Raining Cats and Cats: Cats & Crime

Chapter One

Lorilee

Like an ancient Indiana Jones, I crept slowly through palmetto, climbing fern, passionflower, and other native Florida plants. Unlike Jones, I wasn’t seeking treasure. I was looking for my part-time cat Bruiser, a recalcitrant, muscle-bound former tom with six toes on each front foot and the freebooting spirit of Captain Jack Sparrow.

Age, a damaged hip, a weak arm, poor hearing, and an unreliable sense of balance hindered my quest. Added to that on this morning was ground saturated by the fifth-largest hurricane ever to make landfall in the U.S. Though it had come and gone, the air still felt heavy, and moisture collected in my armpits and ran down my backbone as I swatted branches and leaves aside. I was more than uncomfortable, but I needed to find the old jerk and make sure he was okay.

Warned that we were directly in the path of Hurricane Ian, people in the greater Tampa area had braced for disastrous damage. A late turn sent the worst of the storm in a new direction, sparing us a little. We’d had plenty of hard rain and high winds. Tampa Bay had dropped alarmingly when a reverse storm surge sucked seven feet of water out to sea on Wednesday, only to send it back on Thursday.

When all that was over, we’d breathed a collective sigh of relief and returned to normal life. Stores opened again. School was scheduled to resume tomorrow. Agencies dedicated to doing good were mounting relief efforts for areas to the south that had been hit hard, such as Fort Myers Beach and Sanibel Island.

Bruiser had stayed inside during the worst of the storm, but as soon as the driving rain stopped, he’d sneaked out. At dusk the night before, I’d caught a glimpse of him sitting atop the low stone wall that fronted my property, sniffing the breeze with relish. I’d called from the patio but failed to lure him back inside. Fully aware that he was being naughty, he’d jumped off the wall and slunk out of sight.

When he hadn’t shown up by morning, my imagination took over. What if Bruiser had become disoriented in the mess the storm left behind? What if he’d been hit by a falling branch or sucked into turbid water?

And the storm-drenched landscape wasn’t the only threat. My neighbor, Mitzi Talbot, hated my cats and demanded they stay in the house. Bruiser, an accomplished escape artist, recognized no rules but his own, so he went pretty much anywhere he pleased. That made him an annoyance for me and a target for Mitzi and her ten-year-old son, Nasty Greg.

Two years earlier, when I started taking in stray cats, Mitzi had decided I was turning into a crazy cat lady. After enduring months of her gossiping about me and lying about my cats, I’d lost my temper and thrown a couple of clumps of dirt in an attempt to get her to leave my property. Mitzi’s response had been to sue me for attacking her. While the lawsuit was dismissed, I was ordered to complete an anger management course. Mitzi had bullied the homeowners’ association until they decreed I could keep the number of cats I had at the time, eight, but only if they stayed in the house.

In Mitzi’s tiny mind, she’d won, both in count and in the development. Furthermore, she believed that once the unpleasantness was over, we could again be the best of friends, which we’d never been. I’m not saying I’d unplug Mitzi’s life support to charge my phone, but I would definitely consider it.

While Mitzi sought my company almost daily, I avoided hers like she was the latest variant of the COVID virus. Since she’d appointed herself Monitor of Lorilee’s Cat Population, Bruiser’s love of the outdoors was a problem, even at times when we hadn’t recently suffered through a hurricane.

Mitzi believed she was meant to rule the world, and I envied every person she had never met.

With those dangers in mind, I’d put on my rubber boots and gone out to look for Bruiser. If he was being his usual, independent self, I’d try to tempt him back inside with treats and ear rubs. If he was in trouble, I’d do my best to help.

Pushing aside a palmetto branch that dumped its store of rainwater on my elbow, I called softly, Here kitty-kitty-kitty!

No meow. No flutter in the salvia leaves. Was he lying somewhere, hurt, maybe dying? What if he’d encountered Nasty Greg? If Mitzi’s kid hurts my cat, I’ll teach him that kneecaps are a privilege, not a right.

Let’s not dwell on the negative, Missus Riley. That was Gunter, my anger management coach. His voice remained in my head, though our twice-a-week sessions had ended some time ago. While I’d hated being ordered to take the course, I had to admit that Gunter provided helpful ways to cope with disagreeable people. Don’t let a situation escalate, he’d counseled. Peace requires less sarcasm and more silence.

The problem was that I liked sarcasm, and I was actually pretty good at it.

In order to please Gunter and abide my neighbors’ presence, I’d taught myself to say almost nothing when Mitzi started talking. To satisfy my need for retaliation, I formed cutting responses in my head. It worked pretty well, allowing me to appear to smile at Mitzi as I savored my clever but unspoken insults.

Finding no sign of Bruiser in the yard, I picked up some downed palm fronds and bits of detritus and tossed them into the wheelbarrow. On the patio side of the house, I got a chair out of the shed, where Jess had stored them so they wouldn’t become flying objects during the storm. Sitting down, I removed my boots and banged them together, sending chunks of mud flying in all directions. Once the sun dried things out a bit, I promised myself, I’d search for Bruiser again. At the moment, I had to see to the other cats.

Several of them waited in the kitchen with faintly accusing looks on their faces. Sorry breakfast is late, I told them. Blame your buddy Bruiser, who has no sense of responsibility to the rest of us.

I started in on my job as Provider of Sustenance, wet food for some, dry food for others, each in a bowl designated for them so I could keep track of quantities. One of my cats, Albert, had a weight problem, so I worked to keep him from finishing whatever the others left behind. It was a constant struggle, and Albert didn’t appreciate my efforts one bit.

Once everyone else was chowing down, I took a bowl of food and fresh water to the back bedroom, where my Siamese, Maew, slept. When I opened the closet door, I saw that she lay completely still. Too still to be breathing. Touching her, I found her stiff and cold. Maew was dead.

My first thought was that Jess would want to know.

After years of having no one to share my joys and sorrows with, a seventeen-year-old boy had become my ward and my friend. Despite Jess’ odd-colored hair and multiple face piercings, we’d bonded in our mutual fondness for cats. When I learned that he’d run away from an unhappy home, I’d arranged, with his parents’ reluctant permission, for Jess to live with me. We’d adjusted to each other fairly well, though I had fewer leftovers in the fridge with a growing boy in the house. It had taken me a while to remember there was another human being around. Cats don’t care how a person looks, but these days I tried to remember to comb my hair before leaving my bedroom, so I didn’t scare the poor kid.

Jess worked for the local veterinarian, Doctor Ahuja, and that morning, the two of them had gone to Fort Myers to rescue animals lost or abandoned in the storm. Knowing he’d want to know, I texted: Found Maew dead in her bed this a.m.

Almost immediately I got a return text. wht hpnd?

I replied with a question mark, and Jess texted a sad face, adding, hm by drk. It was natural for the boy to ask how Maew died, since Jess planned to become a veterinarian, but it wasn’t important to me. Cats can die suddenly due to heart, lung, or other organ failures. Since most of mine had a rough start in life, I was happy with whatever good time I could provide them, whether it was years, months, or even weeks. We’d seen no sign that Maew was in pain or distress, which I counted as a blessing. If I ran things, we’d all leave this world that way, in a comfortable bed, with our bellies full and our loved ones asleep nearby.

I would miss seeing Maew on the top shelf of the etagere, as still as a statue, watching Lesser Beings move about below her, but there were other cats in need of a forever home. I couldn’t do anything about it on a Sunday, but tomorrow I’d visit the shelter, and Jess and I would choose our next cat friend together.

Putting Maew in one of the biodegradable boxes I’d bought for the purpose, I took her outside, where I put my boots and raincoat back on, got a shovel from the tool shed, and approached my own personal pet cemetery.

After my husband died, I’d allowed the east side of my lawn to return to natural plants. It lessened the area I had to mow and allowed the environment a bit of its own back. In my jungle, I buried cats that crossed the Rainbow Bridge, adding a small marker with each one’s name etched on it. Tromping through the still-damp foliage, I chose a spot near the fence and began digging a hole at least two feet deep, as state law required.

By the time the hole was deep enough, my body was sore and my arms were shaking from effort. To give myself a break, I did another circuit of the yard, rubbing my back and looking for Bruiser’s tracks in the rain-moistened flower beds. Along the fence, I pushed aside azalea and angel’s trumpet branches to see if the old boy was hiding behind a bush. No sign of the jerk.

The sun had burned away the clouds, and its warmth felt good on my shoulders. Still, I was sad about losing Maew and scared about Bruiser’s absence. I wondered if I dared sneak around the fence and do a quick search for him in the Talbots’ yard. It was still early, so they might not be out and about yet.

That’s when I heard Mitzi Talbot talking on the phone. She sounded dramatic, as always, but for once the situation was neither imaginary nor self-inflicted.

I know it’s Sunday, but I’ve got to talk to Mr. Avery, she said forcefully. My son is at the police station, and I’m afraid they’re going to arrest him.

I confess that my first thought was that they’d finally caught Nasty Greg being nasty. Good. He’ll get what’s coming to him.

Her next words ended thoughts of revenge—I mean, justice—for me and my cats. Chris would never do what they’re saying. I need to reach Mr. Avery— Mitzi’s voice broke. "Tell him to please, please call me as soon as he can."

I heard sobs, a vigorous nose-blowing, more sobs, and then the rumble of a sliding door. She’d gone back inside.

Chris Talbot was in police custody? That was interesting, but I had a job to get done.

Going back to the hole I’d dug, I set the box at the bottom, said goodbye to Maew, and filled it in. I made one more circle through the jungle before going back inside, achieving nothing but more mud on my boots.

As I hung up my rain gear, I thought about what I’d overheard. I didn’t know Mitzi’s older son very well, though he seemed to be the opposite of his little brother. Where Greg was outspoken, Chris was silent—sulky, even. While Greg was always on the lookout for new ways to get into trouble, Chris spent his free time in the driveway, working on an old Chevelle he’d bought. His greatest sin, according to neighbor Art Fusilli, was disturbing our peaceful neighborhood on the weekends by inviting his friends over to drink beer at our dead end.

The Selwyn Oaks Housing Development sat along the edge of Cole Swamp. At one time the street had gone into the wetland for about a quarter mile, but to prevent trash dumping, local authorities had installed sturdy posts and a large mound of dirt, making Buckley Lane a cul-de-sac. My house was the last residence, with the wetland on its east. The Talbots lived west of me, the Fusillis across the street. The lane had been widened to a circle at the end, so vehicles had room to turn around at the barrier. Local teens had discovered that the small circle made a convenient, fairly private, place to meet. Art blamed Chris for that.

Chris and his friends had begun parking their cars at the turnaround on Saturday nights, pointed out in case they needed to make a fast getaway. They disable the security light, roll down their windows, and turn up the music so they can dance or jam or whatever they call it these days, Art had told me. Of course there was beer, and it got pretty loud.

For me, with hearing loss and a bedroom at the back of the house, the parties had never been a problem. Art had tired of the noise, not to mention the beer cans and trash left behind, and being Bryan Talbot’s boss, had demanded that Bryan and Mitzi call a halt to Chris’ partying. As far as I knew, Art got his way.

If Chris was at the police station, I guessed he’d been caught with alcohol, maybe driving drunk. End of story, as far as I was concerned. I had a dead cat and a missing cat to think about, so the problems of a teenage rebel didn’t amount to a hill of coffee beans.

To cheer myself up, I decided to make a batch of shortbread. I set up the mixer, which resulted in plenty of interest. Callie, my calico, perched on a Colonial-style dinette chair, watching as if to judge my baking skills. Special Ed, a gray with gold eyes and not a lick of common sense, sat next to his dish, in case I decided to provide more of his favorite food, CatPow. May and her kitten Mayson posed like bookends in the kitchen doorway, the only difference between them Mayson’s missing eye. Fat Albert and Professor Higgins slept on chairs by the sunny living room window, as usual. It took a lot to move those two from their favorite spots.

What sort of new friend would you like? I asked as I mixed butter and vanilla. Do we want young or old? Friendly or in need of understanding? As the mixer spun slowly, I added sugar, then flour. Jess says Doctor Ahuja has rescued quite a few from that awful hurricane.

Nobody responded, but I knew they’d be fine with whatever Jess and I decided. Well, the Professor wouldn’t be, but he hates everyone.

That evening I watched the local news, which is about all the news I could stand to know. As I munched on shortbread, which had turned out perfectly, I learned that Mitzi Talbot’s trouble with her son was much worse than some drunken teenager’s stunt.

Tragedy today in the town of Linville, southeast of Tampa. A car pulled from Heron Lake was found to have the body of Linville teen Ricky Fulmer inside. Police are still investigating the incident, but