my tenure with Eddy—a preeminent man of letters—I knew these squiggles communicated something . But I doubted they adequately described the striped bass, walleye, and catfish heaped on the counter, their scales glistening in the sun. Flies, too, had arrived in great number to admire the merchandise.

Sissy waved them from her path with a copy of the Gazette she’d brought along. She opened the newspaper and examined the contents. “Three thefts, two beatings, and not a single murder,” she said.

My ears swiveled at murder —just one of the many human words I knew. Some, like breakfast , lunch , and dinner , could stir me from the deepest slumber; others, like no , out , and that damnable cat , had little effect on me despite their obvious meaning. And while a great many remained beyond comprehension, murder had clawed its way into my vocabulary. I found a piece of discarded fish skin and chewed it thoughtfully as I listened to Sissy’s voice. When she spoke, her words came out in a whisper. I imagined them floating from her lips like dandelion puffs.

“It’s been so hot lately,” she said. “You’d think the heat would send someone on a killing spree.”

“Peace and tranquility are most troubling, aren’t they?” Eddy said.

“I am reading the news for your benefit, dear husband, not mine.” She folded the paper into a fan and waved it to cool herself. “I know how you love crime stories. I could scarcely keep you from that wretched eye business last October.”

“Am I the only one with an interest in murder?”

Sissy pursed her lips and fanned harder, fluttering the strings of her bonnet.

Murder , the liveliest, most oft-discussed topic of the Poe household. After I nabbed the Glass Eye Killer last autumn, my deeds inspired Eddy to write “The Tell-Tale Heart.” He then penned “The Gold Bug,” a second tale for which I take full credit. I am still not sure how Muddy found my beetle collection between the couch cushions. Now, with the passing of the seasons, life had dwindled to a predictable series of events for this tortoiseshell: breakfast, nap, lunch, nap, dinner, nap, repeat. How I longed to chase human quarry again! Alas, murderers were not as plentiful as mice.