Six Cats A Slayin'

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.