Unknown - Cat_shining_bright_Merfi_630007

Ryan didn’t ask questions. “On my way,” she said, feeling shaky. Quickly she collected what he wanted from the little dispensary by the office and jumped in the Jaguar. Within minutes she was pulling the barn door wider to brighten the dim space.

They cleaned Joe up as best they could. Ryan dampened a washcloth from the water bottle she’d brought, squeezed on soap from a dispenser and washed Joe’s torn face, then bound the wound with gauze. “Thank God they’ve had their rabies shots.” She scowled up at Rock. The big dog still held his prize, wanting her to praise him. Instead she said, “Give.” She had to say it twice before he dropped it on the ground. She wet a clean towel, soaped it, washed Rock’s face then opened his mouth and washed it out, the poor dog backing away, gagging.

When they were finished, Ryan dropped the towels in the bag. She laid one towel over the rat, lifted it into the bag, tied the bag shut and handed it to Clyde. She started to pick Joe up but, “Now that I’m bundled up like a mummy,” the tomcat mumbled, hardly able to speak, “take a look in that box.”

Carefully Ryan pulled the wrappings back, revealing a delicate saucer and cup. There was a whole set, each piece secured separately in bubble wrap and packed among Styrofoam crumbles. One cup was broken, where the rat had knocked it from the box. When she held a piece up, it was so thin that light shone through around the hand-painted decorations: acanthus leaves, flowers, and in the center a little fox laughing at her. She held several pieces for Joe to see. “It’s not china,” she said, “it’s porcelain, worth ever so much more.” Gently she turned over a saucer. “Worcester, 1770.” She studied the delicate tea set, then unholstered her phone and called Kate.

“Could you and Wilma come down, and bring a big, strong box, like a big cat food carton? Better drive down, this will be cumbersome to carry. We think Joe found the box from the stolen BMW.

“It contains old, delicate porcelain. I’d like to leave it packed, but put its box into the larger box. I think we’ll leave the torn wrappings, and the little white flecks of Styrofoam, for Max or Dallas to deal with. The box will be safe in the house until he picks it up.”

While they talked, Clyde had wrapped a towel around Joe’s head where he was bleeding through the gauze, had gotten the tomcat settled in the car. Ryan grabbed the bag with the rat in it, signaled Rock to get in the back. They took off for Dr. Firetti’s just as Kate and Wilma pulled up; Ryan held Joe close as she phoned ahead to the clinic.

Kneeling by the box, Kate looked at the broken cup, then unwrapped an equally delicate saucer with three hunting dogs spaced around the circle among the floral design. She unwrapped a cup, then another. She looked at each then secured it again in its bubble wrap. One cup showed a long-legged bird, maybe an egret. The next, a prancing horse. The third cup featured a cat. Kate drew her breath, her green eyes widening. The cat was a calico. A perfect image of Courtney, the exact same markings, three soft calico ovals saddling her back above a white belly. The white and calico patterns on her face were the same—as were the three dark bracelets around her right front leg. She held the cup for a long moment, wishing Dulcie were there to see—but maybe not so good for Courtney to see? How much self-glorification did the kitten need, to play on her ego?

Yet the delicate painting was there, as were the paintings and tapestries they had found in the library’s reference books and that Kit had already shown to Courtney. Kate rewrapped the frail cups and saucers, including the broken cup, and packed it all back in the ripped-open box—a handmade treasure nearly three hundred years old, and, apparently, the thieves hadn’t a clue.

The way Clyde was driving, it didn’t take long and they were pulling up before the two-cottage complex with its high glass dome. A tech met them, hurried them through the reception room past waiting clients into a large convalescent area where most patrons were not allowed.

Their entry brought two yowls from an open cage. The first yowl sounded suspiciously like “Pa …” but quickly turned into “Pa … meoowww.” No one noticed Striker’s slip in language but John Firetti. As the kittens dropped from their open cage, Striker landing deftly on three paws, John took Joe from Ryan and settled him on the examining table; Buffin and Striker leaped up wanting to be all over Joe until John pulled them away.

“Wait until I examine him,” he scolded. “This isn’t for kittens. Look how patient Rock is, lying in the corner. What’s gotten into this family? A torn paw. And now this,” he said, removing Joe’s bloody bandage, seeing the misery in Joe’s eyes—misery not only because he hurt, but for letting a stupid rat nearly do him in.

Ryan had given the bagged rat to the technician; the middle-aged blonde already had instructions to pack it on ice, call a courier, and get it to the county lab at once.

“Usually the lab doesn’t test a rat for rabies,” John said. “Rats don’t get rabies.” This made Joe, and Ryan and Clyde, go limp with relief. “They can get it,” John added, “but their bodies kill the virus almost at once. This rat would have had to be in a fight directly before Rock killed him.”

“I only saw the one rat,” Joe said, “and he was busy tearing up papers, looked like he’d been at it a long time, dragging them under a big car. Not another animal in sight.”

“Making a nest,” John said. “Likely inside the engine. Some driver will suffer for that. Bats and skunks are the real danger for rabies.” He looked seriously at Joe. “You and Rock have your shots regularly. But even so, you’ll have to be confined for two days, until the report comes back. If it’s negative, you’re free to go home.”

At the word “confinement,” Joe stiffened.

“State law,” John said.

Joe knew that. It wasn’t John Firetti’s fault. Even so, he was rigid with anger as the good doctor worked on his wounds. John gave him a mild shot for the pain, cleaned out the deep bites, and put in three stitches, smearing the area with something that stunk. Joe watched John swab out Rock’s mouth and examine it for wounds. He gave them both antibiotic shots. The needles stung, Joe could feel it as much for Rock as for himself. John gave them each a loving pat, and the ordeal was over—this part of the ordeal.

But now, the cages. He and Rock would be in cages. Joe couldn’t even touch his two kittens who crouched at the end of the table, he couldn’t properly greet them, couldn’t even lick their faces, and how fair was that? Now Joe and Rock were the jailbirds, and Buffin and Striker could go home.

John hugged both Joe and Rock before he shut them in their cages—but he spent more time holding the kittens. Looking sad, he picked up the phone and called Mary. “The kittens are going home.”

Almost at once they heard the cottage door slam. She must have run across the garden; she burst into the room still in her apron, her shoulder-length brown hair in a tangle. She took the two kittens from John, cuddling them in her arms.

“They’ve been sleeping with us every night,” she said. “The kittens and little Lolly. She didn’t do so well at home, they brought her back for a while. I didn’t tell them I thought Buffin was helping to heal her.” Mary glanced toward the cage the kittens had occupied; the tiny brown poodle lay there shivering, watching Buffin longingly.

“Pancreatitis,” Mary said. “We’re flushing her with more liquids and giving her all she will drink, and of course an IV. But Buffin has been the real wonder.

“We don’t know how he does it, he just lies close to her when she looks like she’s hurting, and almost at once she grows more comfortable. You can see it in her eyes, in the way she relaxes. At night, in bed with us, Buffin wakes us when she’s about to throw up so we can put a towel under her and then give her more liquids. But now,” Mary said, “look at her. She knows Buffin’s leaving.”