The Cat Between Read online

  “I’m beginning to see a pattern,” she murmured. “You make me feel selfish.”

  “Oh, it’s a reality check, having kids. It starts when they’re born and you realize how helpless they are. And you can’t help it. I couldn’t anyway—apart from my addiction—I wanted to do everything for them. You’ll see.”

  Gerry flushed, wondering how she’d ever get to the point of having children when she was alone on Valentine’s. They’d reached the dairy aisle, and as she took her two-litre carton of milk, small sour cream and 300-gram package of cheese, she joked, “Don’t tell me: a sack of milk, a tub of yogurt and a giant cheese.”

  Doug said nothing, just swung first one then another four-litre sack of milk into his cart, to which he added four four-packs of fruity yogurts and two immense slabs of cheese. “They each put about a cup of grated cheese on their pasta, besides eating tuna melts for in-between meal snacks.”

  “Growing boys,” Gerry remarked respectfully, praying her future kids would include at least one girl. Then, as they passed the pasta and toilet paper and Doug continued to load his cart, she rather tactlessly blurted out, “Doug, however do you afford it?”

  He froze and looked down at the cart. “Andrew has been very good. He used to give Margaret money. And now she’s not at home, he gives it to me. For the boys. He says, as he probably won’t have any kids, these are as close as he’s going to get.”

  He looked so humble and dejected that Gerry felt her throat swell with emotion. This made her nose fill up and she had to use the wretched tissue again. In desperation, she reached for the closest box of tissues, tore it open and thankfully extracted two fresh tissues. She blew. Then, as if nothing had occurred, she selected her four bananas and two large oranges in silence as Doug chose two bunches of bananas, a bag of apples and another bag of the cheapest oranges.

  Gerry moved ahead to the bread where she helped herself to a small artisanal loaf of cheese bread and her favourite croissants. Doug got two loaves of generic sliced whole wheat. As they approached the row of cash registers, Doug added a large heart-shaped box of Valentine’s chocolates. She wondered, were those for the boys? He motioned for Gerry to go first.

  By now she was feeling totally awkward. She set the already opened box of tissues in front of the cashier who merely looked as if she’d seen it all before. She paid cash, waved and walked out of the store with her two bags of carefully curated comestibles. She put them in the Mini and blew her nose again. Now for the cat litter, she thought.

  She was almost back at the store entrance, looking for a large grocery cart this time, when the automatic doors parted, revealing Doug brandishing the box of chocolates. “I thought you’d gone without saying goodbye,” he said wildly.

  “No, I just do the cat litter separately. That way I only have to push the heavy load straight to the cash. And not squish my food.” She looked at the chocolates.

  “These are for you,” he said, handing them to her.

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Doug,” she began but he interrupted her.

  “Argh! There’s never any time! I’ve got half an hour to get this food home and be back in time for work.” They gave each other a tentative kiss in the entranceway, other shoppers passing around them. Then, muttering, “later,” he was gone.

  Gerry pushed the cart to the cat litter section. Six boxes of the stuff were as much as she and the cart could handle. Not to mention her little car. She was thinking. Did he mean “later” as in, when the boys grow up and leave home? Or “later” as in, today, this weekend, this week?

  The Mini was stuffed. “Well, at least I’ve forgotten about my cold for the last few minutes,” she told herself, giving her nose a final tremendous blow. She looked in the mirror. The nose was red but the face looked happy. She eased the car onto Main Road and almost immediately had to brake. A car coming toward her had swerved into Gerry’s lane to avoid a stream of snowmobilers driving at the side of the road. They were heading to the turnoff for the local bar.

  “Bloody nuisances,” she cursed, forgetting what excellent trails they made for snowshoers and skiers. A fine snow had begun to fall. She didn’t feel ready yet for more solitude mitigated solely by the company of cats, so she headed over to Bea’s.

  As she walked up to the front door, she could hear some opera blaring even though the windows were all closed. She banged heavily on the front door. “Bea! Bea! Can you hear me?”

  The door opened suddenly. Bea, a kitten perched on her shoulder, stood there grinning. From behind her, a soprano launched into song. The air smelled heavily of chocolate.

  “I just thought I’d drop in. It’s been a while. If you’re busy—”

  “Come in! Come in! Have some lunch. I’ve finished my Valentine’s baking. Just got to ice and decorate later.”

  Gerry went in. “You’re looking good,” she told her friend. She’d forgotten how tall Bea was. Bea wasn’t often out of her wheelchair.

  “It must be a chocolate high. I’ve been snacking as I baked.”

  “Well, why don’t I make the lunch while you and Cecilia rest?”

  “It’s pronounced Chaycheelia, Gerry. Get with the program,” Bea requested, turning down the opera as they walked to the back of the house.

  In the tiny conservatory, Bea’s orchids flowered colourfully. En masse, Gerry found the pinks and mauves too much, but she had to admit, individual blooms were wonderful. Bea sat down and distracted the kitten with a plaid catnip mouse on the end of a long string. “I have to keep an eye on her or she trashes the plants.”

  Gerry teased. “How do you say it? Chinchillia?”

  Bea snorted with laughter.

  Gerry rummaged for bread and cheese and put it under the broiler while a can of cream of mushroom soup heated. “So what are you and Cece doing for Valentine’s?”

  “Oh, you know. Stay in and snuggle. Eat too much chocolate. Like that. You?”

  Gerry brought the food to the kitchen table. Bea and Cecilia joined her. “Sing love songs to the cats?” she quipped. “Make nineteen heart-shaped servings of canned catfood?”

  “What is wrong with the men around here?” Bea slurped her soup. “It must be winter. They’ll all be holed up at home drinking beer in front of the hockey game.”

  “Ugh. I don’t want one of those anyway. I want—” Here Gerry paused, not quite knowing what she wanted. She compromised with, “I met Doug at the grocery store and he gave me a box of chocolates. An impulse purchase. I guess he felt sorry for me.”

  “Well, I can see you’re feeling sorry for you. How is he getting on? With the boys and everything?”

  “He told me Andrew helps out financially.”

  Bea looked surprised, then nodded. “That makes sense. It was common knowledge your Uncle Geoff used to give Margaret money.”

  “Apparently Andrew did too. The boys are all sick with colds so Doug had to rush off. And he’ll be working at the curling rink for the rest of the day.”

  “Sounds like he couldn’t have asked you out even if he wanted to,” Bea said shrewdly. “Us folks without kids don’t realize how all-consuming they can be.”

  Gerry nodded. “I guess we’re just at different stages of our lives—him getting the boys ready for the world, me still getting myself ready!” She sighed.

  “What about Jean-Louis? Anything there?”

  “I thought he might like me. But I still feel I’m missing something essential about him. When I was asleep at his place—”

  “What? You didn’t tell me you slept over!”

  “No, no. When we, I, found the snowmobiler, after, the police questioned us at his place. I fell asleep on the couch. And I heard—”

  “What? What? What did you hear?”

  “It just seemed odd how familiar the cops seemed with him. With me it was all ‘What did you do next, Miss Coneybear? Describe what you
saw, please.’ Stuff like that. But when they were talking to J-L, they were gruffer, seemed more upset with him.”

  “Do you think he’s dealing drugs? On Royal Mountain?” Bea sounded excited.

  Gerry made a face at her friend. “Next you’re going to have him skiing down the mountain being chased by the Mounties. On reindeer.” Gerry reflected. “No. I don’t know what it is. He’s just—off.”

  “Like old fish.” Bea assumed a high-pitched British voice. “Duck’s off. Sorry.” When Gerry looked blank, she sighed. “I keep forgetting how young you are. Monty Python? Fawlty Towers? No? Nothing? God, your education has been neglected. Next time you’re over, we’ll watch something really, really funny.”

  “Don’t say that. If I think it’s supposed to be funny, I won’t laugh. I’ll be over-prepared or something. Anyway, I should go. I’ve got lots of stuff to unload from the car. Thank you for letting me make you lunch. No, don’t get up. Happy Valentine’s. And to Cece.”

  Gerry backed up out of the little parking space in front of Bea and Cece’s townhouse. She felt cheered up, but then Bea always had that effect on her. Something to do with her “make the best of it and count your blessings” philosophy.

  Gerry fiddled with the car radio, then looked up. “Cripes! Not again! Bad timing.” Traffic had stopped in front of the bar as a stream of snowmobiles came onto the road. As she waited for them to cross to the snowy verge, Gerry looked at the bar.

  A big old sprawling building, it reminded her of Cathy’s bed and breakfast. But where Cathy’s house was rambling and elegant, the bar was run down around the edges: its roof tiles curled and tattered; its veranda saggy. “An old drunk,” Gerry said, “slouching in a beat-up old hat and baggy pants,” and decided to draw a caricature of it when she got home.

  The annoying machines had all crossed to her side of the road and were now dispersing. A few stayed by the roadside ahead of her and it was several minutes before she could safely pass them. She was almost at the tracks when something big, yellow and black roared in front of her car. She slammed on the brakes. “Bastard!” The snowmobile continued by the side of the tracks in the direction of Gerry’s woods. She grew thoughtful, wondering if this was one of the two snowmobiles she’d previously seen or met there.

  “And if the other guy is dead, this might be the murderer,” she muttered, pulling into her driveway. She sat behind the wheel, staring at the lake. The afternoon had slipped away to be replaced by a winter’s eve’s brief twilight. She made her decision.

  “Sorry, cats,” she breathed, as she grabbed her snowshoes from the snowdrift where she had left them just outside the side door. “You’ll just have to wait.” She walked to Jean-Louis’s driveway.

  His car was there and smoke curled from the house’s chimney. At his door, she hesitated. What if he wasn’t to be trusted? What if he was a drug dealer? She put on the snowshoes and headed for the trail at the back of his house. Soon she found her rhythm. She reached the tracks by nightfall.

  The railway disappeared into the distance to her left and her right, the thin tracks appearing insubstantial, even frail. She’d noticed before that once the ground was snow-covered, nights were never really dark. It was as if the snow soaked up light during the day only to give it back after dusk. No moon, no stars, just a blue-black clouded sky, whiteness below her feet, and the smudged shapes of the trees ahead.

  Warm from her exertions, she unzipped her coat. She paused to listen for motors. The woods were still. Animals must be asleep. Or hunting. She shivered. Fox, wolves. They’re more afraid of you than you are of them, she heard Prudence’s voice saying.

  She clumped down the path into the high woods where some of the oldest trees stood. And then she heard it: the distant roar of a snowmobile.

  The sugar shack! She rushed off the path, sinking into unpacked snow, floundering. She made it around the back of the shack and waited, sweat turning cold on her body.

  She zipped her jacket back up and crouched. The sound was coming from up the hill, from the pine plantation. She was right! The guy must have either dropped off or picked up another bag of drugs and was leaving the woods. Unless it was just some other snowmobiler enjoying a ride.

  Gerry hoped she blended with the back of the building. The path zigzagged down the hill to her right and anyone looking at the shack in daylight would have had a clear view of her.

  She saw him but couldn’t tell if he saw her. Just before reaching the shack, and at the bottom of the hill, the snowmobiler cut his engine. Her snowshoe tracks! What if he looked this way? The tracks led right to where she was hunched.

  She couldn’t see him now. He was at the front of the shack. She heard the flick of a lighter and then a thin trickle of liquid hitting the snow. She grinned and felt an insane desire to laugh—or jump out and surprise him. He’d stopped for a cigarette and a piss.

  If only she could edge around the side of the shack and see his face, she might be looking at Mr. Shrike’s and the other snowmobiler’s murderer! Bad idea, an inner voice warned. If he’s killed two people, why wouldn’t he make it three?

  When he gunned his engine, she was tempted to move, but found she couldn’t. She was freezing. And chicken. The machine headed toward the tracks. Gerry saw its tail lights as the path curved around to the left of the shack and watched with relief as the lights turned left again and roared away towards Lovering.

  So if he picked up drugs, he’s now gone to distribute them, she thought as she stretched and walked back onto the path. But if he was dropping off, then someone else will be coming to pick up the drugs, a local distributor. If I find the drugs and hide nearby, I can maybe see who that is. Okay.

  Staying on the path the snowmobile had freshly packed down, and keeping alert for sounds of another machine, Gerry slowly climbed the hill.

  Now she heard, or imagined she heard, little rustlings high in trees. She tried to go as quietly as possible, but the puffing sound of her own breath combining with the swoosh of her snowshoes meant she had to pause to listen.

  By the time she’d climbed to where the pine trees in their stiff rows began, she was simultaneously hyperalert and physically exhausted. She had a fit of coughing as she entered the plantation.

  It was dark. The pines, growing tightly together, blocked the night’s light. Little snow had penetrated the canopy. In some places the pine-needled frozen ground was visible. And the temperature had dropped.

  She undid the straps on her snowshoes and left them near the end of a row of trees. It was hard to see the witch’s brooms at night. Gerry moved slowly down between the rows, pushing prickly boughs aside, looking up into the trees.

  Was that—? No. That really was an animal’s nest. Or a bird’s. Here was a witch’s broom, but it was empty. Absorbed in her task, she didn’t notice the shadowy presence following her as she worked her way up one row, down another.

  18

  “She doesn’t suspect a thing!” chortled Bea as Cece swung their Subaru wagon onto Gerry’s parking pad next to her car.

  “So we just say we felt sorry for her and brought some chocolate cupcakes and a few DVDs, right?”

  “Right. And the others should be along in, oh, about fifteen minutes. They’re all going to park up by the church hall and walk down. And Cathy’s going to walk Blaise over from next door.”

  “So here goes,” Cece announced and got out of the car. He crossed to help his wife and glanced down at the Mini. “That’s funny. She hasn’t unpacked her groceries. What time did she leave you?”

  “Around four,” Bea replied, grasping his hand. “Oh, you know Gerry. She probably went in, fed the cats and got absorbed in some drawing or other.”

  Cece hauled her to her feet and held her close. “You’re full of beans today.”

  “I feel great,” Bea admitted. They walked the few steps to The Maples’ side entrance. Cece knocked. No answer. He
peered in one of the kitchen windows.

  “Nothing doing. The kitchen is dark and the door is closed. Stay here. I’m going around to the front.” Every window he looked into indicated a dark and lifeless house. Except for the cats. Hearing human activity, hungry cats began jumping onto inside windowsills. It was seeing Bob parading back and forth on one such ledge and mewing pitifully that decided Cece.

  “Something’s wrong.” He fumbled for his keys. (After confiscating duplicate keys to her house from various members of her family a few months previously, Gerry had thought it prudent to leave a spare set with her lawyer, as well as with Prudence.) “Gerry should be here and the cats are going crazy.” He unlocked the side porch door then the kitchen door and ushered his wife in. She sat down on a kitchen stool.

  “Suddenly I don’t feel so full of beans,” she said in a worried voice.

  “I’m going to check the rest of the house,” he said and opened the door to the living room. Instantly he was awash in a furry tide. “Help!” he yelped.

  “Help yourself,” said Bea, who was likewise inundated by a sea of hungry whiskered faces. “Go look for Gerry. She had a cold. Maybe she got worse and is in bed. I’ll feed this bunch.” She searched lower kitchen cupboards until she found a container of kibble. She dumped some into the empty tub under the table, first removing Jay who was sitting in it.

  “I suspect,” said Bea, “that you are still on just wet food, aren’t you?” The kitten purred while the adult cats crunched and gobbled. In the fridge, Bea found an already opened can and fed the kitten in the sink, fending off greedy adults who, missing their wet ration, couldn’t understand where their share might be.

  By the time Cece returned, shaking his head, all had eaten enough and were dispersing back into the rest of the house. Bea was back on the stool with the kitten firmly ensconced on her lap. He announced, “She’s not here. Could she be over at that fellow’s place?”