The Cat Between Page 6

  She clicked off the machine and turned on the lights. “Any questions?” One boy raised his hand. “Yes?”

  “Is it true, Miss Coneybear, that you’re a cartoonist?” She nodded. “Is it hard to get work?”

  She thought for a moment. “I think we should confine ourselves to art history questions for now.” She smiled. “Any art history questions? No? Okay. This is your homework.” A collective groan filled the room. “Don’t panic. Just read the chapter on history painting and compare in a short essay—one page will do—two paintings we did not cover today.” She stepped down off the platform and approached the boy. “You are?”

  “Jerry Pinsky.”

  “Another Gerry!”

  “Jerry with a J.”

  “Are you a cartoonist too?” Gerry with a G asked.

  “I fool around.”

  “Cool. I always doodled as a kid and took art in high school. Then in college I found my sense of humour creeping into my projects. That’s when I knew I might be a cartoonist. Does that describe you?”

  “Kind of. Only I like to draw superheroes.”

  “Ah. Sounds like your real interest might lie in comic books, not cartoons. But give yourself time to develop as an artist. That could change.”

  “Oh, I’m not in fine arts. I’m in engineering. This is an elective for me.”

  Gerry felt deflated. “Oh. Well. It’s always good to have interests outside of your main area of study. Nice talking with you.”

  As the room emptied and Gerry packed her class materials away, she muttered, “Nobody is going into fine arts these days, you idiot, because they can’t make a living.” She remembered how precarious her existence had been after college. No work to speak of so she’d taken part-time secretarial jobs and worked at Mug the Bug in the rest of her time. The relief had been huge when Mug had found a home with one major paper and then been syndicated across the country in smaller ones. She’d quit her part-time job of the moment and plunged into the commercial art world, taking Mug around with her as her entry point.

  “I was lucky. So lucky.” She walked to the building that housed the administration offices and handed in a health form.

  “Oh, Gerry, I’m glad I caught you.” The harried administrator who’d hired her handed her a decal. “For your car. So you can park in the staff parking. Near the building.”

  Gerry looked at the decal in her hand. “There’s staff parking?”

  “Yeah. Just out that door. Saves walking time.”

  It certainly does, Gerry agreed, as, a refund for the original decal she’d purchased negotiated, she trudged through twilight to get to her car, as usual parked in almost the last row of the lot. She stuck the decal inside her windshield next to the first one and yawned. Teaching was exhausting. A cup of coffee and a nap was what she needed.

  What she got when she arrived home was the sight of police cars and an ambulance alongside the road, and yellow tape around the empty house next door. She barely had time to feed the cats and clean the litter boxes before a knock came on the front door. A police officer stood there, looking polite but wary. Gerry assumed a similar mask.

  The interview, conducted at her living room table, was a dance. The officer asked Gerry to describe events leading up to her call, while Gerry tried to guess why there could be all this fuss about a broken window.

  “And were you wearing gloves when you pried off the window covering?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you remove your gloves when you were inside the house.”

  “Uh, I don’t think so. But I may have done.”

  “And did you never think that you might be trespassing on private property?”

  “I was thinking about Blaise’s cat. Mr. Parminter’s cat.

  “And what made you think the cat could have entered a boarded-up house?”

  “Well, he got out of his own house without Mr. Parminter knowing, and my cat, Bob—” Here, Bob, lying on the hearth rug, yawned, showing the officer his fearsome set of fangs. “Bob jumped up on the window box and kind of pulled at the plywood covering the window. He and Stup—I mean Graymalkin—are kind of pals and—well, not pals, more like arch enemies—” Gerry could feel the sweat forming in her armpits and beginning to run down her sides. She suddenly heard her words and realized how weird they must sound to the officer. She finished lamely. “I just thought Bob might be sensing Graymalkin inside the house. And I noticed a little hole low down near the foundation where a small animal might be able to get in. But, obviously, I wouldn’t be able to fit in that way so—”

  “So you broke in.”

  “I went back this morning to try and repair the window covering. The plywood was rotten and just peeled off.” She brought the officer her coat and patted one pocket. “See? Nails. And then I phoned.”

  “Presumably you took a hammer as well,” the officer commented drily.

  “Yes. But not in my pocket.” Gerry paused.

  “Could I see the hammer?”

  Nonplussed, Gerry walked to the back porch and presented the hammer. “Really, what’s this about? Is…is someone dead over there?”

  The officer took pity on her, or maybe she just didn’t like cats. Several of Gerry’s mob had begun slinking into the room, furtively sniffing the officer’s legs. She shifted warily in her chair, and when Min Min put his paws on her thigh and mewed, she abruptly stood.

  “He just wants you to pick him up,” Gerry explained.

  “Do you mind coming next door with me?” The officer returned the hammer to Gerry, then edged toward the front door.

  “The side door is quicker,” Gerry murmured, slipping on her coat.

  She followed the officer onto the road. They slipped under the yellow scene-of-crime tape. Gerry felt for a moment that she was in a TV drama; that this couldn’t really be happening. As they approached the house, she noticed the Christmas wreath was missing from the front door.

  “You took your time,” grunted another police officer guarding the entrance. Gerry’s officer ignored him and ushered Gerry in, through the hallway, then blocked the doorway to the kitchen.

  “You’re going to see a body,” she said calmly and stepped aside. Gerry took one step into the room and stopped.

  Unlike her kitchen at The Maples, crammed along one of the short sides of the house, this kitchen was long and commanded a view of the lake from its many windows. There was room for a large table, even a sofa if one had wished. In the morning it would be a light and cheerful room. Now, in the early evening, it was dark and dusty, empty except for the shape in the body bag on the gurney.

  As Gerry approached the body, her officer unzipped the bag a bit. It was a man’s face, elderly but not old. For some reason Gerry felt relieved and audibly let out a breath. The officer became alert. “Know him?”

  “I think I do.” The face, thin with a receding hairline, was calm. Gerry remembered that awful set expression from seeing her dead mother when she was a teenager and her father not so long ago. Peaceful and—absent. She felt her eyes fill and her face crumple.

  “Try to think where you might have seen him,” the officer urged gently.

  Gerry blinked and wiped her tears. She looked again, tried to visualize the face alive with open eyes and first a smile, then a frown. The frown did it. “At Ross Davidson College. He drove a big old fancy car, dropped a kid off, a student—or some students. I forget. He almost ran me over in one of the crosswalks.” She looked again. “Huh. Poor man. How did he die?”

  The officer zipped up the bag, ignoring Gerry’s question. “Got his name? Him or the students?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I never met the man but one of the students and I exchanged a few words on a tour of the campus we both took on Monday. It was Tuesday morning when I was here looking for the cat and there was no body then. Besides, after that was when I saw him—t
he man—at college, just before one o’clock.”

  “And you’re a student at Ross Davidson?”

  “I—” Gerry drew herself up to her full but still diminutive height. “I am a teacher there. Art history.” Then she wilted. “Only a part-time, last-minute substitute teacher.”

  The officer, a tall woman, smiled. “You seem very young, for a professor, I mean.” An ambulance attendant stuck his head in the room. The officer nodded and he and another came in and wheeled the body out. Gerry noticed quite a lot of blood on the kitchen floor. Once again, she let out a big breath. “Your first dead body?” the officer queried quietly.

  “No. Sadly, not.” As they exited the house, Gerry asked, “I’m sorry. I must not have been paying attention. What’s your name again?”

  “Leduc. Isabelle. We may need to talk to you another time.”

  “You know where to find me. Me and my nineteen cats!” She laughed wildly, then, horrified, choked the laugh short. “Sorry,” she muttered and skittered away.

  Once home, she made a pot of tea and tried to get her bearings. Thursday. It was Thursday evening. What time? Six o’clock. Okay. When had she last eaten? She remembered the yummy lunch eaten in her car. That felt like days ago. Okay. She should eat again.

  She walked into the kitchen and put two slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster. “Peanut butter,” she mumbled, and got it, butter and milk from the fridge. She stared at the calendar. Tomorrow was Friday and looked free. Good. Then Saturday and she was going to Bea and Cece’s for supper. Nice. And Sunday around four she was to pick up Prudence at the airport. The toast popped. She raised her eyebrows. “Oh—my—God! What’s Prudence going to say?”

  7

  Friday morning, Gerry hid inside.

  The crime-scene tape next door, flapping in the breeze, made traffic slow while people peered at the long white house. And word of the death must have spread through Lovering, for a greater number of cars than usual paraded deliberately by. Some even had the audacity to pull into Gerry’s driveway behind the Mini, back out and return slowly the other way.

  She made a fire in the living room, and ignoring the road, sat at her worktable facing the lake.

  Sunlight slanted through bare trees to mingle on the snowy lawn with the trees’ shadows. And the breeze made this play of light and dark shift. “How to indicate movement of light,” she murmured and for half an hour, on a piece of paper, tried.

  With a sigh, she put down her pencil and looked at planning the next two art history classes. Tuesday shouldn’t be too hard. She’d get the kids to present their homework and discuss. That should wrap up history painting. Then on Thursday, they’d begin an in-depth look at symbolism. She read for a bit, making notes.

  Her peace was disturbed by a quiet tap at the kitchen door. Cathy stood in the driveway with Prince Charles. He was wearing the red coat Gerry had given him for Christmas. Gerry smiled and opened the door. “Come in, you two.”

  Cathy replied, “Well, maybe just into the kitchen. Because it’s so cold.” Gerry quickly lifted the tub of cat kibble onto the counter and closed the door into the living room. Charles began a nasal inspection of the porch and kitchen, snuffling and scoring crumbs and bits of leftover cat food.

  Cathy took off her gloves and breathed on her hands. “Isn’t it terrible?” she commented, jerking her head in the direction of the house next door.

  Gerry nodded. “I saw the body.”

  “No!” Her friend looked shocked. “Was it—gory?”

  “No. Some blood on the floor. He was in the bag they put them in. Did you know him?”

  “Nolan Shrike? No. But I know his face, if that’s what you mean. And his wife’s. Carolyn? Elizabeth? Seen them in town.”

  “Oh, the poor woman,” Gerry offered.

  “Mm. Anyway, I wondered if you’re free, if you want to do that lunch today?”

  “Oh. Sure, Cathy.” Gerry checked the clock on the stove. “Let’s say in about an hour-and-a-half? I’ll pick you up.” She bent over to bid farewell to the prince, now sitting looking up at the women. “And Charles, you look very smart in your coat.” She scrunched the loose skin between his ears and his eyes half closed.

  When her friends had gone, Gerry added “dog cookies” to the shopping list magnetized to the fridge. After all, she thought, I know two dogs now. Then she added “people cookies” and went off to shower.

  She picked up Cathy just before one and they drove into Lovering. As it was Gerry treating Cathy, Gerry let Cathy choose the restaurant. She selected the Tiny Place, a new and, well, tiny restaurant that had recently opened.

  “I heard they do different kinds of grilled cheese sandwiches at lunch. I’m curious,” Cathy offered as justification for her choice.

  “Great. I love them. Well, who doesn’t?”

  They entered the restaurant, two little rooms carved out of the side of the same building that housed the grocery store. A few small tables and chairs were crammed together in one; the kitchen was in the other. “Cute,” Gerry said, and scanned the menu. After they’d ordered, she lowered her voice and asked, “Did you hear anything about Nolan Shrike? I mean besides his name. Which I didn’t know. Why was he in that empty house?”

  “Well.” Cathy leaned forward. “They’re originally British. Came here about thirty years ago. He worked as a security advisor—pretty vague-sounding job—and she raised their children. They’re gone now, the children. One’s in Toronto and one’s in Vancouver, I think.” She sat up as their waiter approached with two glasses of white wine.

  “Compliments of the management,” he said. “It’s a promotion to say thank you for coming to our restaurant.”

  “Oh, how nice!” Cathy beamed at him. The friends toasted each other. “And it’s not the cheap stuff, either,” Cathy added, savouring the cold liquid.

  “Isn’t it? I can’t tell.” Gerry took a refreshing sip and smacked her lips. “It’s nice, though. You were saying?”

  “Yes. Well. After he retired, Mr. Shrike, Nolan, set up a company, looking after empty buildings. You know, if you went away for the winter, he’d check your house. Or if it’s completely untenanted, like the house next to you.”

  “Oh, a caretaker. So he’d have had keys to the front and back doors.”

  Cathy nodded. “He mustn’t have been making very much money though, because Mrs. Shrike takes in student boarders. Foreign students.”

  It was Gerry’s turn to nod. “I saw him and then her, on a different day, dropping some kids off at Ross Davidson. Driving a big old car.”

  “Well, that’s it. That car must be at least twenty-five years old. You’d think if they had any money, they’d replace it.”

  Their sandwiches arrived. Cathy’s oozed with creamy Brie and caramelized onions contrasting with thin crisp slices of pear. Though she’d been tempted by the Reuben—smoked meat, Swiss and sauerkraut—Gerry had gone for the tried and true combination of roast beef and Danish blue. The sandwiches came with fresh fruit and home-fried potatoes.

  Except for some “mmms,” there was silence at their table for a few minutes. Then Gerry spoke. “Hear anything about how he died?”

  Cathy swallowed and shook her head.

  Gerry said slowly, “As far as I could tell, he wasn’t slugged in the head.”

  “Right. You saw the body.”

  Gerry nodded and pushed her plate away. “Boy, that was good. Yeah, the police questioned me at my place—because I phoned about that broken window, remember? Then they took me to view him. It. It was in the kitchen covered up to the neck. Do you want dessert?”

  Cathy, not one to worry about her figure, beckoned to the waiter. “What dessert do you have that would complement white wine and grilled cheese?” When he looked perplexed, Cathy laughed and said, “I’m just teasing you.”

  He smiled. “I don’t know if it’s c
omplementary, but the apple pie is good.”

  “We’ll have two of those. With ice cream. Okay, Gerry?”

  “Great. And coffee, please.”

  The two settled back in happy anticipation. Two more women entered the restaurant and their heads were soon in close proximity as information of some kind was relayed.

  “Probably talking about the same thing we were,” Gerry said out of the corner of her mouth.

  They overheard, “…in the neck. So did he die right away or linger, do you think?” What the other woman said was indistinguishable. Gerry and Cathy exchanged a shamefaced look.

  “Someone died,” Gerry said soberly.

  “Someone was widowed,” Cathy added.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Gerry suggested.

  “Let’s. Let’s talk about Jean-Louis.”

  So they chatted their way through dessert, Gerry paid, and they walked through to the grocery store. Gerry was looking doubtfully from broccoli to cauliflower—people really should eat vegetables, an inner voice admonished—and Cathy was peering at berries, when a voice at Gerry’s elbow said, “How you doing?”

  She turned and beheld Doug Shapland, her part-time handyman/gardener, inherited from her Aunt Maggie along with Prudence, the house and the cats. He was related to Gerry by blood, but distantly, and, rather more closely, by marriage, or rather, ex-marriage to her cousin Margaret. She hadn’t seen him since the successful and, at the same time, disastrous dinner party she’d given earlier that month. “How are you?” she replied. “How’s life as a full-time dad?”

  As his ex-wife had recently entered a mental institution, Doug had moved back into their family home to care for the couple’s three young adult sons: James, Geoff Jr. and David. Gerry looked around for Cathy but she’d disappeared. As Doug spoke she studied him. Not too tall, of slight build, with brown hair and eyes.