Kelly Sofie - Curiosity Thrilled The Cat

There was my opening. I opened my mouth to ask him why the estate had been abandoned, but before I could get the words out Everett straightened and looked over at Rebecca’s house.

“Have you met Rebecca?” he asked.

“The day I moved in,” I told him, smiling at the memory. Rebecca had shown up with a plate of cinnamon rolls—still warm—and a stainless-steel carafe of coffee.

I hadn’t realized that Rebecca and Everett knew each other, which seemed silly, considering Mayville Heights was a small place and they were both in their midsixties, give or take. Sometimes I still thought like a city dweller.

“How is she?” Everett asked. For a moment I thought he was going to walk over to the hedge. Did he and Rebecca have a past, or had I been reading too many books by the Brontë sisters?

“She’s fine,” I said. “She’s taking tai chi. She talked me into joining the class.”

“I can see her doing that,” he said, finally pulling his eyes back to me. He brushed his hand over his scalp. “Call the office if you need anything,” he said. “And don’t worry about this business with Easton. It’ll straighten itself out.” He patted my shoulder.

I watched Everett cross the yard to the street. I was just about to go back inside when Owen poked his head through the gap in the hedge. He meowed loudly when he saw me. Translation: Come and get me .

“C’mon,” I called to him.

He sat down and yowled again.

“You can walk,” I said. “I’m not coming to get you.” I stood there, arms folded, doing my best Gary-Cooperin-the-showdown-of- High-Noon impersonation, waiting to see what he’d do. After a minute Owen got up and started toward me, something hanging from his mouth. It was enough to get me to walk over and intercept him.

He looked up at me, all golden-eyed innocence, one end of what looked like a bit of fringe between his teeth.

“What is that?” I asked. I reached down and he obligingly let go. It was a twisted piece of fringe. “Owen, where did you get this?” I asked. It looked like the same fringe that was on the scarf Rebecca had left behind at tai chi Tuesday night.

“Owen,” I said sharply. “Did you take this from Rebecca’s scarf?”

The cat was suddenly intently interested in something crawling on the ground in front of him.

Great. I had one cat that could walk through walls and another that seemed to be turning into a kleptomaniac. I leaned down. “That was very bad.” I shook the twist of fringe in his face. “Why did you do that?”

Owen lifted his head, looked around my legs, then sat down and started carefully washing his face.

“Ms. Paulson,” a voice said behind me. Detective Gordon.

I closed my eyes for a second, pulled in a deep breath and slowly blew it out. Then I turned around, pasting a pleasant, innocent expression on my face.

The detective headed toward us.

“We are not finished,” I hissed to Owen, bending to tug at my shoe as a cover so the police officer couldn’t catch me talking to a cat.

Without really thinking about it, I tucked the piece of fringe into the back pocket of my pants.

“Good morning, Detective,” I said.

He looked at Owen, who continued washing his face. I didn’t think I’d ever seen the cat be quite so meticulous about his face washing in, well, ever.

“Is that your cat?” the detective asked.

“Yes, that’s Owen,” I said.

“Hello, puss.” He held out his hand for Owen to sniff. Owen ignored it and continued his elaborate face-washing routine.

The detective gave a slight shrug and straightened. “Ms. Paulson, I have a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.”

I wondered what he’d do if I said I did mind. Instead I said only, “Go ahead.”

“Tuesday morning, how did you get into the theater?”

“Through the side door.”

“Did you touch the alarm panel?”

“I didn’t know there was an alarm panel.” Why wasn’t he writing this down? Was his memory that good, or was he more interested in my reaction to the questions than my answers? Owen finally finished washing his face.

“Did you turn on any lights?” Detective Gordon asked, pushing his rolled shirtsleeves back a bit more. His forearms were deeply tanned.

I shook my head. “No.”

“Do you remember which lights were on?”

I closed my eyes for a second and let the image of the Stratton fill my head. “There was one light by the side door and several of the stage lights were on. That’s how I noticed that little silver musical note.”

“Is that it?”

In my mind I looked out over the audience seating. “No,” I said slowly. “There was a light—not very bright—at the back of the theater.”

I held up both hands to put the image in perspective. “This side,” I said, wiggling my left fingers. I opened my eyes. “The light was on the left as you look toward the back of the audience.”

He nodded. Did that mean I’d given the right answer?

Owen was still leaning against my leg. I bent down and picked him up. Detective Gordon held out his hand again. Owen shifted in my arms, and his attention focused on something just over my right shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Owen doesn’t like to be touched by anyone other than me. He was feral. Both cats were, actually.”

“From the old Henderson estate?”

I nodded.

“How did you get them to come with you?”

I scratched under Owen’s chin. He rubbed his head against my neck, but I could still feel his body, under his fur, tensed in case he had to defend my honor by—I don’t know—jumping on Detective Gordon’s head, maybe?

“Actually, they followed me,” I said. “They were so small, and I couldn’t find their mother.” Owen licked my chin then. It tickled and I laughed.

“They followed you?” The detective seemed . . . surprised. “I’ve never seen any of the cats out there come anywhere close to a person—not even Dr. Davidson.”

It was my turn to look surprised. “You’ve been out to Wisteria Hill?”

He stared at his feet, his face suddenly tinged with pink. “A few of us have been helping Dr. Davidson.”

He’d been helping Roma. Damn! That made it harder to dislike the man.

Owen started squirming, so I set him on the grass. He headed for the house.

“Detective Gordon, would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked. He was helping Roma. It seemed wrong to hold a grudge. “I made muffins. Blueberry.”

He smiled. “I would love a cup of coffee,” he said. “And I wouldn’t say no to a blueberry muffin.”

We crossed the yard to the back door, where Owen was waiting. He followed us into the kitchen. The detective leaned against the counter while I poured coffee. The cat sat by the refrigerator, eyeing the remaining cat treats still on the wire cooling rack. I handed Detective Gordon a plate and dipped my head in the direction of the muffins. “Help yourself,” I said.

I set the mugs on the table and turned to find him about to pop a sardine-flavored kitty treat into his mouth. I burst out laughing.

He looked at me in surprise, cat cracker halfway to his mouth.

“I meant help yourself to a muffin,” I managed to choke out between laughing fits. “But if you prefer sardine-and-cheese cat snacks, that’s okay, too.”

He dropped the cracker as though it had suddenly ignited.

Owen was across the floor in a flash. He snatched the cat snack and retreated back to the fridge, where he set it on the floor.

“Sorry,” the detective mumbled. “They smelled so good.”

“Yeah, there’s nothing like the smell of sardines in the morning.” I snickered. I reached behind him, set two muffins on the empty plate and put it on the table by his cup.