Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

The Cat Came Back by Kathryn Cross

A Canadian and a writer of children’s stories, the author of this tale prefers to have her work published under a pseudonym. We can tell you, however, that she is the wife of a former member of the Canadian armed forces and has lived in Germany, Holland, and Israel. Her past employment includes stints as a baker, a medical research assistant, and a historical interpreter. Her EQMM debut is her second piece of adult fiction; the first appeared in Country Woman magazine.

“Why not come along,” Catherine coaxed. She ran her hands down that black sheath dress she wore. The one that made her look so hot. “You might have a good time.”

“Why not,” I agreed, because of the dress, knowing I’d be bored six ways to Sunday.

So, here I am, at Roger what’s-his-face’s little soiree, surrounded by the geeks, freaks, and arteests that are Catherine’s friends and make up this oh-so-stimulating crowd. I take another swig of the useless drink Roger’s bartender poured me and slip an unattended bottle of rye into my jacket pocket so it will be close to hand.

Catherine’s on the opposite side of the room, caught in a little cluster of admirers. Everyone calls her Cat. She has the green eyes, sleek body, and graceful moves. Everyone thinks Cat belongs to them. Richard, there, for example, the guy she works for at the art gallery, her esteemed big boss. He’s got his arm locked around her waist. And if that plump hand of his strays to her tight little butt, I swear I’ll break all five of those professionally manicured fingers.

I catch Cat’s eye; she flashes her Cheshire-cat grin. Then she extracts herself from Richard’s grasp and weaves through the crowd toward me.

I start whistling beneath my breath. Whistling the tune to “The Cat Came Back.” You know, that song about the cat that couldn’t stay away. Cat recognizes the tune, all right — she’s heard me whistling it before — and her smile widens. When I open my arms, she snuggles with a purr into my embrace. I’m the one, now, who’s got his hand on her butt, the only one whose hand has the right to be there. Cat’s mine. She belongs to me, to nobody else. I clasp her to me so the length of her body presses against mine, her breasts, hips, her thighs—

I look up, and there’s Freda glaring at me over the rim of her martini glass. Freda! A twisted sister if there ever was one. Freda curls her mouth into a semblance of a smile and sets down her glass. She stretches her arms and rolls her shoulders like a cat, like Cat. She tosses her head and makes that same backward sweep with her hand Cat does when she straightens her long black hair — except Freda’s hair’s cropped short and dyed not pink but fuchsia, according to Cat. Then Freda mimics Cat’s walk as she approaches us from across the room.

On Freda, Cat’s moves are obscene. And if Freda has legs or anything else a man might want under those suits from Moore’s she wears, I’ve never seen any evidence. She’s dressed like a freakin’ gangster tonight. With Cat draped on my left side, Freda drapes herself on my right, reaches up, and ruffles my hair. Cat smothers a laugh with her hand.

“Well, Mark,” Freda asks, “how are you tonight?” As if Freda cares. I take another swig of my drink.

“Just fine, Freda. How about you?”

I reach back, take hold of Freda’s jacket sleeve with three fingers — there’s no way I’m touching Freda herself — remove her arm from my shoulder, and drop it like a piece of garbage.

“Oh?” Freda says. “Is that the way it is?”

Cat touches her lips to my ear. “You don’t want to get on Freda’s bad side,” she teases. “Freda’s got a gun.”

Well, S.O.B.! Freda’s packing! One of the reasons for the suits she wears, the reason she never takes off the jacket. Freda’s packing a piece. Hilarious! No one in their right mind would molest a butch like Freda.

“Freda thinks I should have a gun, too.” Cat’s all serious now.

The way Freda turns her head and casually looks across the room, a little smirk on her face, I know she’s heard what Cat’s said. Freda thinks Cat should learn how to protect herself, that she should know how to blow me away. Freda’s just jealous because Cat’s not hers.

Freda slowly turns back to me, locks her eyes with mine, and wordlessly warns me I’d better be careful.

“I’ll be right back.” Cat pulls away.

“Hey!” I tighten my grip on her. “Where’re you going?” She hardly needs to be around Richard and his crowd.

“I have to pee,” she insists, giving me a petulant look, fluttering her long eyelashes.

I release her and hope Freda will follow in her path. Freda doesn’t. Freda probably never has to pee.

“You got a license for that thing, Freda?” I point with my glass at Freda’s ribs, left side.

Freda arches one eyebrow, that’s it.

I remember, then, that Freda works for some security firm. Guarding empty warehouses, in all probability. Her carrying the gun makes her feel real tough, no doubt.

“Well, Mark... It is Mark, isn’t it?”

No, Freda, it isn’t. Good for you.

“You’ve been living with Cat for how long now? Three months, is it? Still looking for a job?”

“Got another interview tomorrow, in fact.” Absolutely no one annoys me like Freda. “Satisfied?”

“Cat picked you up at the bus depot, right?”

“We met at Starbucks.”

“The Starbucks at the bus depot, though, wasn’t it? Were you arriving, departing, or just passing through?”

What a struggle it is not to whack her. “This your version of the third degree, is it, Freda?”

“Cat’s special, Mark. That’s something you should know. She believes in people, brings out the best in them, helps them when she can.” Freda studies me a sec. “And I don’t want Cat hurt.”

Freda’s damned jealous, is all.

“You’re not good for her, Mark. It’s time you moved on, job or no job. Let Cat find someone else.”

I don’t think so, Freda. Cat loves me. She’s mine. There isn’t going to be any someone else.

“You know, Mark...”

Why don’t you damn well shut up!

“...I can’t figure why Cat’s so committed to you. Makes me wonder what you are and what tale you must have spun.”

“Want my fingerprints, Freda?” I raise my glass and twist it round in the light. “Want to run a background check?” I can tell from that hungry look in Freda’s eyes that’s exactly what she wants.

But I’ve already spotted Cat making her way back through the crowd toward me. And I begin whistling—

That Freda! I swear. My whistling that tune burns her so. No way will Freda take the glass from me in front of Cat. Cat’s opinion of Freda would sink so low. I extend my hand to Cat. “Take me home, Cat. Take me into your bed.” With my other hand, I tuck my empty glass into the jacket pocket unoccupied by the rye and let Cat lead me from the room. The expression on Freda’s face...!

The digital clock on Cat’s night table, when I open my eyes, shows 11:06 A.M., and the air’s thick with the smell of brewed coffee. Cat woke me earlier, before she left for work, reminding me of that interview — one of the many interviews Cat’s arranged for me — at 10 A.M.

I roll over and stare at the ceiling. Who gives a damn about that interview? I don’t even remember what job the interview was for.

Then, lying there like that, don’t you know, I get thinking about Cat. Thinking about how great it was in bed with her last night. Last night on into the early morning. And there’s no way I can wait until tonight to see her again. Tonight is far too far away. If I turn up at Richard’s très chic gallery and find a conveniently empty back room...

I take a cab. What the heck. I get the driver to drop me two blocks short of the gallery, though, so I can tell Cat I walked over from the interview. An interview that went crackerjack.

I saunter down the street, glancing at shop windows. I pass one of those tarted-up cafes that will spill out onto the sidewalk come summer, and there’s Cat sitting inside at one of the tables. But who’s the guy she’s sitting with? Cat’s all smiles, whoever he is. She touches his forearm, then reaches up and strokes his cheek with the back of one finger. He takes that finger and presses it to his lips. Cat’s smile widens. Who is this guy, this miserable S.O.B.? His other hand is hidden beneath the table, and I bet he’s got it on Cat’s knee, Cat with her skirt hiked up, inviting that hand to reach higher. Cat leans across the table, offering her lips — what’s she doing? — and the creep kisses them.

Then, don’t you know, I’m whistling. Clenching my fists, tapping one foot, and whistling harsh and loud. The cat came back... ’cause she didn’t want to roam... Maybe I’m whistling loud enough to be heard through the glass, because Cat shades her eyes against the sun and looks through the window. She smiles her Cheshire-cat smile — the same one she smiled at that creep a second ago — and she beckons me inside. If I go in, I’ll smash that guy’s teeth right down his throat. Cat’s mine! She belongs to me! I slam the glass with the heel of my hand, set it shivering.

“For Pete’s sake, Mark, why are you so upset? I have a right to my friends.” That’s Cat’s explanation when she comes in that night from work. But I’m hard and cold and silent. A freakin’ iceberg. I flip through TV channels, thumb on the remote, showing my irritation.

“You’ve met Craig. Richard displays his work at the gallery. I went out with him for coffee because he’s been a bit depressed. Besides,” Cat says, throwing her handbag into the armchair, “Craig’s gay!” As if that made everything all right. Craig being gay. Craig kissing Cat’s lips with his filthy mouth. Cat stalks into the kitchen, bangs pots and rattles dishes as she fixes something to eat.

“Maybe we should cool it for a while, Mark,” she says over the clatter. “I mean, if you don’t like my having friends.”

Not what I want to hear. I lay the remote aside and turn to her.

“Listen, Cat, I didn’t know it was Craig, all right? I look through the window and you’re kissing a guy I don’t recognize. Okay, I get angry. What do you expect? I really care for you, and we’ve got a good thing going. I don’t want anyone jeopardizing that.” You belong to me. You’re mine.

“You’ve never gone out for coffee or lunch with me, Cat.” I point this out in an injured voice. “Let’s say we do lunch sometime.” I push myself up from the sofa, go into the kitchen, and encircle Cat with my arms, nuzzle her soft neck. Her body, stiff with anger, relaxes slowly against mine. “Somewhere special for my special lady, all right?” I lay on the charm. Cat rests her head and hand against my chest. “What about tomorrow?”

I feel Cat flinch. “Oh, Mark, I can’t. Not tomorrow. Not Thursday.” I remember, then: Every Thursday Cat has lunch at Luigi’s with Julie. Julie who needs Cat to talk to once a week, as if Julie had anything going for her.

But I keep my mouth shut, and when Cat raises her eyes to me, I attempt an understanding smile. “Okay, Cat. Fine. What about Friday, then?” I brush her forehead with my lips.

“Could we make it a day next week?” She searches my face. “Richard’s invited some of his special clients to the gallery on Friday. He needs my help.”

“Sure, Cat. Anything you say.”

On Thursday, it isn’t just Julie who meets Cat for lunch. Freakin’ pistol-packing Freda turns up, too. And Cat knows how I feel about Freda. I watch the three of them go inside. I wait until they come out again, yacking and laughing, touching and clutching, hugging and kissing. As if they had more right to Cat than I do. As if they were more important to Cat than me! Cat’s mine!

Freda turns her head in my direction, and I slip back into the shadow of the bank’s portico. “Cat,” I whisper as I watch them walk away, “we need to talk.”

Five days now. It’s been five damned days. And I don’t know if I can take it much longer. All the freakin’ phone calls. If it isn’t Richard, it’s Freda or Julie. The whole mad tea party asking for Cat. Richard telephoned first, bright and early Monday morning. “Is Cat there?”

“No, she’s not.” I hadn’t even had a coffee, for Christ’s sake. “I was about to call you. She’s in Seattle.”

“She’s where? Seattle! What’s she doing in Seattle?”

“If you’ll shut up, Richard, I’ll tell you, okay?” I heard Richard bluster and fume, imagined him shaking with fury. Looks damned good on ya, Richard.

“She’s got this friend in Seattle who’s really sick or something. Just like Cat, she had to go. Never said goodbye to me or anything.” I let the irritation seep into my voice. “She telephoned last night from out West and asked me to contact you.”

“When did she leave?”

“Saturday or Sunday, I guess. I was out of town, chasing a job.”

“Can I reach her?”

Jeez, Richard, why can’t you bloody well back off. “The friend’s dying, Richard, and Cat’s staying at the hospital. I don’t have any idea which hospital. At a time like this, she doesn’t want to be bothered, anyway.” I hung up the phone on the insensitive bastard.

Julie phoned next. “We always have lunch together on Thursdays,” she whined, wanting her piece of Cat. “She didn’t tell me—”

“The friend’s dying, Julie! How could she know?” Now I’m genuinely pissed off at these so-called supportive friends of Cat.

“Have you any idea when she’ll be back?”

“No!” I dropped the phone on her ear, too.

I should stay. I have to stay. A few more days at least. With Cat out of sight, I need to remain in full view. Otherwise, what kinds of conclusions are those good friends of Cat going to jump to? Stay and make sure they’ve got the story on Cat straight. Then head West myself. I wonder what Cat’s friends will make of that? Might screw them up big time.

But those friends of Cat won’t let up. And they’re driving me crazy!

That bitch Freda’s the worst. She calls every damned day. “Is Cat back yet?” “Have you heard from Cat?” I think of telling Freda the friend died and Cat’s staying for the funeral, to get her off my back. Except Freda would probably ask for the name of the funeral home so she could send a sympathy card. “And by the way, Mark,” she said this morning, “I haven’t heard you whistling lately. You know, ‘The Cat Came Back.’ Got some doubt in your mind there, Mark, about Cat returning?” That freakin’ Freda, noticing every little thing.

“Cat’s using the sick friend as an excuse, that’s it, isn’t it, Mark? She’s had enough of you and your shadowing her all the time — I’ve seen you following her. She’s not coming back until you’re out of her life, isn’t that right?”

I don’t damn well care for the sarcasm in Freda’s voice.

“Now wouldn’t that make you happy. You’ve always set Cat against me. You’ve sunk your poisonous barbs in every chance you got.” I’m so pissed at Freda. Righteous indignation, isn’t that what it’s called? I give her a full blast of that. “It might be she needs a break from you and the rest of that mob pestering her all the time. That ever cross your mind?” Chew on that one, Freda.

This time it was Freda who slammed down the phone on me.

Five days of this is long enough.

I spend the rest of the day getting my gear together, money from a couple of ATMs, buying tickets from here to there. As long as I’m away from the phone, away from Cat’s friends, it’s not so bad. I drop my packed duffel bag on the bedroom floor of Cat’s apartment and roll, fully-clothed, into Cat’s soft bed. First thing tomorrow, I’m out of here.

Doesn’t the damn phone ring again! If it’s Freda, to hell with her. But the number on the display screen isn’t one I recognize. The phone keeps ringing. I think about pulling the jack from the wall, but what if it’s another one of Cat’s friends needing to be told.

I snatch up the receiver. “This better be important. I was in the shower.”

“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry,” a male voice apologizes. Terrific! Just who I’d love to chat with. That freakin’ Craig who paints those crappy abstracts that Richard flogs as art. “I was wondering if I could speak to Cat.”

“Cat’s not here! She’s in Seattle! Richard must’ve told you!”

“Well... ah... it’s...”

My hand tightens on the receiver the way I’d like to tighten it around Craig’s eggshell head. Spit it out, you jerk.

“If Cat was away, she’s back. She wanted to set up an appointment to look at my latest paintings.”

What’s he talking about? The receiver emits a crack under the strain of my grip.

“I assumed she went home, you know, after work. That she was at the apartment with... you.”

It’s like a blade between my ribs, collapsing my lungs. I drop to the bed.

What’s he babbling about?

“Hello? Are you there?”

“Yeah,” I snarl. I’m talking with a freakin’ maniac.

“Is everything okay between you and Cat? Freda’s been saying—”

“So Cat called. She called you. Where was she calling from, if she called you?”

“I assumed she called from the gallery.”

“The gallery. She was at the gallery. With Richard?”

“I guess.”

“Richard saw her?”

“I would think so.”

“You’re crazy!” I yank out the damn phone this time and smash it against the wall. Cat can’t be there! Not at the gallery. She’s not here, and she’s not there! I tear the covers from Cat’s bed and fling them onto the floor, sweep the bedroom lamp from the night table, break the framed picture of Cat over my knee.

I realize, then, what I’m doing, and I laugh. I laugh and laugh. Cat’s mine. Always has been, ever will be. I don’t know what Craig’s little game is, what he’s up to, maybe it’s his coke-addled brain getting it wrong again.

I’ll stop by the gallery tomorrow and talk to Richard. That’s all. I’ll ask him if he’s heard from Cat. Then I’ll know what it is with Craig.

I push the stained-glass door of the gallery open. I stowed my bag at the bus depot already, then sauntered the three blocks over. I take my time, play it cool. Why not?

Richard hears the buzzer and half turns from the client he’s showing addle-brained Craig’s grotesque work to, and his face turns purple. He puffs up like a toad, narrows his eyes, then strides toward me. “What are you doing here?”

I take my hands from my pockets and spread them in mock surrender. “I was wondering if you’d heard from Cat.”

“She’s not here.”

“Yeah, I know. She’s in Seattle—”

“No, I mean she isn’t here now. And I think it would be a good idea if you left, too.” He grabs my arm and drags me toward the door.

“You little—!” I wrench free of his grasp, the hot taste of bile in my throat. “What are you talking about!”

“Cat doesn’t want to see you anymore. She’s had enough of you. Freda and I think it best if you remove yourself and your things from her apartment. It’s her apartment, after all. Get out of her life, Mark, get out of town. It’s time.”

He’s crazy! They’re all crazy. Cat belongs to me. She’s mine.

Richard grabs my arm with the strength of the maniac he’s become and wrestles me out the door.

“If she’s not here,” I scream at him, “then where is she?”

“If you don’t know, I’ll be damned if I’ll tell you.” But his eyes dart nervously down the block, and a look of anguish twists his face. What the—?

Damn! It’s Thursday. I tear out of Richard’s grasp, ignore Richard’s shout. Every Thursday it was lunch at Luigi’s with Julie. I don’t know what their game is, but they’re all in it together. Richard, Freda, Craig, Julie. And Julie is their weakest link.

By the time I race over, Julie’s already on the sidewalk outside Luigi’s, buttoning the last button on her coat. Julie and all her petty problems she dumps on Cat once a week.

She looks up, sees me, and takes a step back. Julie, all-time loser and little wimp.

“Oh! Hi, Mark. You just missed Cat.”

Her words strike me like a blow.

“What do you mean?” What do you mean, you twit?

“You know her friend in Seattle? The one who was in the car accident? Like, it was a miracle. No one thought she would make it, then, a day ago, she came out of the coma, and now she’s coming along fine.”

I squeeze my eyes closed, clamp my jaws to keep from screaming. What’s Julie talking about?

Julie cranes her neck and looks across the street, the four lanes of afternoon traffic. “There she is,” she says brightly, waving a hand.

“There who is?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“Why, Cat, of course.” She waves again, wildly. “Cat! Cat?” she cries above the street noise. “Mark’s looking for you.”

The woman half in, half out of the passenger side of the red Toyota pauses. Cat? She lifts her head, the way Cat does, she pushes her hair back from her face with that familiar sweep of her hand. Cat’s long black hair, Cat’s hand, Cat’s gorgeous legs. She looks for a moment in our direction, dark glasses shading her eyes, then slips into the car, closes the door. The car drives off.

How can that be Cat? Cat’s mine.

“Gosh, Mark, are you all right? Have you and Cat had a falling out? I get so busy telling Cat my problems I forget to ask about hers.”

I turn on Julie, reach for her throat, ready to throttle the living daylights out of her because of her lies. Julie takes more than one step back this time.

“It’s not my fault, Mark! I didn’t do anything.”

I let my hands fall. Everyone on the street is watching, everyone in the restaurant has their eyes glued to the action outside the window.

“Maybe you should go back to the apartment, Mark. You look awful. Maybe Cat will phone you and explain. It’s probably just a misunderstanding, and the two of you will get back together again.”

“Yeah, right!” I bellow at Julie. “As if you knew anything!”

I need a drink. I need to get damn drunk! It’s like I’m inside a tornado, being spun round and round.

When I reach Cat’s apartment, after hitting a few bars, I’m not near as drunk as I’d like to be. I slide Cat’s key into the lock. And the key turns so easily, I know the lock’s already been released.

I push the door open, step into the dark entrance, and smell Cat. Her scent. Not a perfume she wore, her scent. The lamp in the living room is lit. The first thing I see is her legs. Her long legs as she crosses them seductively, the hem of her black dress hiked up, inviting my hand, any hand that wants, to touch a knee, stroke a thigh. Her hand, long fingernails painted that plum color, a hand that caressed, that flirted, that touched the arm, the face, of any and everyone, a hand that beckoned, enticed. Hand to her dark hair, her eyes still in shadow, and there’s her mouth. Lush, ripe lips always offered for a kiss, a kiss from Richard, from Craig, from freakin’ Freda, anyone who came along. A blown kiss to that panhandling S.O.B. in the subway. Cat’s soon-to-be someone else, my replacement, couldn’t I tell. Except I put a stop to that.

Those lush lips purse... then whistle. Whistle the tune to “The Cat Came Back.”

“You can’t be Cat.” In a way I’m surprised that I say this out loud. Who do I think I’m talking to? “Cat’s dead. I killed her. I scattered her body in so many places, no one will ever have a piece of her again. She’s mine. She belonged to me.”

For a moment, there is only silence, a deep, still silence that a voice finally breaks.

“You always whistled that tune, Mark. So full of yourself, so certain Cat would always come back to you. It drove me crazy. But you didn’t whistle it after you said that Cat was in Seattle. You didn’t, and I told you so. Remember?”

I burst out laughing. It’s freakin’ Freda got up in disguise.

Freda slips the black wig from her head, dangles it in her hand at her knee, and leans forward until her eyes gleam in the light.

“I don’t think you know all the lyrics to that song, Mark. The cat keeps coming back, but in the last stanza as a ghost. In a way, I’m Cat’s ghost.”

“Whatever you say, Freda.”

Then I notice the glint of the little revolver Freda has pointed at me from the cradle of her lap. Good old Freda.

I throw up my hands. “You got me, Freda. What now? You going to call the cops?”

Freda leans back in the chair, concealing her eyes in shadow again.

“My word against yours, Freda. And there ain’t no corpse. Not so you can find one, anyway.” It occurs to me, then, that Freda’s recording.

“Taping this, are you, Freda? Evidence? Then let me explain that I knew all along you guys were setting me up. You, Richard, Craig, and little Julie. So I turned the hoax back on you, I played the big bad killer you expected me to be. Ha, effin’ ha. Do you hear that, all you cops reviewing this tape? Big practical joke! As far as I know, Cat’s still in Seattle.” I shrug my shoulders — hands still in the air — at Freda.

The foot of her crossed leg begins to bounce. Who knew Freda had such great legs? She doesn’t look half bad when she’s dolled up.

“Evidence? Perhaps proof is a better word.”

“Sorry, Freda, I don’t think any law-enforcement agency will accept this as proof of anything.”

“The thing is, Mark, we — me and the rest of Cat’s friends — don’t have much confidence in the justice system dispensing justice. We agreed that if I proved you killed Cat — and I think your confession is good enough — I should go ahead.”

“Go ahead with what?” If freakin’ Freda thinks she’s scaring me...

“We all loved Cat, you know. Really did love her.” She leans forward again. Her eyes have a set look that says whatever she’s planned, in her mind, it’s already over. I feel a sudden chill.

“You’re finished yourself, Freda, if you kill me with your own gun. Evidence, after all.”

“The thing is, Mark, this isn’t mine.” I notice, then, that Freda’s wearing a surgical glove on the hand holding the gun. “It’s Cat’s.”

I snort. “Cat would never own a gun.”

Freda smiles. “Don’t I know.” She turns the gun slightly, looks at it almost reverently. “I think she agreed to buy it only to please me. She was never convinced it was such a dangerous world. I selected a model of handgun suitable for her, helped with the paperwork, got the gun licensed in her name. But Cat’s heart wasn’t in it.” Freda releases a breath.

“I went with her when she took possession of the gun. She didn’t want to take it to her apartment — maybe you were there — but to mine.

“When we reached my apartment, I wanted her to take the gun out of its case, her to hold it, get accustomed to it, attached. She handled it for less than a minute — she did try. But then she returned the gun to the case, secured the lid, and pushed the case across the table to me. ‘I’m sorry, Freda. I can’t. Could you return it for me, please?’ ”

Freda raises her eyes from the gun, and they are as deep and dark as wells. As deep and dark as the end of the gun’s barrel that she also raises and centers on my forehead. “Cat’s gun, Cat’s prints. Maybe even Cat who entered the apartment building, if there was anyone to see. Cat who runs out. As for me, I’m at the gallery, attending a showing of Craig’s most recent works, as Richard, Julie, and all Cat’s friends will testify. So you see, Mark, in a way, Cat came back.”