Софи Келли - A Midwinter's Tail

I didn’t really know how else to describe the “abilities” Hercules and Owen had, which was part of the reason why I hadn’t told anyone—not even Marcus. What was I going to say to him? “Oh, by the way, Owen can make himself invisible, and Hercules can walk through walls?”

Cats can’t dematerialize and then rematerialize at will. They can’t walk through several inches of solid wall. Except mine could.

It defied logic and reason and I had no idea why or how they could do what they did. I just knew it wasn’t the kind of information I should share with anyone.

I put my briefcase and my outside things away and then knelt down on the kitchen floor. Hercules put a paw on my knee and almost seemed to smile at me.

“How was your day?” I asked, and reached over to stroke the sleek black fur on the top of his head.

He yawned. Nothing exciting.

“Okay, how was your day?” I said to Owen, reaching over to scratch behind his ear.

His response was to turn away from my hand, shoot a daggers look at his brother and then glare at the refrigerator before finally looking back at me. He meowed loudly.

It wasn’t his “I’m so hungry” meow.

“What happened?” I said.

Owen stalked over to the refrigerator, murping continuously just under his breath. I knew those disgruntled noises meant he was irked about something. He stopped in front of the refrigerator door, sat down and looked at me again. Clearly, I was supposed to know what was wrong.

I looked at Hercules. “What’s wrong with Owen?” I asked.

Hercules yawned again, stretched and joined his brother. He stuck one white-tipped paw underneath the fridge, fished around, and then pulled it back again.

I knew that meant that Owen had lost something under the refrigerator and I had a pretty good idea what that something was.

I got to my feet. “Move,” I ordered, making a shooing gesture with my right hand. Both cats backed up.

I grabbed the wooden spoon I used for mixing up cookie dough, got down on all fours and managed to retrieve the head of a yellow Fred the Funky Chicken stuck underneath the fridge, sending it skidding across the floor, stopping right in front of Owen.

He immediately put a paw on top of the severed catnip-filled head. It looked to me like the same Funky Chicken head that had ended up under the TV stand earlier in the week. I’d managed to bat that one free with the broom handle.

I got to my feet again. “Remember what Eddie said. It’s not enough to have a blistering slap shot. You need some finesse as well.”

Roma and Eddie had come for dinner—along with Maggie—just before hockey season started. Maggie had picked Eddie’s brain for stick handling tips, while Owen sat at her feet seemingly captivated by the conversation. Mags was a good skater, but as Mary put it, she couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn with a puck—or anything else.

Owen made another crabby murping sound, almost under his breath. Then he picked up the Fred head and stalked toward the living room.

Hercules kept me company as I got supper ready. I told him about my day, including what I’d learned from Olivia and Abigail about the boxes of chocolate truffles.

“And Burtis invited me for breakfast,” I said. “At least I think he did.”

Herc cocked his black-and-white head to one side. I related the parking lot conversation with Burtis.

“I think I’ll go,” I said. “Dayna’s death doesn’t make any sense. What are the chances a pistachio nut ended up in the one chocolate she bit into?”

Hercules’s whiskers twitched. He might have been considering my question or he might have been enjoying the aroma of a fat, dill-scented fish cake sizzling on the stove.

I slid the hot, crispy fish cake onto the whole grain bun I’d just toasted and added sprouts, Swiss cheese and my homemade tartar sauce.

“Maggie thinks I’m looking for a crime where there is none,” I told the cat as I set my plate on the table. “Marcus all but said the same thing.” I reached for the dish of plain poached white fish I’d saved for the boys. “I just . . .” I shook my head. “I’m not wrong. You know what Old Harry says: If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, you’d better start making the orange sauce. And all I’ve heard since last night is a lot of quacking that hasn’t made me change my mind.”

My extended metaphor had gone completely over Hercules’s head. But he’d had Harry Junior’s barbecued duck on a beer can, so he knew the word “duck” meant something good and he licked his lips. I decided to see that as a vote of support for my side.

* * *

Roma and Rebecca picked me up right on time for our shopping trip. Owen had disappeared again, but Hercules gave Roma a soft meow.

“Hello, Hercules,” she said with a smile as I pulled on my boots and zipped my jacket.

The cats had never been that crazy about Roma—after all, she was the person who poked them with needles and warned us all not to feed them “people” food. But over the last few months Hercules and Roma had been inching toward a friendship of sorts. Early in the fall I’d gone over the embankment by the water along the Riverwalk downtown. I’d ended up bruised and scraped, and Roma, without being asked, had shown up to make me dinner, throw a couple of loads of laundry in the basement washing machine and feed Owen and Hercules.

“I won’t be late,” I said to Hercules. I grabbed my purse and followed Roma out to her SUV, where Rebecca was waiting in the front passenger seat. She half turned to smile at me as I slid along the backseat.

“Hi, Kathleen,” she said.

I smiled back at her. “Hi, Rebecca.”

Roma slipped into the driver’s seat and turned to look at me. “Where are we going first?”

“Abel’s,” I said.

“They’re a little expensive,” Rebecca said slowly.

Roma and I exchanged looks.

“How much did you spend on your dress the first time you were married?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Rebecca said with a smile. “My mother made over a dress that had belonged to my cousin.”

“Did you like it?”

“It was pretty,” she said. I noticed that not only had she not answered my question, but she’d hesitated before telling me her first wedding dress had been pretty.

“Abel’s,” I said to Roma. Then I leaned back and fastened my seat belt. “Randy says every woman should feel beautiful in her wedding dress.”

“That might have more meaning if I had a clue who the heck Randy is,” Rebecca commented, looking at me in the small lighted mirror on the windshield visor.

Roma and I both laughed.

“Randy is a wedding dress expert on a television show, Say Yes to the Dress ,” Roma said as she backed out of the driveway.

Randy to the Rescue was Maggie’s new favorite reality show. Since her not so secret crush, Today Show host Matt Lauer, had successfully defended his title on Gotta Dance and hung up his dancing shoes, Maggie’s enthusiasm for that reality show had waned. Then she’d discovered Randy to the Rescue . She’d roped Roma and me into watching a couple of episodes of the show, and even the cats had seemed to enjoy it. Randy was a cross between Tim Gunn and Cinderella’s fairy godmother, who dropped in on unsuspecting brides and helped them find the perfect gown. It was a lot of fun, mostly because Randy and the show didn’t take themselves too seriously.

“So, what’s your wedding dress wish?” I asked.

Rebecca sighed. “I think that’s the problem,” she said. “I don’t know. Every wedding dress I’ve seen so far looks like it was made for someone who’s twenty-five. Not for an old lady.”

“You’re not an old lady,” Roma said. “You don’t look it and you don’t act it.”