Claw & Disorder Read online

  This was more information than I needed, but it did tell me something important—and heartbreaking. These animals were family to Bernice, and probably to Chester, as well. It would be hard to persuade them to give up any of their pets, at least the indoor ones. And unfortunately, those were the ones affecting Bernice’s health.

  Even as she talked to me, gaining energy and enthusiasm from the subject, she began to punctuate every third or fourth sentence with a cough. When she finally paused for breath, Sarah interrupted, “Bernice, do you need your inhaler? Is it nearby?”

  The older woman scanned the bedding, the afghan, the cats and the top of the nightstand, as if trying to remember. Then she opened the nightstand drawer to rummage through many small items inside. Finally she pulled out the bright-yellow, L-shaped device, shook it in a practiced way, put one end in her mouth and breathed deeply.

  I didn’t know a lot about asthma, but I had heard that the sufferers weren’t supposed to rely on inhalers too heavily. This was only a temporary fix; Bernice couldn’t go on living in these conditions much longer.

  “Have all of your cats been spayed or neutered?” I asked her. “It’s really important that they don’t go on having kittens.”

  The woman on the bed shrugged. “The house cats are. We got ’em done a couple of years ago. The ones that go in and out, though, you can’t catch ’em long enough to get ’em to a vet.”

  That’s where FOCA might be able to help, I thought. “I know some people who are really good at trapping feral cats and getting them fixed,” I told her.

  Bernice’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And then they’ll take them away.”

  “No, they can bring them back here. They did it a couple of months ago at a condo community. It’s called trap-neuter-return. The only difference would be that the colony wouldn’t get out of control.”

  For confirmation, Bernice glanced at Sarah, who nodded. “It’s true. They’re good people. They have a shelter in Chadwick, and Cassie and I work with them a lot.”

  “Do you want me to talk to them about it?” I prodded.

  Bernice gathered Winky protectively against her bosom, even though his anatomy no longer required altering. “I’ll . . . think about it.”

  “Good.” While she was making up her mind, I’d run the idea by my two FOCA buddies, Becky Newmeyer and Chris Eberhardt, to make sure they could take on the project. Maybe if Bernice and Chester got to know them, I eventually might bring up the subject of taking some of the indoor animals to the shelter.

  For the next half hour or so, I helped Robin and Sarah in their Herculean task of de-junking the Tillman house. The hardest part was convincing the owners that their endless “treasures” had no real value to anyone. Sarah took on the thankless job of going through the plastic file boxes of audiotapes and videotapes with Chester, and trying to get him to dispose of some of them. Once I overheard him arguing with her that those things were “his past.”

  I asked Robin, toiling near me in the kitchen, what he meant by that.

  “Chester had a local radio show for a while—he was a sportscaster. He interviewed some baseball and basketball stars, and I guess some of his shows may be on those tapes. But they can’t all be that memorable, and anyway, who plays cassettes these days?” She paused beneath a half-emptied upper cabinet. “He had a very interesting career. Started out as an equipment manager for some baseball team, made connections, became an announcer and worked his way into radio.”

  “He told you all of this?” I felt just a little skeptical that a guy with so much energy and talent would end up living in his present conditions.

  “One of their neighbors, Bob Smiley, told me. He’s one of the only friends who still visits them. He was here once when I came by, and got Chester talking about his past. I guess that’s how Chester got most of this memorabilia—from his connection with sports figures.” Robin sighed. “He must have had a lot on the ball, in those days. Such a shame, when someone’s mind goes like that.”

  I agreed. “Does he often get you confused with his daughter?”

  “It happens now and then. Maybe I do resemble her a little, who knows? Sylvia lives in Chicago now, and he hasn’t seen her in maybe six or seven years, so it’s no wonder if he forgets exactly what she looks like.” Robin checked the expiration date on ajar of peanut butter, grimaced and consigned it to the trash bag. “Can’t say I have a very high opinion of either of their kids. Jimmy’s in Florida, has a family, runs a construction company. They send money, but they don’t want to get their hands dirty, I guess. Really, they should be dealing with this situation, not us at First Baptist.”

  I dampened a paper towel and used it to clean up some flour that had spilled onto the kitchen counter. “Chester made it sound as if social services has been by. Do they help at all?”

  “The county offers a meal program, and they arranged for a doctor to see Bernice about her medical problems. I took Chester to the optometrist last week, and I’ll be picking up his new glasses for him tomorrow. Beyond that, though, it’s hard to help people who don’t really want help. If there were more neighbors nearby, and the house got so bad that they complained to the town, I guess that might be different—the county might see it as more urgent.”

  Around three, Robin, Sarah and I decided we had accomplished as much as we could for the present. We reminded both of the Tillmans of the meals stockpiled in their refrigerator and made sure we left a clear path to the microwave. Finally we said goodbye to Bernice, Chester, and any cats that happened to be present at the time.

  Sarah turned the lock on the front door before pulling it shut behind us. “A lot of good this will do. Chester will probably leave the back door propped open for the strays. He thinks they should be able to get in out of the rain.”

  That sounded risky to me, too—for an elderly and disabled couple to leave their house open to anyone who might be passing by. On the other hand, they were off the beaten path, and it wasn’t as if they lived in a McMansion.

  Robin pretty much voiced the same thoughts. “I guess as long as a raccoon or a skunk doesn’t get in, it won’t do any harm. After all, the way this place looks from the outside, who’d break in? It sure doesn’t look like there’s anything to steal!”

  Chapter 4

  Early Tuesday morning, I drove up to a much different residence, not far from downtown Chadwick. Set close to the road, it was built of brown bricks, irregular and weathered-looking on one half and newer and more uniform on the other. Even I could tell, with my limited knowledge of architecture, that the smaller, plainer section must date back to around 1800, and the newer one closer to the mid-nineteenth century. Thick gray shingles on the steeply slanting roof, and white trim around the main entry and the many small windows, added to the antique character.

  I parked my six-year-old Honda CR-V at the curb. That day I hadn’t brought my grooming van, since I was picking up only one cat and bringing her right back to my shop. Just as well, because another white van already occupied the driveway. It faced the street, with the back doors open toward the house. As I watched, a slim young man with collar-length brown hair lifted out two large, rustic-looking jars. He hustled them toward the propped-open front door, as if they might explode before he got them into the house.

  The side of the van bore a logo with the initials LF, framed in a lacy green border, above the cursive words Linda Freeman, Interior Design.

  Well, Gillian had warned me that the process of refurnishing the house for the reception would already be underway when I arrived. I just hoped she had corralled Leya someplace safe in the meantime.

  I climbed a couple of steps onto the low front porch and paused there. From somewhere inside, a woman called out, “Robert, those vases go in the dining room. The dried plants are already on the table—can you put them in for me?”

  I detected a note of banked hysteria and didn’t want to get in their way. On the other hand, I needed someone to point me toward the cat I was supposed to pick
up. While I loitered in confusion, a figure in a white T-shirt and black yoga pants backed out of a doorway to my right, her gaze still fixed on something in that room. We collided, and she wheeled around with a look of terror. It faded as soon as she saw my face.

  “Oh, sorry!” She laughed in relief. “I didn’t know anyone else was . . .”

  “That’s okay,” I assured her. “I can see you’re very busy.”

  “Very,” she admitted, but with a small smile. “Can I help you?”

  I introduced myself and explained my presence. “I guess you’re Linda Freeman?”

  “I am.” The woman’s pretty, oval face relaxed a bit. She looked in her mid-thirties and wore no makeup. But the way she’d pulled her dark hair into an artsy, practical topknot, and rattled off instructions to the young man toting the vases, suggested professional expertise.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the cat,” she told me with a shrug. “You’d have to ask Gillian. Or maybe her daughter, Whitney, if she’s around . . .”

  The young man returned and hovered near Linda’s elbow, awaiting further instructions. Linda introduced him as her assistant, Robert. Crisply, she told him, “Get the quilt. That goes in the living room. The rod’s already mounted.”

  She nodded toward the doorway from which she had just come. Through it, I could glimpse a brick fireplace with an aged-looking wooden surround, a faded Oriental carpet and a couple of mismatched wing chairs.

  Robert headed outside again at a brisk clip.

  I told Linda, “It’s like watching a stage crew set up for a play.”

  “Yes, and almost that crazy. We put so many of the Fosters’ things in storage, while the walls and floors were being redone. Now we have to move them all back in.”

  The floors were impressive, I had to admit. Wide oak planks, no doubt original, had been expertly refinished to show off the fine grain and knotholes.

  “We’ll bring most of the big pieces back today, and tomorrow we’ll add the accessories—Gillian has a lot of those,” Linda continued. “It’s going to look wonderful when it’s all together, though. I hope the historical society folks will be impressed.”

  “They’re coming to the reception Friday?”

  “Yes, along with some other bigwigs from the town.”

  I decided I liked Linda. On the one hand, she seemed to take her design work seriously. On the other, from the way she tossed off this comment, I sensed she wasn’t as overawed by the local officials as her client seemed to be.

  Finally, I saw Gillian heading our way from the rear of the house, most likely the kitchen. She wore navy-blue cropped pants this time, with a navy-and-white striped tee and white Top-Sider shoes; the outfit would have been perfect on a yacht. Her stern expression, though, made me hesitate to ask where I might find Leya. Linda, next to me, also stiffened her spine, and I suddenly understood why she’d overreacted earlier when she’d bumped into me.

  Robert picked that unlucky moment to come in the front door carrying a large, clear-plastic blanket bag.

  Gillian dove at him like a hawk. “Don’t tell me you’ve had that antique quilt stored for all of these weeks in plastic. What on earth were you thinking?” She grabbed the package from his hands.

  Linda tried to mediate. “Gillian, it’s okay. It was in a climate-controlled environment, so it wasn’t exposed to any moisture.”

  Her client rudely turned her back, brought the bag to a chair near a sunny window, unzipped it, and began to examine the quilt inch by inch for signs of damage.

  Linda rejoined me and Robert near the doorway. She let out a puff of breath and, while Gillian was so intensely occupied, threw us a secret, apologetic glance.

  I didn’t think she was the one who needed to apologize, but it wasn’t my place to interfere. Now I wanted even more desperately to get Leya and whisk us both out of Gillian’s orbit; at the same time, I didn’t have the nerve to interrupt her at the moment.

  Apparently the star-patterned quilt was fine—big surprise—so Gillian turned her attention to micromanaging the way Robert draped it over the wooden dowel, already fastened horizontally to one wall. (“Fold it over a third of the way. That will keep it in place, but you’ll still be able to see three rows of the stars.”) Meanwhile I lingered in suspense, telling myself that Sarah would have opened our shop by now. She knew I was running this errand, but might wonder why it was taking so long. A little hard to explain that I’d been too afraid of our client to ask where I could find her cat.

  Or maybe not. After all, Sarah had met Gillian.

  “Can I help you?” asked a quiet voice behind me.

  I turned to face a teenaged girl whose blond head came just a little past my shoulder. She had wide gray eyes, a slightly chunky figure, and wore casual riding clothes—a pink polo shirt, buff breeches and short brown boots.

  “Hi, I’m Cassie McGlone.” Linda mentioned the daughter’s name . . . What was it? “Are you Whitney?”

  When she nodded, I explained my dilemma.

  “Yeah, Mom told me to keep an eye out for you. C’mon back. Leya’s in the guest bedroom.”

  I followed Whitney past a small family room, also only half-furnished. The Little House on the Prairie clan might consider it the height of luxury, but it looked pretty Spartan for a modern, upscale family living in suburban New Jersey. The floor was herringbone brick, with a handwoven colonial rug spread in front of the soot-blackened fireplace; a wooden rocker with what looked like a hard-carved back stood nearby. Of course, some more furniture might still be coming, but I didn’t see any likely spot to hang a big-screen TV.

  Trying to be tactful, I commented to Whitney, “Your mother has certainly gone to a lot of trouble to restore the house authentically, hasn’t she?”

  The girl snorted. “You could say that. It’s been, like, our whole lives the past couple of years.”

  She stopped before a door on our left and cautiously cracked it open a couple of inches. “Le-ya,” she singsonged, “somebody’s here to see you! She’s gonna take you away from all this craziness.”

  We eased into the room so the cat couldn’t sprint past us, but she was nowhere in sight. In the meantime, I took in the home’s guest accommodations, the strangest spectacle so far.

  The room was small, with sage-green wainscoting around the lower walls; above hung some framed needlework of old-time adages. The sentiments included: He is the happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home, by Goethe, and A guest has not to thank the host, but the host the guest, uncredited. The top of a scarred black chest of drawers displayed a collection of antique, ankle-high shoes, most of them child size.

  But most extremely authentic was the guest bed—single size, with a rope mattress! I could tell this because the thick ropes threaded through the sides of the frame. Another patchwork quilt had been partially turned down to reveal linens that might have been tea-dyed, for a sense of age, but just looked stained. And against the pillows rested the saddest-looking doll I’d ever seen—hand-stitched together from homespun cloth, its stuffed head just a beige, blank egg shape.

  I’ve heard people joke that they didn’t want their guest room too comfortable, or visitors might stay too long. But this is ridiculous!

  Whitney didn’t notice my appalled reaction, since she had dropped to her knees next to the bed. I knew she’d found Leya because she baby-talked for a few more minutes before pulling her out of hiding. One advantage to a bed that narrow, I supposed—the cat could never get too far out of reach.

  I spotted a large, hard-sided pet carrier near the window and brought it over. Although Leya squirmed and complained a bit while we loaded her in, I could see she was a stunning animal. A Himalayan basically has a Persian body with Siamese coloring, and she was cream with chocolate-brown points (legs, tail, face mask and ears). Her abundant fur looked in good condition, in spite of how long she might have been cowering under the bed.

  “I’ll miss you, sweetie,” Whitney cooed through the
front grill of the carrier. Straightening up again, she asked me about my business and seemed intrigued by the idea of working with animals for a living. “How long are you supposed to keep Leya?”

  “Only a few days. Your mother told me to bring her back for the reception.”

  “Of course. Mom’ll want to show her off, even if the poor cat would probably be happier hiding in here.” The girl chuckled under her breath. “Probably the only creature who ever would be comfortable in here.”

  I hesitated to criticize my client’s taste, even to her daughter. “I guess beds like this were good enough for people for hundreds of years.”

  “Centuries of backaches—that’s why somebody invented actual mattresses. And wouldn’t you just expect that creepy doll to come alive some night and kill you in your sleep?” Whitney shuddered. “Those shoes, too! I call them the Dead Orphans Memorial. Makes Mom furious, but Dad had a laugh over it.”

  “Only four kids. Maybe it was a family.” I pointed to one larger pair of lace-ups at the end of the row. “Those belonged to the Nanny.”

  “I still say it’s ghoulish. She didn’t do my room like this. I wouldn’t have it, so mine won’t be on Friday’s tour. I’ve got one antique print, of a lady jumping sidesaddle in a hunt, but that’s it.”

  With a glance at her outfit, I said, “You ride, I presume.”

  Her round face brightened for the first time. “I’ve got a thoroughbred mare, Glory Days. I board her at a hunter-jumper stable just a couple of miles down the road. She’s doing real well; we’ll probably be in a couple of shows this summer.”

  Whitney reminded me to take along a few cans of Leya’s food, plus Gillian’s list of demands—er, recommendations— for the cat’s care, and we made our way back to the kitchen. I was relieved to see at least one concession to modern convenience in that area: the high-end AGA range almost looked colonial, but probably could launch a spaceship. I didn’t spot either a refrigerator or a dishwasher, but no doubt those lurked behind some of the cream-painted, expertly distressed cabinetry.