Ed withdrew his hand. “Who says I’m upset?” He gathered our tea glasses and carried them to the small sink.
“Come on,” Tom whispered through his teeth. He nodded toward the door.
“Guess we should go,” I said.
Tom and I walked toward the kitchen entrance. Ed was rinsing the glasses in the sink and didn’t turn as we were walking out. But he did say, “You want to avoid Nancy, I say go in disguise. That hall closet’s full of stuff that could make you look like a different person.”
“Okay,” I said tentatively.
Tom held my elbow and led me out the kitchen door and toward the closet, whispering, “Let’s do what he says.”
He opened the closet door, and several shoe boxes fell from the top shelf, spilling their contents at our feet. Obviously Karen’s touch was missing here.
I knelt and gathered up costume jewelry and fancy hair ornaments. Since Tom is over six feet tall, he made room on the shelf for the boxes.
I whispered, “Do I honestly have to play dress-up to talk to the people in that town?” I glanced up at the mustysmelling dresses and suits crammed in the closet.
“We’ll take a few things to humor Ed, okay?” Tom said softly. “I’ve never seen him this bothered by anything, but apparently he not only has shoe boxes and trunks. He has a Pandora’s box, too.”
“You’re right.” I pulled out a cotton print dress hiding between two wool jackets. “How’s this?” I held it up in front of me.
But Tom had started digging around in a plastic container on the closet floor. He whipped out a blond wig. “Or this?”
“It’s July, if you haven’t noticed. I’ll end up with blisters on my scalp from the heat if I wear that.”
“I’m sure Chief Shelton will remember your hair . . . your face.” He ran a finger along my jawline. “Hard not to notice you.” He held the wig out.
I took it and held it to my nose. “Smells like a combination of my grandmother’s Jean Naté and talcum powder.” I sighed. “That’s what I get for being a redhead. People remember the hair. We’ll take the dress and the wig—but only to make Ed happy. A dye job might be easier than wearing this.” I shook the wig, expecting a baby powder cloud to appear around the thing.
Tom fixed several strands of hair behind my ear. “Don’t you dare think about changing anything.” He pulled me to him and kissed me.
The wig—or Tom—had won.
After Tom dropped me off at home with my not-so-fancy dress and my ugly wig, three very interested cats followed on my heels as I took these prize items to my bedroom. Maybe if I left the fake hair within reach of prying paws, I’d have a good excuse to stick to sunglasses as my only disguise. I couldn’t wear a wig that resembled something that looked like it had been run over by a lawnmower. That was what this fake hair would look like if my three felines had their way with it.
I went to the master bathroom and set the wig down. I tried to pull my too-short hair away from my face. I was hoping I could hide my hair under a giant sun hat. But a big hat on a stranger in a small town like Woodcrest was almost as memorable as red hair. And after several tries with bobby pins and clips, I couldn’t make my hair obey anyway.
Tomorrow, Tom and I planned to visit Woodcrest and at least one of those “fancy-schmancy” cafés Ed had mentioned. I needed to see if I could tolerate this silly disguise.
But Syrah had jumped up on the marble vanity, and before I could stop him, he swiped the blond tresses down to his awaiting partners in crime, Merlot and Chablis. This wig was apparently the best thing I’d brought home in a long time.
I snatched up my future disguise and shook a finger at the cats. “You’ll get your chance, but not right now, friends.”
I stretched the wig onto my head and stared at myself in horror. I looked way too much like Lydia Monk, the deputy county coroner who is obsessed with Tom. And who definitely had it in for me now that she knew Tom and I were getting close. I ripped the wig off and shook my head at an attempt to restore my layered haircut. But I was still resigned to wearing it tomorrow. I tucked it away on the top shelf of my closet. I had just closed the door, much to the chagrin of my three amigos, when I heard the doorbell.
My kitties didn’t follow me as I hurried to answer the door. The challenge of a closed closet door and what lay behind was far too important to be spoiled by a human visit.
Once I got to the foyer, I checked the peephole and saw Shawn’s face. Despite the distortion, I could tell he was unhappy. I took a deep breath. Even though I wanted another chance to talk to Miss Longworth, I felt as if I had to tell him about my failure, and now was as good a time as any.
When I opened the door, I was surprised to see he wasn’t alone. He came bearing a pet carrier. And from the wails emanating from that crate, I knew it held a cat.
After he came inside, he set the carrier down in the foyer and, hands on hips, said, “You gotta help me with this . . . this . . .
diva
.”
I knelt and peeked through the crate’s door. He’d brought Isis. I offered, “Hi, sweetie,” and her reply was a wide-mouthed hiss.
I stood. “Sure. What can I do?”
“She can go back home, right? Your plan worked and you talked with the Longworth woman?”
“Um . . . why don’t we go into the living room and chat? You look like you could use some sweet tea.” Before he could protest—because Shawn likes to protest about anything—I started walking through the foyer. “Just leave her where she is. She’ll be fine.”
“But I don’t have time—”
I turned and gestured for him to follow me. “Yes, you do. You look like you could use a break. Besides, we need to talk.”
He reluctantly followed, saying, “I don’t like the sound of this.”
And your instincts would be correct,
I thought.
Once we were settled in the living room with our tea—me on John’s old leather recliner and Shawn on the sofa—I explained yet again what had happened today.
When I finished, Shawn closed his eyes and pressed two freckled fingers and a thumb on his forehead and massaged the area between his sun-bleached eyebrows. We’re both redheads, but he’d retained far more freckles than I, and his hair was almost the color of persimmons.
He said, “You’ve done enough.”
“No,” I said, so forcefully I surprised myself. “I don’t want to give up. Not yet.”
Shawn pointed in the direction of the foyer. “That is the most spoiled, arrogant cat I’ve ever had the displeasure to encounter. She won’t eat regular cat kibble, she hisses and swats at everyone who tries to get near her and she’s . . . she’s . . . too full of herself. You should see her walk around my kennel like she owns the place. I’ve had her for a week, and she’s wearing on my nerves.”
I didn’t speak for several seconds. “Shawn, are you feeling okay? Because I have never heard you talk that way about an animal before.” Shawn was often impatient with humans, but never with the animals he rescued and cared for.
He looked at his scuffed-up tennis shoes. “Allison said the same thing. I can’t keep her around anymore—the cat, not Allison. She just gets under my skin. And we can’t let her roam around the sanctuary anymore. She nearly caught Snug.”
Snug was Shawn and Allison’s wonderful African gray parrot. “Isis is probably scared. And being aggressive is her way of showing it,” I said.
Shawn pursed his lips, shook his head in disagreement. “She was scared the day I picked her up on the side of the highway. Scared for maybe a day or two after that, but now? Oh, she’s not scared of anything. And poor Allison has the teeth marks on her arms to prove it. Me? I wear my leather gloves up to my elbows when I get near her.”
“You expected me to take her back to the Longworth house, I assume,” I said. “Because you know that putting her up for adoption might not be the best idea. She might be returned to you within a few days.”
Shawn slumped back on the sofa, raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I was hoping to hear you say the cat was ready to go home. But from what you’ve told me, that Longworth woman isn’t fit to care for her either.”
He was always decisive, and yes, opinionated, so his waffling behavior was confusing at first. But then I decided I understood. “You have a set way of handling these situations, want to do right by your animals, but this particular cat is different. Am I right?”
Shawn sighed and picked up his tea, took a long drink. “Certain pets, particularly cats, need the right fit with a family. And you’re right. Isis will be hard to place.”
“Give me more time, then,” I said. “If I can talk to Miss Longworth, get a feel for—”
The most god-awful screech came from the foyer. I stood and started in that direction, worried something was terribly wrong with Isis.
But Shawn grabbed my arm and stopped me before I could get by him. “Don’t give her any attention for that outburst. There’s nothing wrong with her.”
“She sounds like she’s mortally wounded.” I craned my neck, trying to see into the foyer.
“Yeah. The drama queen has spoken. Your cats are probably out there sniffing around her crate, and she doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like much of anything.”
I sat back down. “Maybe she simply wants to go home, Shawn. Give me more time? Please?”
“Oh, I’ll give you as long as you want,” he said. “If you keep her.”
Six
T
he minute I told Shawn that I’d gladly keep Isis for the time being, he left my house so fast I wondered if I’d dreamed the whole visit. But Isis promptly yowled and reminded me this was all quite real. My three cats sat around her crate, their ears twitching at the whines and growls coming from our new visitor.
I’d fostered cats before, and most of the time, my three are fairly easygoing with the meet and greet. Sometimes there’s hissing and stalking, but since my cats were rescued from a shelter after Hurricane Katrina, that experience made them fairly gracious hosts to other animals. But I had the feeling that might not be the case this time.
The next step in what was becoming a very long day was spent settling Isis in her new basement home. I had a guest bedroom there. My three cats followed in excited anticipation when I carried her down. They seemed eager for me to allow this noisy feline out of her crate. But my gut told me I should wait. Neither Isis nor I needed any added stress today.
I set her up with a clean litter box, fresh water and the fanciest cat food I could find—a small can of grilled salmon. I didn’t let her out of the carrier until I’d closed out my three curious friends. I heard Merlot mewing in protest after I shut the door, but this was how it had to be for now. I sat on the floor near the crate and set Isis free.
She sauntered out and slipped by, totally ignoring me. After an inspection of the room, the litter box and the food, she came back my way. Her tail twitched in irritation after she sat down in front of me. She stared up, emerald green eyes narrowed. Her gaze didn’t waver from my face.
What did she expect from me? I was beginning to think that curtseying might be the answer. I returned her stare, and we sat like that for about twenty seconds.
Isis gave in first. I considered that a good sign. Maybe she realized I was top cat in this house. Then she stood and walked regally back to the corner she’d inspected earlier. I’d lined a cat bed with one of my little quilts. She stepped in, sat and began to groom herself. She was done with me.
I opened the door about a foot and slipped through, making sure not to allow Chablis and Merlot inside. Syrah, who I assumed was bored with this nonsense, was nowhere to be seen. I’d no sooner made it upstairs to the kitchen when my stepdaughter, Kara, used her key to come in through the back door.
“Hi, Jillian.” She smiled and set down her purse on the small table by the door.
“Hey there,” I said. “I’m so glad you showed up looking all young and peppy. I need some of what you’ve got going on.” I gave her hug.
Her skin felt warm, and a bit of late-afternoon heat had sneaked in the door and still lingered. Her mahogany-colored hair was fastened with an elastic band, and the long ponytail hung over one shoulder. The recent addition of auburn highlights made her brown eyes seem more lively and inquisitive than ever. Or maybe she was simply happier these last few months. Her move from Houston to Mercy seemed to be agreeing with her. Small-town life, even for a dedicated city girl like Kara, was apparently helping her cope better with losing her dad. We both missed John, but he would have wanted to see her exactly like this: radiant and full of life.
Syrah came around the kitchen island and rubbed his head against Kara’s calf. She reached down and scratched his head. He began to purr loudly enough to almost drown out the serious squalls coming from the basement.
Kara wrinkled her nose and glanced toward the basement door. “That doesn’t sound like one of your cats. Or is somebody sick?”
“Maybe sick and tired of hearing that noise. Let’s get farther away from the screeching and I’ll explain.”
She opened the refrigerator and took out the tea pitcher. “I need a fix first. This stuff is addicting, you know. Want some?”
I nodded and retrieved the glasses from the living room. I set Shawn’s in the sink and placed mine on the counter so she could pour my tea.
She arched her eyebrows and nodded at the sink. “Someone else was loving your sweet tea today?”
“Shawn. He delivered the houseguest. One who thinks she’s more special than your ordinary cat, I might add. She is the goddess Isis, and as you’ve heard, she’s having a regular hissy fit—pun intended.”
“Isis? The cat that started this whole cloak-and-dagger-pretend-Jillian’s-a-journalist thing?” Kara finished pouring the tea, and with Syrah on my heels, we walked into the living room.
“That’s the one. Seems there’s no room at Shawn’s inn for a spoiled-rotten rescue,” I said. “And I’m betting that’s a first for him. Though Shawn can be intolerant of humans, he usually has endless patience with animals. Until now.”