Cat House: Crazy Cat Lady cozy mysteries, #10

Other Books by Mollie Hunt

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Crazy Cat Lady Mysteries

Cats’ Eyes

Copy Cats

Cat’s Paw

Cat Call

Cat Café

Cat Noel

Cosmic Cat

Cat Conundrum

Adventure Cat

Cat’s Play

Cat House

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The Tenth Life Cozy Mysteries

Ghost Cat of Ocean Cove

Ghost Cat on the Midway

Ghost Cat at the Mystery Hotel

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Cat Seasons Sci-Fantasy Tetralogy

Cat Summer

Cat Winter

Cat Autumn

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There’s a Cat Hair in My Mask: How Cats Helped Me through Unprecedented Times - A Memoir

Dedication

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This book is dedicated to the FIP Warriors and their families; to all the scientists and doctors who are working to find cures for horrendous diseases like feline infectious peritonitis; and to the people like you and me who can help, dollar by dollar, to fund the necessary research to get this done.

Acknowledgements

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Sincere thanks to Peter Cohen, founder of ZenByCat, a nonprofit dedicated to raising both awareness and money to help fight against FIP and save cat’s lives. Peter is also the owner of the most catified home in California, House of Nekko.

Thanks also to Leslie Cobb for her story of Otis (Otis the Alien, as his 6000 Facebook followers call him) and his journey through FIP treatment. If it hadn’t been for her encouragement to include a storyline with a cat being treated for FIP, this would have been a different book.

You can read more about both Otis and Peter in the afterword.

Three young men had gone missing from the Seattle-Portland corridor over the previous two months. The police had no clues and nothing to tie the victims to each other aside from their age—early twenties. There had been no ransom notes, no signs of a struggle. Nothing had been stolen from their homes. They were there one day, business as usual, and the next day they were gone. No one heard from them; there was no activity on credit cards or cell phones. Abducted by aliens or nefarious humans? It was still anyone’s guess.

Chapter 1

The term Crazy Cat Lady can carry an offensive connotation, but it can also be a term of endearment between cat people. And by the way, there are Crazy Cat Men as well.

*  *  *

I’d walked by that strange little house a hundred times—the boxy front yard populated with plaster gnomes and fairies, the dream catchers floating from the eaves. Wind chimes jangled in discordant tattoos—bamboo, pipe, and glass. Those oddities had caught my eye, but what held it were the cats.

In the front window, they lounged on perches and in cat trees. Within the safety of a small covered catio even more prowled and jumped. Sometimes I’d try to count them but would get stuck when the black one would disappear behind a cushion, only to reappear as twins, or the tuxedo would turn in his bed, revealing a whole new cat underneath. Yes, there was a reason why the locals called the resident of 59th and Main a crazy cat lady.

My name is Lynley Cannon, and I’ve been tagged with that moniker a few times myself. More than a few, to be honest. As a single woman in her sixties with nine cats in my home, I saw how someone might draw that conclusion.

Dirty Harry was the oldest, quickly approaching the big seventeen. Black floofy Tinkerbelle was getting up there as well, but you’d never know it by her activity level. She, Little, and Emilio were my black cat trio, and when they curled up together, they looked like a black hole in space. Shy Big Red and gorgeous Hermione were tabbies, as was Elizabeth, my wobbly cat. Violet was gray and white and shaped like a beachball. Mab, the youngest of the group, was a purebred Siamese.

So, the cat woman part I readily accepted—it was the crazy part that gave me pause. I’m not crazy, at least not yet.

So who was this kindred soul, this rival for the status of cat lady living around the block from me? I’d never met her, never even seen her, but that was about to change.

It started with an ad on the Friends of Felines bulletin board from someone looking for a cat sitter. I’m not sure why her flyer caught my eye—it was in no way distinctive, a paragraph of text in a plain black font, and two photos. One was a picture of cats, at least six of them, all lined up on a stark white sofa. The other was of a house I recognized—the Cat House 59th and Main.

On a whim, I’d answered. I don’t know what drove me to do it. I wasn’t looking for a job. I suppose it had been curiosity. Like the cat in the age-old proverb, curiosity was my downfall, and as with that unfortunate feline, the only thing that will satisfy the itch is to jump in feet first. Too many times I’ve thrown caution to the wind in order to discover who, what, or why.

But this was only a little cat sitting gig—the chance of misfortune was slim, or so I’d thought. The fact that the flyer had been up on the bulletin board for over a month with no takers should have served as a warning.

Chapter 2

The best way to keep your cats happy is to provide them with an Environment of Plenty. In other words, ensure they have enough food stations, water bowls, beds, hidey-holes, climbers, and toys for all to enjoy without squabbling.

*  *  *

My questions about cat sitting for Darla of 59th and Main Street would be answered soon enough—I was set to meet the infamous cat lady later that day. She’d told me very little in her brief text, but that was okay. She’d been gracious, polite, and used punctuation, all of which I considered a good sign. How much could one really say in a text anyhow? Better face to face where a two-way conversation could bring enlightenment without the considerable use of thumbs.

In the meantime, I was at my kitchen sink, rinsing a few dishes and wondering if I should change out of my daywear sweats into something less casual. What would be appropriate for a cat-sitting interview? A cat-themed sweater? Cat-patterned socks? I figured my sparkly cat ears might be a bit much, but who knew, when the person I was meeting kept a bevy of gnomes in her front yard?

I was coming to the conclusion I was overthinking the issue when I caught movement outside my window. Glancing up, I started. A large sunflower was making its way across my back yard. It disappeared onto the patio, and I heard a tap on my back door.

Drying my hands, I adjusted my glasses, briefly wondering if I had been seeing things. When I opened the door to the tall, stately plant, I was reassured.

Hi, Lynley, said the flower, raising its leaves and flashing a wide smile. What do you think? Am I not a resplendent Helianthus?

If that means sunflower, then yes, Fredric, you are all that and more.

I stood back as the young man in the flower costume shuffled inside. The green tubing that sheathed his body from neck to feet inhibited his usually assertive stride, and he stumbled.

Shoot! I heard him mumble as he righted himself. Still needs a few modifications, I guess.

I’d say so. I closed the door and followed him into the kitchen. If you plan to do any walking, that is.

He bent over and hiked the skirt up to his knees. You’re right about that. Seleia’s got me passing out flyers for the play at the All-Hallows fête.

"Well, I suppose you could plant yourself in one spot and hand them out from there." I laughed at my pun, and so did Fredric.

Fredric Delarosa, my granddaughter Seleia’s beau, may have been a few generations younger than me, but we were kindred spirits just the same. When not dressed as a sunflower, he was a tall young man, good looking and getting more so as he aged. Dusky-red hair, hazel eyes, with always an easy smile, caused me to worry at first that his bright disposition was a façade, acquired in the film business he’d grown up around, but over time it had proven genuine. He was a confident, intelligent, outgoing person, and I was happy to have him as a friend.

I was equally pleased he lived in the vintage duplex across the street from me and was willing to help an older woman in times of need. My big Victorian house sometimes proved more than I could manage alone. Fredric had fixed the fence, pruned the wisteria, installed air conditioning during the unbearably hot summer, and more. Knowing there was someone who was able to do the things I couldn’t was a great relief.

Hopefully it doesn’t rain, he commented, continuing to adjust his costume.

This is Portland, Fredric. It always rains on Halloween. It’s tradition.

There are exceptions to every rule, Lynley, the young man retorted. Maybe this will be one.

I finished rinsing the last few dishes, pulled out the rubber plug—yes, my sink is that old—and watched the water slurp down the drain. How’s the play coming? Seleia won’t tell me anything. She says she wants it to be a surprise.

Well! Very well. Seleia’s a natural for the part of Hermia. She says she’s never acted before, but that can’t be true.

It is. I thought about my granddaughter through her nineteen years growing up—I was there every step of the way. And I would know.

Fredric rolled up his leafy sleeves and pushed back the sunflower hoodie. Is she around?

She’s in the studio with Carol. They’re working on posters.

Fredric raised an eyebrow. Your mother is helping?

Sure. Carol did set design back in the day. She’s quite an artist, though she only does it for fun.

Huh, Fredric muttered. I had no idea.

Just because she’s eighty-five doesn’t mean she’s past it.

That wasn’t what I meant. It’s just that I never pictured Carol as the creative type. Mostly all she and her roommate talk about are food and old detective series reruns.

I sighed. You have a point there.

Well, I’m going to find Seleia. I want her to check out my costume. She’ll be the final judge, of course.

Fredric headed for the studio, the place I’d outfitted to do my miscellaneous projects. Living as the only human in a fourteen-room house had allowed me to turn extra bedrooms into whatever I pleased. A place where I could spread out and be creative had been second on the list—first on the list was making the environment friendly for my cats.

Speaking of cats, I noted several pairs of eyes tracking my movement as I followed Fredric through the house. Furry heads rose momentarily, then sank back onto paws and breasts as if we weren’t worthy of disturbing an afternoon nap.

Fredric’s here, I called ahead.

Seleia poked her head out of the studio, pleasure flashing across her face like a light. She gave the boy a chaste peck on the cheek, appropriate for the family audience, then led him into the big room with a giggle of glee.

A wall of shelves stocked with art and craft items, a cupboard full of paints, and a big drafting table made it the perfect place to follow whatever creative whim might come, and that current whim was an array of brightly painted signs in various states of production. Vividly colored text read: A Brief Snippet of A Mid-Autumn Night’s Dream, by Kiefer Clark with a nod to William Shakespeare—a catchy title for the parody of the master’s work, rewritten by a local playwright who by no coincidence was also the director.

Wow! both Fredric and I exclaimed as our gaze swept the collection.

Well? posed a small, aged figure with a paint brush in her hand and a streak of purple running from her tight gray curls to her wrinkled cheek—my mother Carol. What do you think?

Carol Mackay may have been in her mid-eighties, and surely she looked it, but no one had told her spirit, which bloomed with vibrance and enthusiasm. The way she smiled at me now, purple not included, was more like that of a roguish teen than a woman past a certain age.

Nicely done! If these don’t inspire people to come to the show, nothing will.

Carol slipped out from behind the drawing board and gave Seleia a little sideways hug. We make a good team, don’t we, dear?

We certainly do! I couldn’t have done it without you, Granna.

I should hope not! my mother retorted with shameless egotism.

Two larger placards of a different theme caught my eye. Who are the Terrace Traders?

That’s me, Carol said. Or I should say, that’s us. A group from the Terrace rented a booth at the Hawthorne All-Hallows Fête.

A booth? I tried to imagine what a bunch of old folks from my mother’s assisted living facility would sell in a booth.

Why not? Make some extra cash? We’re all on fixed incomes, you know.

I happened to know they weren’t, since the monthly rent at the Terrace was more than anyone’s social security check alone could handle, but I didn’t balk.

Just kidding, love. We’re actually planning to give most of it to your cat shelter, for the cats.

Oh, I exclaimed, knowing Friends of Felines would appreciate the gift, even though it might only be a few pennies. That’s great. Thanks for thinking of us.

We’re really quite an innovative bunch. Everything for sale will be handmade—silk flowers, Christmas decorations, afghans, soaps and lotions, a bit of pottery...

I get the idea, I interrupted before she could list their entire inventory. I suppose you’ll need help setting it up.

That would be wonderful, dear. I appreciate your volunteering.

Carol’s eyes swept past me to Fredric, and her brows furrowed. What are you wearing, young man?

It’s my Halloween costume. He adjusted the sleeves and replaced the yellow-petaled headpiece. I’m a sunflower, he stated unnecessarily.

Of course you are, said Carol. Forgive me for not seeing it before. But you’ll have to do something about those legs, she tut-tutted. Flowers don’t have knobby white knees.

Fredric glanced down self-consciously. There’s more stem, but it makes it hard to walk so I rolled it up, he defended. Knobby? Really?

I think they’re just fine, Seleia put in, but Carol’s right—they don’t really work with the rest of the costume. Maybe green tights?

And what are you going as? I asked Seleia.

She skipped over to a tote on the sideboard and pulled out an elaborate headdress with furry orange and black stripes and black antennae draped with a veil of Spanish lace. Plopping it on her head, she turned back.

I’m the bee.

Ah, the flower and the bee!

At least she’s the bee and not the flower, I thought to myself, still protective of my sweet granddaughter’s innocence. Though the girl was in her second year at college, to me she would always be a child.

I was about to make some tea, I put in. Can I entice you hard workers into a cup?

Perfect, Carol replied. It’s time for a break, right after Seleia and I clean up.

I’ll wash out the brushes, Seleia offered.

And I’ll supervise. Carol winked. You two go on. We’ll meet you in the living room.

Fredric and I left Seleia and Carol to their chore and went back to the kitchen where Fredric gathered tea things on a tray as I prepared the pot. I chose genmaicha as I knew everyone liked the Japanese green brew. By the time Fredric carried the tray through to the living room, Seleia was already settled on the loveseat with Dirty Harry, the eldest of my clowder. Carol had taken the easy chair and was swiping through her phone.

She frowned as she paused to read something. There’s been another one.

I poured tea into a squat blue cup with a cat face design and took it over to her. Another what?

Another boy gone missing. That’s the third. The news people are now saying the disappearances must be related.

They aren’t really boys, Mum, I corrected as I set the cup on the side table. They’re in their twenties, aren’t they?

Carol gave me a look. Men, boys, all the same. Whatever you want to call them, it’s a crying shame.

I thought they were runaways, said Fredric, pouring his own cup and inhaling the warm fragrance. Guys who just took off for whatever reason.

They don’t think so. Carol scrolled a bit farther. There’s too much evidence that they’ve been taken. Is no one safe anymore?

But who would do such a thing? queried Seleia, suddenly looking like the little girl she used to be. And why?

Carol and I were silent, the unspoken acknowledgement that women vanish all the time, while men are rarely a target.

Then Carol turned to Fredric who had gone to sit with Seleia. Her face grew dark as she studied the man.

You’d better be careful, dear, she said in an ill-omened tone. We wouldn’t want you to be next.

Chapter 3

Affectionately known as Cat on Lap Syndrome, it’s the predicament of not being able to get up and do something because the cat has taken to sitting on one’s lap and we dare not disturb him.

*  *  *

With all the bad things going on in the world, I sometimes wondered if it would ever stop. This recent spate of abductions came way too close to home. Wars in foreign countries, even political affairs and climate change seemed so very far away from my cozy little neighborhood in southeast Portland, Oregon, but the three missing men had me worried. Thankfully no one had turned up dead. At least not yet.

I shook myself out of my morbid contemplation. I had other things to think about. It was nearly five o’clock, the time I’d agreed to meet my new cat-sitting client in the house around the corner. Though I’d cared for numerous cats, my own as well as other people’s, I had never worked as an official paid cat sitter before. Still, I was confident I could handle it. I’d been volunteering in the Friends of Felines cattery for many years and taken classes in everything from litter box issues to chronic diseases. I’d even completed an online cat first-aid course for which I received a certification. The first rule, don’t panic, would apply in just about any emergency, but hopefully none of the Cat House cats would require such ministrations.

What would they be like—those numerous felines I’d spied through the window? How many were there? Seven? Ten? More? Darla hadn’t mentioned it in her text. But then she hadn’t mentioned a lot of things.

Our communication had been brief:

Me: Hello. My name is Lynley Cannon. I’m inquiring about your notice on the FOF bulletin board for a cat sitter.

Her: Thank you for contacting me. Can you come to my house and meet the crew at 5:15 pm Tuesday? Address on the flyer.

Me: Yes, I can do that. Is there anything I should know?

Her: We’ll talk then.

Me: Wait—what’s your name?

Her: Darla.

And that was it. Was she busy or was it a personal affectation? As the clock pinged five pm, I realized I would soon find out.

I shouldn’t be long, I