Six Cats A Slayin'

EIGHTEEN

Throughout the day, I returned to that particular idea—that Gerry Albritton might have had plastic surgery at some point in order to change the way she looked, perhaps significantly. That might be why Melba didn’t recognize her yet thought there was something about her that seemed familiar.

What about the name, though? If she’d changed her appearance to look a lot different, would she also have changed her name, taken on a fresh identity?

I kept telling myself that Gerry’s true identity was not my problem. Kanesha was the one who would have to figure it out. I needed to mind my own business this time and not get involved.

The puzzle intrigued me, though, the same way it did in the mysteries I read. I always tried to figure them out before the author revealed everything at the end of the book. That was why I enjoyed classic detective-story writers like Agatha Christie and Margery Allingham so much. I wanted to be able to analyze the clues for myself, put all the evidence together, and come up with the answer. In this case, however, I would not be privy to enough of the evidence to be able to figure it out myself. Kanesha would be perfectly happy, I was certain, not to have the benefit of my amateur sleuthing.

Despite not being able to banish thoughts about Gerry’s death for very long periods of time, I managed to get my work done. Having Diesel as company during the morning improved my mood. We went home for lunch, and he wanted to stay there to watch the kittens when I was ready to come back to the office. I let him into the cage with them and reminded Azalea to let him out at some point before I got home.

Gerry’s sudden death had pushed thoughts of the kittens’ owner out of my mind. I thought about that briefly on the way back to work for the afternoon, but I soon found myself back to ruminating over the manner of her death. There were times I wished that my mind had switches on various compartments so that I could turn those compartments on and off. Especially the compartment that had trouble letting go of puzzles like the death of Gerry Albritton.

For a while I managed pretty well to keep to the task of cataloging, with only a couple of minor distractions. The first distraction came in the form of a text message from Melba to inform me that she was leaving the office early today and would see me tomorrow. I responded with a simple OK. An e-mail message marked Urgent provided the second one. A researcher at a university in Alabama was asking about one of the archival collections, and I was able to answer the questions easily and quickly.

By the time I was ready to close up shop, I felt satisfied with my productivity, and that put me in a good mood for the short drive home.

When I reached my block, I averted my gaze from Gerry’s house. Christmas was only a few days away, and I didn’t want to be depressed by looking at that sad display in her yard. The less I allowed myself to think about her and her odd death, the better for my peace of mind. Or so I told myself.

Diesel did not meet me at the kitchen door when I came in from the garage. I greeted Azalea, and she informed me that Mr. Cat, as she called him, was in the living room watching over the kittens.

“I’ll go say hello,” I said.

“Before you go you might want to take a look at what I found on the front door this morning.” Azalea pointed toward a grubby-looking envelope on the table.

“What is it?” I went to the table and picked it up. I saw my name written in childish block capitals: MR. HARRIS. The envelope contained something with a little weight to it. I suspected coins.

“Went out to sweep the doorstep,” Azalea said. “It was pinned to the door.”

“You didn’t see any sign of whoever left it there, I guess.”

“No, I didn’t. It was around ten when I went to sweep.”

The envelope had seen better days. To judge by the outside, it had been dropped in dirt, perhaps more than once—although the child who left it had made some efforts to reduce the staining. I turned it over and saw that it was sealed.

I took care as I opened it not to let the contents spill. I extracted a small piece of paper, along with a five-dollar bill, a quarter, a dime, and two pennies. In the same block capitals, the child had written: FOR THEIR FOOD. I showed the note and the money to Azalea.

“That child at least has a notion of what responsibility is,” she said.

“Yes, this isn’t something I expected. I suppose she had to wait for her allowance.” The gesture touched me, and I felt sad that the poor girl had had to give up the kittens she obviously loved. I had to find her and figure out a way for her to keep them, if that’s what she wanted.

I put the money and the note back into the envelope and took it to the den, where I placed it in a desk drawer. I had no intention of spending the money. I hoped I would be able to return it soon. If I could only figure out how to find the child. That was proving difficult.

Then I remembered Melba’s idea about setting up a camera to record activity at the front door. I doubted that today’s note would be the last time I would hear from the child, so there should be opportunities to get her on video. I resolved to talk to Frank this evening, if he had time, to solicit his advice and find out what equipment I would need and how much it might cost.

I headed for the living room to check on Diesel and the kittens. Diesel would have heard me when I came home and was probably wondering where I was. When I walked into the room he looked up at me and meowed loudly. I greeted him and scratched his head, and he meowed again, but this time he sounded happier.

The kittens were quiet when I first entered the room, all napping in the back corner. But the sound of my voice woke them. They yawned and stretched, then scampered over toward me, mewing and making noises similar to Diesel’s trilling. Ramses was the loudest, as usual. He seemed to be demanding to be released from prison.

“No, you little miscreant,” I said firmly, pointing a finger at him. “I’m not going to let you loose in the house. Heaven only knows what you would get into if I did.”

Ramses paid no attention to me or my admonitory finger. Instead he started trying to climb the side of the cage. Probably to put himself on eye level with me, I thought, the little hardhead. He managed to climb about three feet before his determination seemed to falter, and he hung there, continuing to meow.

The other boys, Fred and George, emulated Ramses and started climbing. The girls appeared to have no interest in climbing. They took the opportunity, while the boys were otherwise engaged, to head to the food bowls and have a snack.

I stayed and watched them for a good ten minutes. Diesel went up to the cage three times and batted at the boys’ front paws, trying to encourage them to get down, I figured. Fred and George gave up, but Ramses hung there until I thought I was going to have to go inside the cage to get him down. Finally, however, he must have tired of the contest of wills, because he turned and jumped off.

I had to admire the kitten’s force of will. Whoever ended up with him would have a battle royal on his or her hands. The name I had given him suited him all too well.

“I’ll be back a little later,” I said, “when it’s dinnertime. Come on, Diesel.” He followed me out of the room and back to the den.

I checked the time. Almost ten minutes after four. I decided to call Frank to ask about the video setup.

He answered promptly, and after we exchanged the usual pleasantries—and information on the status of the world’s most wonderful grandson—I explained what I wanted to do.

“I can rig that up for you,” Frank said. “Won’t take me long. I can probably do it first thing tomorrow morning, since I’ve finished grading finals. Is that soon enough?”

“Yes,” I said, “but will I be able to find the equipment you’ll need by then?”

Frank chuckled. “You don’t need to buy anything. I think I can manage with what I have. If you decide at some later point that you want a permanent camera on the front door, then you can look into buying what you need.”

“I really appreciate this.” I knew better than to offer to pay him for his time and effort. Instead I would buy a couple of bottles of the wine he and Laura liked. They rarely bought it for themselves because of the expense. The bottles could be part of the Christmas presents I had already found for them.

“You know I don’t ever mind helping you out,” Frank said. “I’ll be there before you leave for the library in the morning.”

I thanked him again and ended the call. With that camera installed—if it did the job properly—I might soon have an answer to the question of the child’s identity.

One thought did strike me, however. The child had lurked around the living room windows, probably more than once, to see how the kittens were faring. I had to hope she wouldn’t be doing that tomorrow morning while Frank was here. I thought she was probably smart enough to figure out what he was doing, and that might scare her away.

Feeling better now that I had a plan to solve this one riddle, I found my mind irresistibly drawn toward another one. Who was Gerry Albritton? I would have accepted her at face value had it not been for Melba’s dogged insistence that Gerry was not really a part of the extended Albritton clan. According to Melba, it was a large clan, and I suspected there could be offshoots that Melba knew little about. Gerry could have belonged to one of those.

For some reason I suddenly thought of property records. They were public, available through the tax collector’s office. Even better, they were online, and I could easily search them to see whose name was on the deed to Gerry Albritton’s house. If Albritton was not her legal name, only an assumed one, then her legal one would be on the deed.

I grabbed my laptop and turned it on. Diesel stretched out on the sofa beside me, and I stroked him while I waited for the computer to boot up fully.

I typed in the URL for the county website and followed the links to the property database. Options for searching included the owner’s name, street address, and lot number. I used the street address. I certainly had no idea what the lot number was, and I didn’t know what name was on the deed.

The record popped up on the screen, and I scanned it quickly. My eyes focused on the name of the owner.

Well, looks like Melba was right after all.

The owner’s name was listed as Ronni Halliburton.