Curiosity Thrilled the Cat (23 page)

Roma grabbed the back of her scalp with one hand, resting her forearm on the top of her head. Lucy approached the trap. Again she sniffed the scrap of tuna by the opening, then ate it. Neither Roma nor I moved. Lucy leaned into the cage and ate the next bite of tuna. She stepped inside with one paw and then the other. One more step, I guessed.

I was right. Lucy stepped on the trigger plate and the door snapped down. She howled with anger and threw herself at the door.

Roma headed for the cage, unfolding the blanket and talking softly to the cat. She draped the blanket over the top of the trap, but Lucy continued to yowl and throw her weight against the cage door.

“She’s going to hurt herself,” Roma said. “I’m going to get my bag. I’ll have to give her something.” She headed for the car.

I didn’t know what to do. I crouched down near the cage, out of Lucy’s line of sight, and spoke softly to her, the way I did when I had to take Owen or Hercules to Roma’s clinic. I told her it was going to be okay. I wasn’t sure the cat could even hear me. And then suddenly she stopped.

Stopped yowling. Stopped flinging herself against the cage. I took a chance that I wouldn’t spook her and peeked around the edge of the blanket. She was crouched low, her eyes wide.

“You’re all right,” I said softly. I kept talking as Roma came up behind me. I turned to look at her.

She stared at me, shaking her head. “You’re either Dr. Doolittle or the Cat Whisperer,” she said. “So which is it?”

T
here was a bottle of wine on the counter and Barry Manilow was on the CD player, and my bangs were miraculously staying off my face. All was well, at least for the moment, in my small corner of the universe.

Not so much for Owen. He was hiding under the bed and had been from the moment the first notes of “I Write the Songs” floated up the stairs. Hercules walked to the end of the bed, dipping his head so he could look under the frame.

“Forget it,” I said. “You know how he is. He won’t come out until I take the CD off.” I bent down and picked up Herc, dancing him in a circle while I sang along with the music. A slightly muffled howl came from under the bed.

I danced Hercules over to the closet and set him down. “So, what am I going to wear?” I asked him.

He sneezed at my first choice and yawned at my second. My third choice, a white top and blue skirt, got two paws up. Well, actually, he just looked the outfit up and down and walked away, which either meant “Great choice” or “You’re hopelessly fashion challenged—I give up.”

Violet’s house was downtown, close to the market and the artists’ co-op. It was a big two-story colonial with a beautiful yard and a converted carriage house in the back. White and pink impatiens bloomed on either side of the walkway to the front door. The lawn looked like a green carpet. It had to be Harry who took care of Violet’s yard. No one else would be so meticulous, except maybe Violet herself. And I couldn’t quite picture her trimming the edge of the grass by the walk with a Weedwacker slung over one shoulder.

Rebecca opened the door. “Kathleen, come in,” she said. “Violet’s in the kitchen.”

I stepped into a foyer that was as well cared for as the outside of the house. I guessed the hardwood floors and wide trim were original, but someone had restored and refinished them at some point. Overhead a lavish brass and crystal chandelier shone down on us. “Wow!” I whispered to Rebecca.

She patted my arm and grinned like a little girl. “Isn’t it spectacular?” she said.

“It’s beautiful.” Everything seemed so right, from the framed painting of sunflowers to the small antique table next to the curving staircase that led to the second floor.

“Wait until you see the piano,” Rebecca said conspiratorially, dipping her head close to mine. She led me into a large room to the right of the foyer. A massive grand piano sat by the window.

“How did they get that in here?” I asked.

Rebecca frowned. “I don’t know. It’s been here since Violet was a girl.”

A fireplace dominated the wall beyond the piano. There were two sofas covered in a deep sky blue fabric, and several comfortable-looking chairs.

“Hello, Kathleen,” Violet said behind me.

I turned. “Hello, Violet,” I said. “Your house is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I haven’t forgotten I promised you a tour.”

“I’m looking forward to that.”

Violet wore a green flowered apron over a yellow blouse and tan skirt. She didn’t look like she’d been anywhere near a kitchen.

Was the woman ever rushed? Did she ever get rumpled or messy like the rest of us?

“How did things go at Wisteria Hill?” Rebecca asked.

“Very well,” I said. “Roma thought one of the cats might have a broken leg. We managed to catch her.”

“Good.”

“Please sit down,” Violet said, gesturing to one of the sofas.

We sat, Rebecca and me on the sofa and Violet in one of the chairs.

“So, was the cat’s leg broken?” Violet asked.

“Roma wasn’t sure,” I said.

“I’m glad she came home,” Rebecca said. “I don’t like to think about what might have happened to those cats without her.”

“They would have frozen to death or been trapped the first winter,” Violet said.

I looked at her. “Trapped?”

She nodded. “More than one person was nosing around out at the old house and had the run put to them by the cats. Next thing you know, there’s a lot of loose talk about trapping the cats and euthanizing them for their own good.”

Rebecca shuddered. “How can killing another living creature be good for it?” she said softly.

The doorbell rang. “Excuse me,” Violet said, getting up.

I turned to Rebecca. “Roma told me that you helped make the winter shelters for the cats.”

She folded the edge of her sleeve back over the top of the bandage on her arm. “I couldn’t stand the thought of those poor animals out there with no way to stay warm.” She glanced around. Violet was at the door, letting Roma in. Rebecca leaned toward me across the sofa. “I’ll tell you a secret. Vi bought the plastic bins we used. She didn’t want anyone to know. She’s really a big softy.”

I put my finger to my lips. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Roma and Violet came in from the foyer. “Hi,” Roma said, lifting a hand in greeting. She took a deep breath. “Violet, something smells wonderful.”

Violet smiled. “Which means I probably should go check on dinner. Have a seat, Roma. I’ll be right back,” she added over her shoulder as she disappeared toward the back of the house.

Roma dropped into the chair where Violet had been sitting. She looked troubled.

“How’s Lucy?” I asked. “The cat,” I added, as an aside to Rebecca.

“The leg’s broken. She needs surgery.”

I sighed.

“David Thornton—he’s a small-animal vet—is coming from Lake Forrest tomorrow to help me set it. He has some experience with a new technique that uses a mesh made from pig bladder. Lucy should be all right.”

“Let me know if you need any help when it’s time to take her back,” I said.

“I will.” She turned to Rebecca. “Kathleen seems to have a rapport with animals. Lucy panicked in the cage, but Kathleen talked to her and she settled down.”

“Kathleen has a rapport with everyone,” Rebecca said with a smile.

Violet appeared in the doorway. “How about a glass of wine? Is anyone driving?”

“I walked,” Roma said. “So I’ll have a glass. Thank you.”

“Ami’s going to pick me up,” Rebecca said. “I’ll have a little, as well, please.”

Violet looked at me.

“I walked, too,” I said. I held up my thumb and index finger about an inch and a half apart. “Just half a glass for me, please.”

“I’ll be right back,” Violet said.

I turned to Rebecca. “Any news about the festival? Did Ami say if they’ve made any decisions?”

“They’re not going to cancel, are they?” Roma asked.

Rebecca shifted sideways so she could see both of us. “If the committee can’t find a replacement conductor they’ll have to cancel the festival.” She sighed. “In fact, they may have to cancel even if someone is willing to step in.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because without a director slash conductor there’s no one to continue rehearsals.”

“Actually, there is.” We all turned toward Violet.

She smiled as she crossed the gleaming oak floor. “The festival board has asked me to continue rehearsals for now.” She was carrying a wooden tray with four wineglasses on it. She offered one to Rebecca, who picked up a glass and gave Violet a warm smile.

“Violet, that’s wonderful news. Ami didn’t tell me.”

“She didn’t know,” Violet said, turning to me with the tray. “I only got the call about an hour ago.”

“I’m glad you’re going to take over,” I said, taking a glass. “I’ve heard so much about the festival. I’d hate to see it canceled.”

Violet handed a wineglass to Roma and took the last one for herself. Roma sipped her wine. “Oh, that’s nice,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Violet, why can’t you just take over as the festival director?”

Violet took a sip from her glass and then set it on a round glass coaster on the coffee table. “Because no one knows who I am,” she said.

“That’s ridiculous,” Rebecca said. “Everyone in Mayville Heights knows who you are. You’ve lectured at the University of Michigan and the Cleveland Institute of Music.”

Roma glanced over at the piano behind us. “I’ve heard you play,” she said. “You’re very talented.”

Violet held up a hand. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve had a wonderful career—lots of opportunities—but I have no name recognition.”

“And that’s what the festival needs to draw people in. That’s what sells tickets, as much as the music,” I said.

Violet nodded. “Exactly.”

“But the festival should be about the music, not about personalities,” Roma said. “Not about whether the conductor went skinny-dipping at the Playboy Mansion.”

“Gregor Easton went skinny-dipping at the Playboy Mansion?” I said.

“No, Zinia Young did,” Roma said drily.

“And how did you know?” Violet asked.

Roma turned the same shade of pink as Rebecca’s blouse. “I might have seen something about it on
Access Hollywood
,” she mumbled.

“Access Hollywood?”
Rebecca tried and failed to keep a straight face.

“Now, don’t tell me you’ve never picked up a supermarket tabloid, Rebecca,” Roma said.

“Only for the articles,” Rebecca replied, deadpan.

Roma laughed and took another drink.

I finally took a sip from my own glass. The wine was light and slightly sweet. Its warmth slid down into my stomach and spread out like a sunburst. I took another sip and turned to Violet. “This is Ruby’s wine, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” she said, picking up her glass again.

“It’s very good.” I tilted my glass so the clear liquid swirled around the inside. “But it does sneak up on you.”

Violet held up her own glass and studied the contents. “So I’ve noticed,” she said. She got to her feet. “Excuse me again, everyone,” she said. “We should be ready to eat very soon.”

“Kathleen, did you say Ruby made the wine?” Roma asked.

“Uh-huh.” I set my glass on a coaster on the coffee table.

Roma nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. I went to school with Ruby’s mother, Callie. Her father, Ruby’s grandfather, was the bootlegger around here.”

“You mean he made—”

“No, no,” Roma interjected. “He didn’t make it. He sold it. Resold it, actually.”

“He did usually have three or four swish barrels on the go,” Rebecca said. “So technically he was making it, too.”

I held up a hand. “What’s a swish barrel?”

Rebecca pushed her glasses up off the end of her nose. “It’s an oak barrel used to age whiskey and other spirits. People would buy the used barrels, put water in them and eventually the alcohol would leach into the water and you’d have a barrel of, well, swish. You know, both Oren’s father and grandfather made barrels for the Union Distillery.”

“Oren used to work summers with the old man, didn’t he?” Roma said.

Rebecca nodded. “Yes, he did. But Oren’s not just a carpenter; he’s an artist, too. He gets that from his father.”

“What happened to those sculptures?” Roma asked, shifting in her chair.

“I hope they’re still out at the homestead. Maybe Oren has them in the barn.”

I looked from one to the other, trying to figure out what they were talking about.

Rebecca noticed my confusion. “Oh, I’m sorry, Kathleen,” she said. “We’re talking about people and things you don’t know anything about.” She adjusted the pillow at her back. “Let me see if I can explain.”

I picked up my glass again and leaned back against the arm of the sofa.

“Oren’s father, Karl, was a carpenter and a house painter. He worked for Harrison Taylor—Old Harry—as well as making barrels for Union. You know the stairs that go up to the top of Wild Rose Bluff? Karl worked on those. But in his spare time he made these incredible metal sculptures. They were massive things. Sadly, very few people got to see them.”

She must have seen the surprise on my face. “In those days young men from Mayville Heights, Minnesota, did not become artists, no matter how talented they were. And he was.”

I thought of the sun Oren had made for the library entrance. “Rebecca, you haven’t been in the library lately,” I said. “You haven’t seen the sun Oren carved for just inside the doors.”

“Oren made the sun?” Roma asked. She was picking at the nail of her left ring finger. I wondered if she was more worried about the injured cat than she’d let on.

I nodded.

“I had no idea. It’s absolutely beautiful.”

“He also made the new wrought-iron railing for the steps.”