Hairless Harassment

Chapter Four

As promised, Mom stuck around to help me finish my packing and, as much as it pained me to admit, I almost wished she wouldn’t have. For starters, she had an opinion on everything.

I’m not exaggerating either. Everything.

As she picked up each of my possessions one by one, she frowned and turned them over in her hands. Apparently she believed that if she studied my things from all angles, they might suddenly transform into something that would match her expectations.

Growing up, I had often wondered if she felt the same way about me, but now I knew better. Mom was a nice lady and I know she loved me as best she could, but she had most definitely not been cut from the divine maternal cloth.

“Do you really need to take this with you?” she asked me now. “I can get you a newer one. A better one.”

After about an hour of this same conversation over and over again, she’d basically promised to buy me a new life as part of my housewarming gift. I know our tastes didn’t match up—Mom was far more sophisticated than I’d ever be—but still, it would have been nice for her to give it a rest.

The other problem I had just then was that I desperately wanted to discuss the crime scene and those weird Sphynx cats with Octo-Cat. Yes, even though Mom knew I could talk to him, it still felt weird to carry on a conversation right there in front of her.

Our tastes weren’t the only thing that differed. Mom was all cold, hard facts and evidence. She’d ask a million and one questions, including many I wouldn’t know how to answer. Namely, how come you two can talk to each other?

I still had no idea why Octo-Cat and I had formed this connection or even really how it worked. One day I’d love to figure all that out, but I was too busy with my move at present to sit around and speculate all the many possibilities with my mom.

“You know,” Mom said as she studied the plates and bowls stacked in one of my kitchen cupboards. “You’re going to be living in a manor house now. A lot of your things don’t really match that aesthetic. It may be jarring for visitors.”

“It’s fine, Mom,” I said, nudging her out of the way with my hip and packing away the offensive dishes myself. “I don’t really plan on having a lot of visitors, and I’m not really the hoity-toity type. You know that about me.”

She stepped to the side and opened another cabinet. “Maybe there’s a middle ground here,” she insisted. “Nan has a nice set of dinnerware. You could throw yours out and stick with hers instead. Oh! Or you could donate yours. You love those charity shops, right?”

“Maybe,” I said to acknowledge the topic so that we could both move on. I did like the thrift shops, but I much preferred buying from them over donating my own things.

Mom frowned, and I hugged one of my cheery red plates to my chest. I liked my plates, and I liked my life, too. Why couldn’t Mom just accept that she and I were never going to see eye to eye on certain issues? So what if most of the things in my kitchen came from the dollar store? They all worked just as well as the things Mom bought for a hundred times the price at her fancy chain boutiques.

“Oh, I like these,” she said, staring into the next cupboard over as she grabbed a floral-patterned Lenox teacup and studied it with wide eyes.

“I don’t want her messing with my stuff,” Octo-Cat informed me, hopping up onto the counter and giving Mom such a startle, she dropped the much admired teacup right onto the ground.

The three of us watched what followed in slow motion, but it was already, regrettably too late. The delicate cup burst into smithereens and Octo-Cat let out an ear-piercing cry. “My Evian vessel!”

Mom took a step back. “I’m so sorry,” she told me, and I could tell she genuinely meant it. Maybe she picked at me not to be mean, but just because she sometimes had a hard time thinking of other things to discuss. Maybe that was why she got so excited over sharing the Lou Harlow murder investigation with me.

“I’ll get you a new set, I promise,” she said, blinking back tears. Suddenly, I felt like the absolute worst daughter in the world. Why did I have such difficulty spending more than a few minutes at a time in my mom’s company? I’d need to try harder.

Of course, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that this particular set was irreplaceable. They’d belonged to Octo-Cat’s previous owner, the late Ethel Fulton, and they were one of the few things he still had left of her. Granted, we’d soon be moving into her mostly furnished manor home, but still. This tea set had been special to Octo-Cat. It was the only way he’d take his food or water, and now that he was down a cup, I’d have to increase my dish-washing schedule to boot.

“Look,” I said, trying to be as gentle as possible. “I think I can handle things from here. Why don’t you go see what else you can find out about the Harlow murder?”

She twisted her hands anxiously. “Are you sure?” Despite her hesitation, I could tell she was just as eager to go as I was to have her leave.

Did I feel guilty? Sure. I’d probably never stop feeling guilty when it came to my strained relationship with her and Dad.

Still, Mom and I had always gotten along best in brief bursts. I loved that we were becoming closer these last few weeks, but we needed more time to navigate our new relationship—and this really wasn’t the best day for us to put in the work, as calloused as that sounded even to my own ear.

It just couldn’t be a priority with all the other things I needed to do.

I side-stepped the broken teacup and gave my mom a tight hug. “I’m sure. I can tell you’re dying to get back on the case. I’ll be fine here.”

Mom sighed happily. “Mmm, you know me so well,” she said before quickly gathering her things and racing toward the door. “I’ll text with any updates. Bye!”

And just like that, she was gone again.

Octo-Cat resumed his agonized mewling. Even though we could understand each other, sometimes he still reverted to the classic cat sounds—usually in periods of intense emotion—like now.

“I’m sorry,” I told him, carefully stroking his head. I hoped it would offer comfort and also that the kindly gesture would not result in me getting bitten, but you kind of never knew with Octo-Cat.

“It’s like Ethel just died all over again,” he told me. His ears twitched then fell flat against his head. His tail swished back and forth like a metronome. His eyes grew so wide and dark that I was sure he would have cried, were such a trait in his biology.

“I’m really sorry,” I told him again, unsure of what else I could do.

He stared at the tiny fragments of Lenox that lay scattered across the kitchen floor. Whites, pinks, gold-trimmed, all nothing more than broken pieces of the life he’d once known. Great. Now I was tearing up, too.

“I’ll just go get the broom,” I mumbled, not wanting him to see how moved I now was on his behalf.

But before I could turn away, Octo-Cat shot out in front of me and screamed, “No!”

My heartbeat ratcheted up a few notches, thumping wildly as I wondered what crazy thing my cat might do next. “Whoa, what happened?”

“I’m just not ready yet,” he informed me. “I need some time with it first.”

“With the broken teacup?” I asked gently. He’d gotten better at detecting sarcasm and punished me whenever he heard it in my voice or saw it on my face. He was allowed to talk to me however he pleased, of course, but I had to maintain the utmost respect at all times.

Even times like this.

Octo-Cat sniffed and lifted his nose high as he did whenever he wanted to appear superior. “Yes,” he answered simply.

“Unfortunately, we don’t really have time.” I kept my face placid, understanding. “The movers will be here in an hour or so. And we can’t keep stepping around the mess. It’s dangerous. One of us could cut a foot on those sharp shards.”

He let out a mournful meow, then turned away. “Do as you must.”

I resumed my journey to get the broom and dustpan, feeling like the worst cat owner in the world. That made me the worst daughter and the worst cat owner all within the span of about ten minutes. My stock would not be rising anytime soon.

When I returned, Octo-Cat still stood frozen in that dramatic pose of his. Normally, his antics bugged me, but at that moment, I truly felt sorry for him and his loss.

“Would it help if we said a few words?” I suggested.

The morose tabby turned his head slightly and peered at me from the corners of his eyes. “Like a funeral?”

“Yeah,” I said with a shrug. “Like a funeral.”

He shifted the rest of the way out of his pose and faced me straight on. Already he looked better, like his heart had started to piece itself back together. “Where will we bury it?” he wanted to know.

“Oh. Umm.” I did not have time for this, but he also seemed sincere and in need of closure, so I suggested something I hoped would suit us both. “We should bury it tonight at Ethel’s.” That would buy me the time I needed to pack at least, and hopefully it would make him feel better about this whole episode, too.

“Great idea, Angela,” Octo-Cat said with one of his hard-earned smiles.

I glowed in the light of his rare and wonderful praise. He was a diva, sure, but it did feel good to make him happy, especially considering that most of the time every little thing I did disappointed him greatly.

“Tonight,” he shouted merrily. “That also gives me time to work on what I’ll say.” He then trotted off, leaving me to tidy the mess and prepare it for burial.

Ugh. As glad as I was that he felt better, I’d planned to talk to him about Lou Harlow’s murder and the strange cats she’d left behind.

Well, that would just have to wait.

Why was my to-do list only getting longer the harder I worked today?