The Black Cats

Buried Secrets

JUST AS I LICKED the last twig from my tail, Muddy served dinner. Unfortunately, my harrowing drag was for naught. Nothing came of these heroics, save for a bruise in a very delicate place; my bottom had polished every cobblestone on Franklin. In the absence of a hammer, Eddy pressed a candle stub onto the nail head, preventing Sissy or Muddy from tearing their skirt again. But what skills he possessed in shirking handiwork, he lacked in hunting. To snare Mr. Fitzgerald required the cunning of a cat, nay, a tortoiseshell cat.

I pondered the complexities of the crime during the evening meal. I’d detected no lavender or citrus anywhere in Mr. Fitzgerald’s shop, and I remembered smelling it on the noose this morning. Further, what possible reason could he have for killing Snip? And had he been Snip’s owner? Lastly, I judged him a fair human. I have been mistaken or misguided on occasion, even ill advised, but I have never been wrong. Doubt over his role in the murder abounded. I prayed Mr. Eakins’s book would provide answers.

Once I’d downed Muddy’s feeble offering of chicken broth, I proceeded to Green Street, stopping first at the Beal residence for help. The grey tom and orange molly napped on the stoop, warming themselves in the dwindling sun. I thanked the Great Cat Above for the long stretch of summer daylight. It made my investigation that much easier, and quite an investigation it had been. I’d done more today than I had all spring. I climbed the terraced steps and chanced upon a crockery bowl of water. I took a sip of the cool liquid, thinking the Quaker cats would not mind.

George lifted his head, one eye still closed. “Cattarina?” He nudged Margaret. She awoke with a start and sprang to her feet.

“Y-you’re alive,” she said to me. “But how? Every cat tongue on Green Street is a-wag. They’re saying the Butcher got his hands on you.”

“He did,” I said. “It was quite an ordeal.” I licked the water from my lips.

George sniffed me. “And you’re not dead?”

I shifted to my hindquarters, minding the bruise. “You should be asking about the Butcher.”

“The way you talk!” Margaret said.

“Were you terribly frightened?” George asked. “How did you escape his sausage grinder? Skeletons. Were there cat skeletons in the home?” He backed into the water bowl, spilling it. “Do tell us, Cattarina! Do tell us!”

“You misunderstand Mr. Eakins,” I said.

“Who is Mr. Eakins?” George shook the water from his paws and licked them.

“The Butcher. Please keep up.” I flicked the end of my tail. “From what Silas and Sam— I mean, the Water Giants, tell me, he is a kindly old man who rescues homeless cats. Though he may have a small flea problem.”

Margaret’s eyes grew wide. “You met the Water Giants?”

“They are not dead, either,” I added. “You may meet them yourself.”

George and Margaret sneezed, one after another—a clear rejection of my proposal.

“I assure you, I am serious. In fact, I would like you to accompany me to the Butcher’s home.” I rose to all paws, keeping my tail low. “He is in possession of a clue, and I need your help obtaining it.”

“A clue?” Margaret asked. “What is a clue?”

I told them the story of Snip, the book, and Mr. Fitzgerald. I’d even come up with a plan on the way over, which I explained to them now. I softened the danger by calling it a game of cat and mouse with unorthodox rules. This seemed to calm George a bit, for he relaxed his ears toward the end of my speech.

“We don’t condone stealing,” he said once I’d finished. “Taking the book would be against our code. Mr. Beal would be unhappy if we—”

“Don’t think of it as stealing,” I said. “Think of it helping a fallen…friend.”

Margaret blinked. “Very well. We will help you. But once you enter the Butcher’s home, you’re on your own.”

***

For all the wailing, I would’ve thought George at death’s door. He lay on the walkway leading to Mr. Eakins’s home, legs kicking in spasm. When I explained he would be the mouse, not the cat, in our charade, he took some convincing. But I am nothing if not persuasive. I crouched in the holly bushes next door and waited for the game to begin.

“What do you think of my performance?” George asked me.

“Can you cry louder?” I asked. “The Butcher is old and does not hear so well, I imagine.”

George obliged, shrieking at full capacity. Another cat down the block screeched in reply. Every performance needed an audience, I supposed. In a fashion, the caterwaul lured Mr. Eakins outside, parrot cage in tow. “Heeeere kitty, kitty. I’ll fix you up.”

“Run, George, run!” I shouted.

George needed no prompting. He leapt to his feet and disappeared from the garden like a puff of smoke. Mr. Eakins gave chase, but the tom was in no danger of being caught, not without aid of a net and perhaps a horse and driver. When George reached the street, he signaled Margaret. She streaked across the old man’s path, and the two tabbies ran ziggety-zag, luring Mr. Eakins down Green Street and away from his home.

I slipped inside Mr. Eakins’s front hall and headed for the kitchen. Having been a “guest” this morning, I navigated the rooms with ease, finding no Coon Cats. The cat-pendium lay on the tabletop, waiting for my perusal. I climbed topside and pushed the book open to search for Snip’s entry. Spotted cats, striped cats, black cats— I paused on Midnight’s page. Mr. Eakins had captured his likeness quite well. I continued flipping until I reached Snip’s page. The black cat stared back at me with both good eyes. I’d been right about him losing one after his rescue. Had Mr. Fitzgerald taken it? I studied the marks beneath Snip’s sketch and wondered if they told of his new owner and street address. I switched my tail. This I would leave to Eddy, my man of letters.

I tried to lift the volume with my teeth. It dropped to the floor with a weighty thud. Fiddlesticks.

A thump and a crash rang out on the second floor. The Brothers Coon?

I tried nudging my prize from the kitchen to the parlor. I gave up when my nose hit the raised threshold between rooms. Too many cobblestones lay between here and home to continue in this manner. I knew this firstpaw or rather, firstbottom. I swiveled my ears and caught the sound of footfall upon the stair—Silas and Samuel, without a doubt. I opened the book again to Snip’s entry. If I could not take the whole clue, I would take a piece of it. Minding the precious black marks, I gnawed the page near the binding. Despite my swift action, Silas and Samuel entered and caught me with a mouthful of paper. I had been reduced to a common woodchuck.

“Don’t look now, brother,” Silas said to Samuel, “but Cattarina is back, and she is eating from the Book of Cats.”

“How very curious,” Samuel said. “Our Robert usually reads from the Book of Cats. Doesn’t Mrs. Poe feed her?”

Silas twitched his whiskers. “One look at her stomach, and you’ll know the answer.”

I spat a mouthful of paper. “I do not have time for this!”

The Coon Cats stared at me.

“At this very instant, Snip’s killer runs free,” I said. “And Mr. Eakins’s Book of Cats may hold the scoundrel’s identity. I must, simply must be allowed to take this page.”

“Snip’s killer?” Samuel cocked his head. “You mean he is dead?”

Silas grew quiet.

“That was the hanged cat I spoke of this morning,” I said. “You did not hear the gossip?”

“I told you,” Samuel said. “We stay inside much of the day. Locked doors. Locked windows. Mr. Eakins doesn’t let us wander like other cats. He talks about danger and disease and all sorts of bad things, most of which we don’t understand. But we know he means to keep us safe.”

“I thought you spoke in jest.” I had heard of indoor plants, indoor rugs, and indoor wicker. But indoor cats? How barbaric. The beautiful Coons were no more than furniture. I prayed this new-fashioned practice would end with Mr. Eakins.

“Dear brother, our Robert was right!” Silas wailed. “It is dangerous out there!” Samuel tried to comfort him with a sideways rub. Silas pushed him away. “I wish we had never found that hole in the roof. ‘Sneak outside at night,’ you said. ‘He’ll never catch us,’ you said. We could’ve been killed, just like Snip!” He left the room, dragging his tail behind him.

“Forgive my brother,” Samuel said. “He has a nervous condition.”

“I agree with Silas,” I said. “The world is a dangerous place. But Snip’s human killed him, not illness or accident. Say, do you happen to know the new owner’s name? This will save me much work as I am on his trail.”

“I’m afraid not. We meet some of the humans Robert works with, but not all.” He glanced at the book. “Taking this page will help you find Snip’s owner?”

“Yes.” I considered explaining the black marks and what they might mean but decided against it. In the end, the simplest answer won out. Samuel helped me tear Snip’s page from the book and walked me to the door. Whether or not the paper contained Mr. Fitzgerald’s information remained to be seen.

“Good luck with your hunt, Cattarina,” he said. “If there’s anything else we can do, let us know. We are able to come and go by a hole in the roof. Silas will take some coaxing, but we’ll be there if you need us.” He watched Mr. Eakins huff and puff toward us down the street, his cage empty. “Snip was a good friend. I hope you find his murderer.”

I bade him farewell and left with Snip’s information, escaping past Mr. Eakins by the garden gate. The old man gasped at the torn page in my mouth, but George and Margaret had winded him, and he could not give chase. He scratched his ribs and yelled, “You are much too curious for your own good, Cattarina! Some secrets should stay buried!” This sounded like a warning.

Near the corner of North Seventh, I detected the stench of rotting flesh. I followed it all the way to Poe House and around to our kitchen garden where someone had committed the unconscionable.