Лори Касс - Tailing A Tabby

What had Mr. Eddie been thinking about last night? Though it was great fun to think that Eddie comprehended everything that was going on around him, it wouldn’t do to anthropomorphize him too much. He was a cat, with a cat’s brain and a cat’s sensibilities. He wasn’t a small furry human and he didn’t think like one. It was far more likely that Eddie had been studying Tucker’s every move to make sure the stranger wasn’t a threat to him than that he’d been calculating how to get rid of a rival.

“Ivy?” I asked. “How smart do you think cats are?”

She turned and looked at me, a quizzical expression on her face. “You sure you want to ask a question like that so close to lunchtime?” I laughed, but she shook her head and tapped Eddie’s carrier with the toes of one sandaled foot. “And do you really want to have that conversation where this one can hear? If you think there’s any chance at all of—”

“Mrrrroowww!”

I winced and jumped at the same time. “Eddie? Are you okay?”

“MrrrRROOWW!”

Ivy was already bending down and examining the howling, yowling critter that Eddie had suddenly become. “He looks all right,” she said, “but—”

“MRRRR-rrrr-OOWW!”

It was the three-syllable howl that got to me. It sounded as if Doom were heading straight for Eddie with no turns in sight.

We were halfway between bookmobile stops, pretty much out in the middle of nowhere. There was only one decent place to pull the bookmobile over, and it was just ahead.

“Hang on, pal,” I told Eddie. “I’ll get this buggy stopped in a minute.”

My promise did nothing to soothe the savage-sounding beast, because he continued to howl and groan and moan the entire time I slowed, braked, and turned into the parking lot of a small restaurant where there was a nice large tree to shade the bookmobile.

At last we came to a complete stop. I unbuckled myself and leaned across to open Eddie’s cage.

“I hope he’s not sick,” Ivy said.

I was fervently hoping the same thing, but as soon as the cage door was open, Eddie stopped howling and looked at me. Blinked. He flopped over onto his side, reached out for my fingers with one white-tipped paw and held my hand.

“He’s purring,” I said flatly.

“Maybe he was a little carsick,” Ivy suggested. “And now that we’re stopped, he feels fine?”

From the doubtful tone of her voice, I don’t think she believed that scenario any more than I did. Eddie had ridden along on the bookmobile perfectly fine for weeks. Why would he suddenly start getting motion sickness?

“I’ll get him some water,” I said, pushing myself to my feet. “See if he can keep that down.”

He could and he did. When he was done, he sat up, dried his whiskers with his paw, and leapt to the headrest behind the driver’s seat.

I sighed. “He’s purring again.”

Ivy laughed. “You sound almost disappointed that he’s not sick.”

“Can you have a cat who cries wolf?”

“Cats can do pretty much anything they decide they want to do.”

I looked at Eddie and was very glad that he didn’t have opposable thumbs. “Well, since it’s lunchtime and since we’re in the parking lot of a restaurant, we might as well get something to eat.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Ivy said, getting up and opening a cabinet door to retrieve her purse. “I love this place. Fried everything. They even have fried Oreo cookies for dessert.”

“Mrr,” Eddie said.

“You,” I told him, “do not get fried anything.”

“Mrr.”

“Yeah, well, if you’re still hale and hearty when we’re done with lunch, you’ll get some cat food.” I kissed the top of his furry head and locked the bookmobile’s doors behind me. Even though it was the middle of August, it wasn’t anywhere near hot outside, and since I’d parked the bookmobile in the shade, it would take hours before the bookmobile’s interior warmed up to anything Eddie might pant at. He had water and a serious number of cozy places to sleep. What more could an Eddie want?

Inside the restaurant, Ivy was already sliding into a wooden booth. At least I hoped it was Ivy; the place was so dark that I was going by assumption. Dark wooden floor, dark wood-paneled walls, and a dark ceiling that might have been tin, but because it was so dark, I couldn’t tell.

“What can I get you ladies to drink?” A beefy young man slid plastic-covered menus across the tabletop.

I opted for ice water. Ivy grinned. “I’m going to be bad,” she said to me in a stage whisper. To the waiter, she said, “Give me a large soda. Lots of caffeine and none of that diet stuff. I want the fully leaded version.”

“Gotcha.”

He started to turn away and Ivy put out a hand. “And we’ll want an appetizer while we make up our minds about lunch. Let’s say an order of onion rings. And some ranch dressing to go with.”

I pushed my menu over to her. “How about if you order for me? I’m not allergic to anything that I know of, and the only thing I don’t like is mushrooms.”

Her face lit up. “You are a treasure. Barb and Cade are so health-conscious. Every time I manage to drag them out here, they read over the menu a hundred times before ordering a side salad. And then they sigh when it shows up and it’s nothing but iceberg lettuce with a little cheese on top.”

I smiled, but I was thinking about allergies and cats and boyfriends and futures. Then I shook my head and cast my gaze about the darkness.

“Restrooms are over there.” Ivy tipped her head sideways. “You’ll want to shade your eyes going in. It’s as bright in there as it is dark out here.”

She was right. The glaring fluorescent fixtures that some heartless soul had installed on the ceiling were bright enough that I squinted from entry to hand washing. Then, just as my eyes started to adjust, it was time to leave.

When I pushed open the door with my elbow, light flooded out into the dining room, illuminating the scars in the worn booths and the scratches on the floor. It also brushed light across the face of the sole occupant of the booth in the dining area’s farthest corner.

I stopped. Peered into the gloom. Couldn’t make up my mind. I backed up and opened the restroom door again. This time, when the light came across the man’s face, he turned away, pulled his hat down lower, and rearranged his sunglasses.

But it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d painted his face purple with blue polka dots. It wasn’t his face that I recognized so much as his large, rotund shape, his bulky shoulders, his massive arms, and his sausagelike fingers.

Hmm.

I walked closer. He hunched over his drink. I slid into the booth across from him. He bent his head lower and sipped through his straw, making a gurgling noise at the bottom of the glass.

“Didn’t your mother tell you not to do that?” I asked.

Trock Farrand flicked me a glance. “Dear heart. What are the chances of you going away and pretending you never saw me?”

“Isn’t your show all about organic food and healthy eating and sustainable living?”

“What television show doesn’t have some small element of fiction?”

The waiter came over, his arms laden with plates. Platters, really. Fried fish. Fried chicken. French fries. And a plate of fried something or other that could have been anything from cauliflower to cheese.

I gestured at the array of unhealthy, but undeniably yummy, food items. “This is what you call a small element?”

Trock tossed aside his sunglasses and looked at me earnestly. “Minnie, my love, my paragon of a bookmobile librarian, my shining star, what can I do to earn your silence? If word gets out about this little incident, my credibility will be a thing of the past and, like the dodo bird and the passenger pigeon, it will never return.”