Scratch the Surface

graduation thirty-five years earlier. She still had the prize, a Latin medal embossed with the words Labor omnia vincit. From time to time, when Felicity came upon the medal in the top drawer of her bureau, she wondered about the truth of the motto. Was it really work that conquered all? And not love? On balance, the medal, however, brought consistent pleasure, proving as it did that she truly had won an award. As to Felicity’s characterization of her Prissy LaChatte books as “bestselling,” it was true that each addition to the series made the top-ten list at Newbright Books. What’s more, all the books in the series ranked high on the sites of the major online booksellers in the sub-subcategory of mysteries about cats. Felicity often reminded herself that “bestselling” didn’t necessarily mean the New York Times.
    So, at ten minutes after seven on the evening of Monday, November 3, Felicity Pride had finished reading selected passages about Prissy LaChatte and her feline companions, Morris and Tabitha, to a smaller group than she’d have liked. These local events never gave her the crowds she drew at out-of-state bookstores and at conferences for mystery fans, but she could hardly have refused to do a reading and signing for Ronald, who, for all his oddity, was as close as she came to having a best friend. She had sold some books, and it was pleasant enough to sit in the cozy armchair at the back of the store and autograph felines in Felony for the buyers who had lingered after the reading. Felines was, after all, a hardcover, which is to say that for every copy sold, her publisher’s royalty department would credit her with a decent percentage of the book’s satisfyingly high retail price. With that happy prospect in mind, Felicity glanced down at the title page of the book she’d just autographed. In bold marker, Felicity had drawn a line through the printed version of her name. Her horrified gaze, however, revealed that instead of merely replacing the cold, impersonal letters with her florid signature, she had written three mortifying words beneath it.
    She snapped the book shut, slipped it behind her back, smiled at the woman who’d handed it to her, and said, “Well, I’ve botched that one. Let’s try again. Are you sure you don’t want it signed to you?”
    “Just your name, please,” said the woman, whom Felicity saw not as the plump, nondescript individual she was, but as a representative of the adoring public who clung with catlike claws to Felicity Pride’s every written and spoken word. “I collect modern firsts,” the woman explained. “They’re more valuable without an inscription. At least while the author is alive. As you are, of course. Obviously.”
    Felicity waited for this unprepossessing representative of her worshipful readership to add some suitably flattering expression of happiness on that account: Not just obviously but luckily! Or maybe, And thank heaven you are alive, because we devotees of Prissy LaChatte and dear Morris and Tabitha would be utterly bereft without you!
    To Felicity’s disappointment, the collector of modern first editions remained silent, as did the four women who waited in line behind her. Had Felicity written the scene, all five women would have borne subtle and charming resemblances to cats of various types: perhaps a plump gray Persian, a petite marmalade, a sleek calico, a silver tabby, and a striped alley cat with facial scars. Felicity herself would have been a long, lean Siamese with a patrician bone structure and an air of elegance and savoir faire. In reality, there was nothing especially feline about the book buyers, and far from looking like a Siamese, Felicity was short and had a sturdiness of build and feature more suggestive of muscular human peasantry than of feline aristocracy. She was, however, tidy and well groomed. Her charcoal wool pants and cash-mere sweater were neither too old nor too young for her age, which was fifty-three, and the blonde highlights in her straight, blunt-cut hair effectively covered any white strands that had the nerve to emerge from her scalp. Felicity would have been happier to live with head lice than with gray hair.
    “Still alive,” said Felicity, who was used to looking after herself. “Luckily for me. And I know what ‘Just your name’ means. You collectors! Some of you don’t mind having the date added.”
    “Just your name, please,” repeated the woman as she handed Felicity a fresh