Eleven
It had been quite a full day, what with meeting Wendtz under his rock and Richard’s revelation about his wife. My head was full of whirling information, and I wanted to flake out right after work.
But first I had to endure dinner with the family. And the cats were restless. Not only swarming me as soon as I got through the door, but causing me trouble even before that.
As I fumbled with my key, I heard my neighbour, Mrs. Parnell, coming out of her apartment.
Hurry, I urged myself, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurreeee, but I wasn’t fast enough.
“Ms. MacPhee,” she said, leaning forward on her walker in a menacing way, “meowing sounds continue to be heard coming from your apartment.” She took a triumphant drag from her cigarette in its majestic holder.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I shouted, hoping to drown out the cat noises. “We’ve had this discussion before.”
“I think you do know what I’m talking about.”
“Meowing sounds? That’s very peculiar, since I dislike animals.”
“Sounds like cats to me.”
“Cats?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “Cats, not a difficult concept to grasp for one with seven years university education, Ms. MacPhee.”
“Well, Mrs. Parnell, I’ve been leaving the TV on to discourage burglars. Perhaps that is what you heard. Unless, of course, it is, as I suggested before, certain musical numbers you choose to play which have distinctive…um, feline tones to them.”
Mrs. Parnell didn’t rise to the bait this time. Perhaps because a long, low cat yowl drifted from behind the door, accompanied by some scratching.
“Are you in the habit of keeping your television by the doorway, Ms. MacPhee? No, don’t bother to make up some pathetic premise to explain that sound. But allow me to remind you that this is a building with a policy that pets will not be allowed to disturb tenants. You have agreed to that in your lease, which, correct me if I’m wrong, is a legal document.” She banged her walker as she spat out the last two words. “And somehow I doubt that the sound of cats yowling and scratching will be an effective deterrent to burglars.” With her distinctive, pointed chin held high, she teetered back into her apartment, showing a lot more dignity than I did.
I managed to open the door and slip in before any cats flew into the corridor, confirming my guilt. Then they were all over me, rubbing and yarling and jumping on the furniture to get a little closer. I went straight to the kitchen, opened the last few tins of Meow Mix and scooped it into their dishes. They dived, whooshed and, in the case of the little three-coloured one, waddled to the dishes.
That gave me a breather to soak in a very deep, very hot apricot-scented bubble bath. After their dinner, they more or less ignored me, which was fine with all of us. Except the calico, who decided to join me in the bathroom. She swayed in, took a long look at the tub and somehow managed to fly through the air and land just on the edge, where she promenaded back and forth, her belly swaying. She took the opportunity from time to time to swipe at the bubbles and give me long, meaningful looks.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I told her.
I ditched the teal suit in favour of a casual aqua cotton knit top and skirt Donalda had given me for my birthday. Of course, I had to lift the calico cat off and give the top a shake before I could put it on.
“You’re eating too much, you weigh a ton. Get any bigger and you’ll need your own apartment. Not that it’s such a bad idea.”
She just settled down on my bedspread and purred at me.
I finished off my look, if you can call it that, by yanking a comb through my hair and slashing on a bit of pinkish lipstick. Just enough to keep the family off my back about my appearance.
I picked up the bag from the joke shop and I was ready to go. The little three-coloured cat rubbed against my ankles, purring. The others were dozing on the newspaper, snoozing on my teal jacket and lounging on my pillow.
* * *
“Stan,” I said, with a shark-like smile, “wonderful to see you.”
He shot a little glance of surprise at my unfamiliar good mood.
“Good evening, Camilla.”
As I slid into the passenger’s seat of the LeSabre, clutching the bag from the joke shop, I neglected to check for strange bulges on the seat. Too late. Rude noises from the Whoopee Cushion filled the car. Tears of joy filled Stan’s eyes.
“Your diet, Camilla,” he said, chortling, “you’ve got to do something about your diet.”
I just sat there, thinking, I’ll give you something to chortle about, Stan.
“Your sisters,” Stan said, when he managed to get a grip on himself, “your sisters are very, very concerned about you. You’re never in your office. You’re never at home. You’re cranky and distracted. They’re going to want to talk to you about it. Please try to be mature and understanding,” said Stan, as we drove south to Nepean.
Mature and understanding? Fine words from Mr. Whoopee Cushion, I thought.
“Sure,” I said, “just watch me.”
The highlight of the evening was Edwina’s reaction when she saw the fake cigarette burn on her newly upholstered sofa.
The package directions instructed: Place the cigarette burn on the table or other places and watch the fun. Great joke at a party. The package directions did not lie. Stan’s the only smoker, and he picked up a few bruises before Edwina caught on to the joke. Let’s just say, there was a chill in the air for the rest of the evening. Even the rubber chocolates I seeded in the candy dish weren’t quite such a hit afterwards.
* * *
Stan drove me home and waited while I opened the main door to the foyer. I was still smiling to myself over the way dinner had gone.
Stan seemed a bit aloof, even if he did his duty and made sure I got into the building safely.
“Don’t worry about it, Stan. Your bruises will fade. And nothing much can happen to me here.”
A look of what seemed like regret flicked over his face.
I was humming as I walked down the corridor to my apartment. Until I saw the cats in the hallway.
The door was open. Just an inch or two. But enough. I scooped up the black one and the ginger tom and tossed them through the door. How the hell did they get the door open? I hoped it hadn’t been opened by the Super, following a complaint from you know who.
I tossed the two cats through the door and went back for the white one with the black paws and the grey Persian, who showed remarkable energy in escaping from me. Once I had captured them, I looked around. No more cats in the hallway.
The three-coloured one and the tabby must be still inside, I decided. Unless. Unless they had oozed into someone else’s apartment or gotten on an elevator.
The calico was snoozing on the sofa. It was only when I got to the bedroom that I spotted the tabby lying on the pillow, her neck at a strange angle.
No, it can’t be, I told myself, edging closer, heart thudding. But it was.
The tabby was dead. Still warm but dead, her neck snapped. A note was attached to her collar.
“Butt out,” it said.
My hands shook as I picked up the phone to call the police. McCracken was off duty. I dug around in my suit skirt pocket