Scratch the Surface

they come home, you can’t touch them because, of course, they’re radioactive. I really don’t—”
    In desperation, Felicity said, “Any news about your book?” Tailspin was a cat mystery that Felicity had weaseled out of blurbing by pleading a deadline. (“I don’t have time to read my own manuscript, never mind someone else’s!”) “Sonya did a wonderful blurb for me,” Janice said. “Really cute.”
    “I’m sure,” said Felicity.
    “Look,” said Janice, “maybe this isn’t the right time to raise it, but would you mind if I wrote about your murder in the newsletter? I’m always short of material. I’m supposed to be the editor, but people are lazy about sending me material, and I end up writing most of it myself, and it’s hard to know what to say.”
    With great self-control, Felicity replied casually, “Well, if it would help you out, I guess I wouldn’t mind, but I have to wait until the murder is solved. I am forbidden to give interviews.”
    The membership was now settling in chairs and on the floor in preparation for the business meeting, which would be followed by the forensic expert’s presentation.
    “I’ll call you,” Janice said. “For an interview.”
    The first of many! Felicity thought gleefully. “Fine,” she said. “With luck, I’ll be allowed to share the details in a day or two.”
    In spite of the welcome omen that her publicity plans were shaping up, Felicity felt suddenly tired and, in any case, had no desire to hear about mummified feet. Excusing herself, she headed for the front of the shop, where she passed the display of Isabelle Hotchkiss’s new book. Instead of feeling the combination of jealousy, envy, and resentment that ordinarily assailed her when she came upon evidence of her rival’s success, she felt an almost grandiose optimism to which she gave voice once she reached the privacy of Aunt Thelma’s Honda. “Kitty Katlikoff, you better watch out! Better say bye-bye to your saccharine, sickening Lambie Pie and Olaf! Because here comes Prissy LaChatte.” She paused and added vehemently, “And Morris and Tabitha, who are going to scratch your rotten eyes out!”
     

 
    After taking her first mouthful of coffee—but before putting on her reading glasses—Felicity perused the morning paper. From her optometrically challenged viewpoint, the lead article on the front page began thus:
     
MYSTERY WRITER’S CAT SOLVES HOMICIDE
Felicity Pride, author of the Prissy LaChatte series of feline mysteries, returned home on Monday evening to a scene out of one of her own books.
     
    Feeling somewhat dissatisfied, Felicity fortified herself with a slug of coffee and tried again:
     
FAMOUS MYSTERY NOVELIST’S CAT
SOLVES NEWTON MURDER
Felicity Pride, celebrated author of the bestselling Prissy LaChatte series of feline mystery novels, returned home on Monday evening from a well-attended signing of her latest blockbuster, Felines in Felony, to discover a scene straight out of one of her own spine-tingling tales. Or should that be tails ?
     
    Once having donned her glasses, Felicity paged through the paper until she finally came upon a short paragraph in a column about local crime:
     
Police report that an elderly man whose body was found on the front porch of a Brighton home on Monday evening was the victim of foul play. Authorities are pursuing their investigation.
     
    Brighton home indeed! Front porch! No Felicity, no mystery novels, no Prissy, and no cat! Still, the murder had been reported in the paper, no matter how inadequately, and instead of passively accepting her ignominious and anonymous relegation to two sentences deep in the interior of the paper, Felicity decided to act. After all, her first three mysteries hadn’t been hardcovers, had they? No, they had been paperback originals reviewed in the newsletters of three mystery bookstores and nowhere else. But those three paperbacks had been a start. So, too, was this stinking miniparagraph. Well, if the cat was indeed going to solve the Newton homicide, best to begin with the cat and with her own role as cat-worshiping cat novelist. To begin with, she’d take the cat to a vet.
    The late Morris had required nothing in the way of veterinary care and had thus left Felicity entirely ignorant about veterinarians and local veterinary clinics. Clearly, Felicity Pride’s cat must see a posh veterinarian. But how was she to go about identifying one? By address, she presumed. Consulting the yellow