The Black Cats (2 page)

From
the lilt in her voice, she had questions for which I had no answers. Though I
could not comprehend her speech, more than a language barrier prevented my
response. The brutal killing of the tom had stripped me of reason. Who could
have harmed the noblest of creatures? The finest, cleverest, handsomest of
creatures?

“Well,
we can’t leave him up there, can we? There has to be some dignity in death.” She
laid her rosemary aside and reached for the rope around the cat’s neck. But the
dear girl was too short to grasp it. So she tried to knock the cat’s body down
with a slender branch she found near the roots. The more she twisted and turned
the corpse to free it, however, the tighter the noose grew. Overcome by
failure, she tossed the stick, leaned against the tree trunk, and wept into her
handkerchief.

Eddy did
not notice.

Brush, brush, brush.
The sound
from the Arnold’s shop would plague my dreams tonight. I joined Sissy on the
ground and rubbed along her skirt, doing my best to comfort her. The cat’s
death had upset her more than I had imagined. Throughout our previous
adventure, I had grown to…respect Sissy—yes,
respect
, that was the right word—and it pained me to see her
in such a state.

She
touched the tip of my tail, her fingers wet with tears. “No one should die in
their prime, Cattarina. No one.”

While
the black cat’s death presented me with another killer to catch and another
story to inspire, it also filled me with dread. A murderer
and
torturer lived in our new neighborhood, and I, for one, would
not sleep until the scoundrel was caught.

ONCE SISSY’S WEEPING REACHED Eddy,
he left the gentlemen and joined us by the sassafras. “You mustn’t cry,
Virginia. It isn’t good for you.” He brushed the tears from her cheek. “This
has been a most unsettling morning for all of us. I think we should go home.
Muddy will be expecting us for lunch.”

I trilled
in agreement. Eddy and I shared the same concern:
lunch
. Yet I could delay my mid-day meal if it meant gathering more
evidence. Last autumn, I learned the importance of early clue discovery; the
longer one waited to find them, the more likely they were to sprout wings and
fly south. In truth, I had become a ratiocinator in my own right, with powers rivaling
Eddy’s Detective Dupin, and I had certain duties to fulfill. The fact that Constable
Harkness hadn’t been summoned made my presence even more crucial.
This
crime fell under feline
jurisdiction.

“She’s serving
cheddar and ham,” Eddy added. “And sour pickles. She told me on the way
out—”

“How
can you think about eating?” Sissy said. “We can’t leave until we bury this unfortunate
soul.” She laced her fingers in front of her, signaling her resolve.

Eddy lifted
his palms in supplication. “Be reasonable, Sissy. My tool is the pen, not the
shovel. I am ill-equipped to dig.”

“I am
not moving, husband, until
that
cat
is down from
that
tree.” She pointed
to both objects, underscoring her words.

Eddy
would attempt to win the quarrel with appeals, but he could no more refuse
Sissy than I him. Confident in the outcome, I headed toward the shops to look
for evidence, entering the cobbler’s first to learn the source of that infernal
brushing sound. I found the aged proprietress inside, hard at work. Tabitha Arnold
sat near the window on a low stool, her back to the door and her face to the
sun. In her hands she held a pair of black boots and a stiff horsehair brush
dipped in—I wrinkled my nose—a mixture of beeswax and soot. She raked
the bristles across the toe of the shoe.
Brush,
brush, brush.
At least one mystery had been solved.

I sniffed
for the human scent I’d noted earlier, but an examination of the floorboards bore
no fruit. The murderer had certainly worn shoes, masking his scent with a layer
of leather. Had he been a customer? Further examination revealed nothing, not
even a trace of citrus and lavender cologne. Before I could steal back to the
street unnoticed, Mr. Fitzgerald appeared, blocking the doorway with his legs. I
slunk to the shelves on the rear wall and hid behind a row of wooden foot forms
in varying sizes.

The
woman greeted Mr. Fitzgerald with a cool stare. “Have you something to say for
yourself?” she asked. She set the boots on the floor and wiped her hands on her
apron, smearing it with polish.

“Have
I
?” Mr. Fitzgerald asked. “Have
you
?”

She
tucked a loose strand of gray behind a hairpin. “What do you mean by that?”

He
tapped his thin bottom lip. “The cat. It was Abner’s doing, wasn’t it? Instead
of settling the hash like gents, he used violence to make a point. How English
of him.”

She sprang
to her feet. “How dare you accuse him of something
you’ve
done, you…you bogtrotter!”

Mr. Fitzgerald
and Mrs. Arnold stared at each other, two mongrels on the brink of war. I
shrank against the wooden feet and waited for blood. The woman surprised me
when she sat down and picked up her horsehair brush again. “What’s the talk on
the street?” she asked.

He
leaned against the doorframe and crossed one ankle over the other. “
Craic
is, Mr. Cook blames Mr. Eakins,
and Reverend Bray blames the devil.”

“And
you blame Abner.” She pointed the brush at him and scowled. “If you go
spreading rumors about him that aren’t true, Mr. Fitzgerald, you won’t like the
results. You’ll do well to keep your mouth shut.” She looked to her empty shop.
“I ask you this: who’s going to shop near such a horrible scene? Business is
bad enough as it is, what with that—”

Mr. Fitzgerald
held up his hand. “Don’t say it. We’ve enough trouble this morning.” He crossed
his arms. “Mr. Poe said it might bring people in,” he said. “The cat, that is. Curious
onlookers and the like. You never know.”

“Harrumph.
Only in Mr. Poe’s world.” She resumed her polishing. “He’s an odd bird, isn’t
he? Flitting about in black, no matter the season. Dresses like a pallbearer,
for heaven’s sake.”

“I think
it suits him,” Mr. Fitzgerald said.

Sensing
the shift in mood, I stepped from my hiding place and padded toward the door.
Mrs. Arnold spied me and clicked her tongue in disapproval. “We have a
trespasser,” she whispered to Mr. Fitzgerald.

“We
needn’t whisper in front of Cattarina,” he said. “She keeps all kinds of
secrets. Don’t you, girl?” I meowed at my name, giving him a good laugh, though
I knew not why. He stood at the threshold, preventing my departure. “Well, I’m gone,”
he said to Mrs. Arnold. “The saws won’t sell themselves.” He hesitated. “Where
is
Abner, by the way?”

“Under
the weather.” She gave the boot a last pass with the brush.

Mr. Fitzgerald
touched his protruding Adam’s apple with a look of concern. “Is something going
round?”

“Yes.”
She set the boots aside and picked up a new pair to shine. “Something’s going round,
all right, and that’s Abner—round the tavern.”

Mr. Fitzgerald
shifted, and I shot past his ankles into the street again. The scratch of the
shoe brush had penetrated my teeth. I could not stand it any longer!

Once
outside, I followed the footprint trail to the cut-through between shops. The
shifty man with fleas had stood in this very spot, making me think he might be
the murderer. I glanced at Eddy and Sissy—still deep in conversation—and
ducked into the opening. After a few strides, I connected with a larger alley that
ran the length of shops on Franklin. The prints led me north where they eventually
stopped at a paved sidewalk on the other side. A dog could’ve pursued the
culprit by scent alone. But since I had the good fortune to be born a cat, I’d need
to use my superior intellect to continue. A brownstone with a gabled porch lay
to the left of the alley; a small clapboard cottage with shutters and a weathervane
lay to the right.

“Kitty!
Kitty!” a little boy squealed. “Pet kitty!”

I
backed away from his outstretched hands, narrowly escaping the tot’s grasp. Had
I not been focused on the rooster atop the weathervane, I would’ve seen the two
children traipsing past with their mother. The shorter, pudgier whelp had been
the one to reach for me. The taller one—a littermate from his coloring—slapped
his brother on the head. “Dang it all, Marvin. Don’t touch it. You’ll get
fleas.”

The
mother slapped the older boy on the head. “Don’t cuss, dang you.”

When first
born, humans are little more than plucked chickens. It’s when they learn to
walk upright that they become tail-yanking, whisker-pulling monsters. And then
there are birthing complications. I hoped Eddy and Sissy would abstain from
reproducing in the coming seasons. In my youth, I witnessed an unhappy outcome with
a baby and did not wish to see another.

Once
the family passed, I emerged again. Whenever we moved to a new locale, which
was often, I made it my business to memorize street names as Eddy said them out
loud. This, from our daily walks, I knew to be Green Street, the road around
the corner from the Poe residence. It lacked the unkempt variability I’d grown
to love and expect from the older areas of Philadelphia. I licked my paw and
washed my face. A murderer lived in one of these mouse holes. Yet without more clues,
finding him would be impossible.

I returned
to Franklin to find Eddy on tiptoe, sawing the black cat’s noose with his penknife.
Sissy waited nearby, offering suggestions, the majority of which perturbed him,
judging by the slant of his brow. When I reached the tree, the tom fell at our
feet. I hopped back, sickened by the hollow thud of his body against the earth.
His remaining eye lay open, glazed and unblinking; the other had been gouged
out by the murderer. This was speculation, of course, but one supported by observation
and experience from the Glass Eye Killer case. The area around the cat’s eye
held no claw marks, so he hadn’t lost it in a fight. This left accident or torture.
Considering the manner of death, I’d bet my whiskers on the latter. Eddy, Sissy,
and I remained silent until the wind rattled the sassafras leaves.

“We
must bury him,” Sissy said. “In our garden.”

“We do
not own a shovel,” Eddy said.

“Borrow
one from Mr. Fitzgerald. I’m sure he has several in his store.”

“Shopkeepers
are not usually in the habit of lending their wares, Sissy.”

“Then
we will improvise.” She knelt and lifted the tom onto her skirt, folding the floral
cotton around him. With the day’s increasing temperature, the body had taken on
an unpleasant aroma. Sissy carried out her task undeterred, concealing the body
in the folds of her dress. For all anyone knew, she could’ve been carrying potatoes
home from the market.

“My dear…”
Eddy pointed to her chemise. The white hem flashed in the sun.

“Let us
hurry before I’m the talk of the town,” Sissy said. “And don’t forget the
rosemary.”

We arrived
home to find Muddy sweeping the front walkway. The trim on her lace cap framed
her face like the petals of a flower. I pitied the bee that made
that
mistake. I trotted ahead of the
others and nudged through the unlatched gate to join the old woman.

Our new
red brick home was grander than the one on Coates, though no less cozy. Eaves
protruded from either side—a bit like ears—and shaded twin entrances
that opened onto to allotments of grass. The parlor garden, on the eastern side
near North Seventh, held flowers and a spindly weeping willow. The kitchen
garden, on the western side, consisted of a vegetable patch and a small plot of
dirt bordered by a fence snarled with morning glories. In temperate weather, Muddy
and Sissy would pull their kitchen chairs under the western eave to shell peas
or shuck corn. On the rare occasion I did not accompany Eddy to the tavern, I
stayed behind to chase the errant pod or husk that slipped from their fingers. We
had left Fairmount and the country, but we had not left good times, not yet.

When Muddy
caught Sissy with her skirt hiked to her knees, she dropped the broom and gasped.
“Virginia Eliza Poe!” she said. “What has become of you?”

“Nothing,
Mother.” Sissy gathered her skirt tighter so as not to lose the carcass.

“You
are half-naked. Put your dress down before the neighbors see.” Muddy’s lips
disappeared beneath the press of her mouth.

“Dear
Muddy,” Eddy said, handing her the herbs, “ours is a long story, and you are adding
unnecessarily to the length. Allow me to edit.” He led Sissy through the gate
and up the walkway to the old woman. “Join us by the vegetable patch with your
largest kitchen spoon, and all will be revealed.”

“What
is that smell?” Muddy asked. She held her finger under her nose.

“The
cat, Mother,” Sissy said.

Muddy
leaned to sniff me. Curious woman.

“No,
it’s not Cattarina,” Sissy said. “It’s…well, you will see.” She set off for the
kitchen garden and disappeared around the corner of the house.

Muddy retrieved
her broom and squinted at Eddy. “What have you done—”

He held
up his hand, stopping the conversation. “I have not done anything. This is
Virginia’s scheme, and we must support her.”

They
spoke a moment longer and joined Sissy. I elected to go inside. Whatever they planned
to do with the remains concerned me less than the aroma wafting through the
kitchen window. I leaped to the sill with some effort—the winter months
had been bountiful—and entered Muddy’s domain. She’d laid out a plate of
sliced ham and cheddar on the table, along with a loaf of bread, a crock of
pickles, and a pitcher of water. Lunch was served. A cat of lesser intelligence
would have plundered the platter. Not I. Over time, I’d perfected the art of
skimming—take enough to be full, leave enough that one’s theft is not
obvious. As long as Muddy considered me inept, the kitchen would remain a cornucopia.

I leapt
to the table and admired the old woman’s handiwork. She’d fanned the meat and
cheese in an alternating pattern. I licked the salt off the ham slices without
disturbing them then peeled the top piece from the stack and ate it. A slice of
cheese came next. The bread bored me, and the pickles repulsed me. I finished
with a few laps of cool water from the jug and left the house through the parlor
window. From what I’d gleaned, Sissy meant to bury the dead cat, as humans often
did for one another at the end of life. I had no need for this unnatural
ritual. I preferred to honor the tom in a more practical way—by catching
his murderer.

I trotted
through the garden to North Seventh where I doubled back onto Green, the same street
I’d happened upon after my trip through the alley. I wasn’t naïve enough to think
I’d find my prey by accident. On the contrary, I planned to seek out his potential
victims and extract information from which to devise a hunting strategy.