Grace Interrupted (6 page)

“Did you say ‘cat’?” Scott asked.

I’d returned to staring under the sofa as my roommates’ footsteps creaked across the wood floor. Bruce got down next to me and peered, too. “She meant to say ‘kitten’.”

“It won’t trust me,” I said. “And I don’t want to reach under and grab. It might bite.”

“Did you try feeding it anything?” Scott asked.

I sat up on the back of my legs to tell them about my success with cheese and we decided to try again. While Scott went to the kitchen, Bruce gave my hair a once-over. “It looks like you just stepped out of the shower. You’re totally drenched. How long were you outside like that?”

“Felt like forever.”

“I’ll bet. And you’re still cold, aren’t you?”

I admitted I was.

“You’re going to get sick,” he said.

“You don’t get sick from being cold or wet. You get sick from germs.”

Bruce was shaking his head. “Mark my words. You’ll see. Tomorrow you’re going to come down with a nasty cold.”

“No way.”

I was spared further argument by Scott’s return. He’d pulled out four different varieties of cheese. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“Haven’t figured that one out yet,” I said, giving the plethora of cheese a perplexed look.

“I didn’t know what kind the little kitten would like. Gruyere, Brie, Asiago, Muenster . . . what do you think?”

We put a small crumb of Muenster just under the sofa and then littered a few more out in the open. “Let’s back up,” Bruce said. “Give the little thing some space.”

We shuffled to the opposite side of the room to wait and watch.

“You’ve had cats?” I asked.

Bruce nodded. “But it’s been a while. The kitten is scared right now. No idea where it is or what we might do to it.”

“I should ask the neighbors if anyone lost a cat,” I said.

A huge clap of thunder shook the house, rattling the windows and making my feet rumble.

“Not tonight you’re not,” Bruce said. “It’s not a fit night out for woman . . .” he pointed to me then to the cat who’d finally poked its head out. “Or beast.”

Keeping a wary eye on us, the cat crept forward and picked up the next crumb of cheese, chewing excessively before eyeing the next piece, which was considerably closer to where we stood. We all waited, and I for one, held my breath.

“It’s a tuxedo cat,” Bruce said quietly.

“A what?”

“See,” he said, keeping his voice low and slowly raising his finger to point, “black and white, like it’s wearing a tuxedo.”

“It’s really cute,” I said.

The cat must have heard me because at that moment it stopped eating and looked up. It opened its mouth and let out a despondent little cry that again reminded me of a tiny Chewbacca. Encouraged, I slowly lowered myself to the floor and crossed my legs, striving to appear less intimidating.

“Good,” Bruce said under his breath as the cat took another cautious step toward me. “It’s sizing you up.”

The cat made its way, one silent, guarded step after another, until it stood right next to me. I barely breathed. Then, in what seemed to me a decisive, no-turning-backnow move, it jumped into my lap and didn’t squirm away when I touched it.

Emboldened, Bruce and Scott sat next to me on the floor. Bruce picked up the cat’s tail and gave it a quick perusal.

“It likes me,” I said as I found a sweet spot behind its ears and started to rub.

“
She
likes you,” Bruce corrected.

“You sure?”

He nodded.

“She’s purring,” I said in amazement. “Can you believe it?”

“Looks like she’s adopted you.”

I shook my head. “This is somebody’s cat. Look how pretty she is. How clean. I bet a family lost her.”

Scott chimed in. “No collar, and she’s clearly a kitten. I’d say no more than two or three months old. I bet she was dumped.”

“Dumped?” I said, aghast. “How could anybody dump a sweet thing like this?”

The cat circled in my lap, rubbing against the insides of my legs before finding a comfortable spot and settling in.

“Happens,” Bruce said.

“Still, I’m going to ask the neighbors if anyone is missing a kitten. Tomorrow,” I quickly added when they both looked alarmed. Changing the subject, I asked, “So you never answered me. How come you two are here so early?”

Bruce got to his feet. “The store lost power. We’ve got the emergency generators going. In fact, we brought home a few treats. They won’t keep until tomorrow so we might as well enjoy them tonight.”

Treats indeed. The cat allowed me to pick her up, and I cradled her in my arms, carrying her into the kitchen. The boys had brought home a half-dozen chocolate-covered strawberries and three slices of chocolate-chip cheesecake. “Oh, yum,” I said. “This is the perfect way to enjoy a stormy evening at home. Particularly after the stormy afternoon I had at work.” I told them about Rani and Tamara, and their elusive quarry, Zachary Kincade. “What a piece of work,” I said. “Supremely confident and ridiculously stuck on himself.”

“An irresistible combination,” Scott said. “A lot of women go for that.”

“This one doesn’t.”

Bruce smiled at me. “You’re not most women.”

Scott pointed to the kitten. “And what about our newest female in the house? What should we call her?”

“I’m sure she already has a name,” I said, stroking under her chin. She raised her head as though begging: “More, more.” She had a patch of white on the right side of her nose and a completely white chin. Her whiskers were white, too, contrasting sharply with the pure black of her face. Such a cutie. Purring again. “We can’t name her. She belongs to someone else.”

“I’m thinking she belongs to you,” Bruce said. “Hmm . . . what would make a good name? She’s got those cute little white tips on her front paws.”

“And her back legs make it look like she’s wearing white hip boots,” Scott said, both of them totally ignoring my protests about naming a pet that didn’t belong to us.

Bruce snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Boots!”

Scott nodded. “I love it. We’ll call her Bootsie.”

“No, no, no,” I started to say, but they cut me off.

“I’ll pick up cat food tomorrow morning,” Scott said. “There’s that new boutique pet shop just a few doors down from ours. But right now, she needs a litter box.” He looked around the room, spied our dishpan in the sink, and emptied it of its few remaining drops of water. “This will do. We needed a new one anyway. I’ll shred some newspaper and set it up for our little Bootsie.”

Bruce had already dropped to his knees. “The poor thing needs water,” he said, digging through the bottom cabinets. “There’s that little blue bowl in here somewhere . . . ah!” He emerged with the item in hand. “Do you think she’d prefer pink?”

“I think she’d prefer to go back to her family,” I said. “Maybe there’s a little kid crying right now because she’s gone. I’ll have to take her back, wherever it is, tomorrow.”

“Bootsie” took that moment to rest her nose in the crook of my elbow with one white-tipped paw draped over my forearm, totally relaxed. I craned my neck to look. Her eyes were closed.

My two roommates exchanged a look. Bruce grinned. “Yeah. Uh-huh.”

BOOTSIE DISAPPEARED WHILE I WAS PREPARING for bed. She’d proven adept at using the makeshift litter box, a fact I pointed out to my roommates. “See? Somebody trained her.”

“Nope. Just instinct,” Scott said.

I already had my sleepwear on, so after taking care of the basics I quickly drifted off, knowing it was the weekend and I didn’t need to set an alarm. At about two in the morning, I awoke to a sudden weight shift on my bed and I jumped up, belatedly realizing it was the kitten coming to visit. “You scared me,” I chastised her. My door was slightly ajar—I must have not closed it all the way. Either that or little Bootsie here would make a phenomenal cat burglar.

She didn’t seem to mind my complaint. I turned away from her to resettle myself and get comfortable. The moment I quieted, she climbed over my back and curled up under my chin, purring like a little engine against my chest. I thought briefly about fleas, but was too tired to worry about it. My last waking thought was that she belonged to somebody and was probably perfectly clean.

My cell phone rang just after five A.M. Bootsie was still curled up next to me—neither of us had moved. “Sorry, kiddo,” I said, reaching over her to grab the instrument and glance at the number on the display, certain it was going to be a wrong number. It wasn’t.

I sat up to answer, dislodging the cat. She yawned, but otherwise didn’t seem to mind.

“Grace Wheaton,” I said, donning my professional persona despite the fact that I was wearing wrinkled pajamas and my hair was matted and smashed against the side of my face. I pinched my nose hoping to clear it. My head felt heavy and full. Congested.

“Grace, this is Terrence.” There was a lot of noise behind him as though he was out in the middle of a crowd. People talking. Someone shouting.

Terrence Carr calling me at five in the morning? I tried to blink away the blur that seized my brain. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “What happened?”

“You better get down here. I need help holding off the press.” To someone else he said, “You’ll have to wait.”

“Talk to me, Terrence.”

“Not now. Too many ears at this end. Just get here ASAP.”

“Do I have time to shower?”

I heard him grumble. “Make it fast.”

I did.

Bruce and Scott usually left for their shop early on the weekends, so they were already awake. “What’s going on?” Bruce asked as I raced into the kitchen to grab a handful of almonds, which would serve as breakfast. “Want coffee?”

I sneezed. “No time,” I said. “Marshfield needs me.”

“This early?”

I sniffled, then sneezed again. Instead of answering, I nodded.

“Told you you were going to catch cold, didn’t I?”

“You were right,” I said, my
r
s sounding like
w
s. My nose started to run and I dashed to the nearby washroom to grab a tissue. I blew my nose, then blew it again. Returning to the kitchen, I said in a clogged-nose voice, “I gotta go. Sou-ded like some kide of emergency.”

“You got it bad,” Scott said. “I hate head colds.”

“Me too.” I started out the door, then stopped. “Whad aboud da cat?”

Scott raised a hand. “I’ll get her settled in here while Bruce holds down the store. I’ll make sure she has food, water, and a proper litter pan.”

“Thakes guys,” I said, needing to blow my nose again—desperately. I stomped back to the washroom and came out with the entire box of tissues. “I’b takig this wid me.”

“I think you’d better.”

The interminable ride to Marshfield gave me time to wonder what could have happened that required my presence so early, much less on a Saturday. The tension in Terrence’s voice had been unmistakable. With a rush, I remembered Kincade’s vicious attack on Davey. I hoped there hadn’t been another incident. I hoped Davey was okay. Swallowing around a lump in my throat, I realized I was more worried about Jack. When Davey had refused to press charges against Kincade, Jack had been livid.

I pressed the accelerator, pushing the limit and hoping there were no police lying in wait for speeders. They were notoriously active on this particular stretch but I got lucky and didn’t get caught. The roads were quiet and I made excellent time. Just before I pulled up to the gate, however, I realized why there hadn’t been any cop cars on the road. Most of them were right here.

My first thought was for Bennett. Though healthy and active, he
was
over seventy years old. Could he have fallen ill? Hurt himself? My heart thrummed a crazed beat in worry.

A tall, uniformed cop of about fifty ambled over, his arm extended, palm out. I threw my car into park and rolled down my window.

“Sorry, ma’am, no one is allowed in just yet,” he said before I could open my mouth.

“I work here.” When he didn’t seem impressed, I added, “I’m in charge of the place. Terrence called me.”

A quick, appraising glance. “Your name?”

I told him. Evidently Terrence had left word to allow me in, because he waved to one of the other uniformed officers to move the squad blocking the entrance. “What happened?” I asked.

He grasped his belt and hoisted it upward, eagerness blossoming across his fleshy face. “Y’all haven’t heard?” He lifted his chin to the south. “Some sort of Civil War games going on, you know about that?”

“Yes, yes . . .”

“Well seems that somebody down there got themselves killed.”

I gasped so hard my throat hurt. “Who?”

“Can’t say for sure, ma’am. Just that somebody sliced the victim up good.”

“Do you mean someone has been murdered?”

“That’s what they’re saying, ma’am.”

I shifted my car into drive, tapping my left foot impatiently as I waited for the slow-moving squad to get out of my way. The almonds in my stomach tumbled all over each other, first in relief that it wasn’t Bennett and then again in worry, thinking about Jack. I’d been here less than a year, and this was our second murder on the premises. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. “Please, no,” I whispered aloud.