Scratch the Surface

what he always puts me in mind of? ‘Wee, sleekit, cowran tim’rous beastie.’ ”
    “I can’t imagine why.”
    “That’s Robert Burns.”
    “I know it’s Robert Burns. It’s from ‘To a Mouse.’ ”
    “We’re descended from Gilbert Burns, you know. Robert’s brother. Robert Burns had no legitimate descendants.”
    It seemed to Felicity that every Scottish family in America claimed descent from Gilbert Burns. If all the claims were true, Gilbert Burns would have needed to father hundreds of children, so it was impossible that they’d all been legitimate. But Felicity limited herself to saying, “That’s debatable.” She took a deep breath. How had she once again let herself get sucked into the Burns Diversion? “Mother, when I got home on Monday night, there was a dead body in my vestibule.” Knowing it was a mistake, she added, “And a cat.”
    “Cats! Do you remember that cat Thelma had when you were a little girl? It was an ugly thing, but you were crazy about it. You used to go running after it, but the cat had your number all right! It was always coming up to me and rubbing against me. Cats are attracted to me, you know. Dogs are, too. And I hate the damn things.”
    “Did you hear what I said? About the body? It was the body of some elderly man.”
    “I have very acute hearing. Well, don’t worry, I won’t say a thing.”
    “I have no idea who the man was or why the body was left here. There’s no question of your saying or not saying anything.”
    “When they ask me, I’ll say I don’t know a thing about it. And Angie won’t say a word, either. Blood’s thicker than water, I always say, Felicity. Angie and I won’t breathe a word.”
    After ending the conversation, Felicity could almost hear the braying her mother had emitted when Aunt Thelma’s cat had run from Felicity almost fifty years earlier: Cat’s got your number! Cat’s got your number! And here was Felicity with yet another cat that evidently had her number as well. In catching the gray cat, she must remember not to chase it. In reality, Aunt Thelma’s cat had run because it had been chased. It hadn’t had Felicity’s “number,” whatever that was. It had simply run from an eager child who hadn’t known how to behave around cats.
     

 
    Felicity entered the cat’s room on what she might have described in her books as “little cat feet.” There was, however, nothing foggy about her mental state. On the contrary, she felt sharply determined to prove that this cat didn’t hate her. Equally sharp was her awareness that her will left everything to Ronald Gershwin and, consequently, nothing to her mother or sister, both of whom she meant to outlive, anyway.
    “If you chase cats,” she said softly, “they run away. Cat, I am not going to chase you. Do you hear me? And do you see what I’m doing? I am ignoring you!”
    The cat was hiding under the bed and thus easy to ignore. The level of dry food in one of the new bowls had dropped, and the bowl of canned food was empty except for a disgusting residue of dried brown crud. Peering under the hood of the gigantic gold litter box, Felicity saw that the litter had been used. Feeling confident that the cat was still alive, she sorted through the pile of supplies she’d bought, arranged the quilted pad in the cat carrier, and armed herself with a feather-and-bell toy identical to the one that Ronald had successfully used to lure the cat. After raising the bed skirt, she inserted the toy, but instead of twitching it slowly and enticingly, she shook it vigorously back and forth, and then repeatedly yanked it out from under the bed and shoved it back under again. Dropping the toy, she got down on her knees, peered under the bed, and saw that the cat was huddled directly beneath the center of the headboard and was thus out of reach. Bearing in mind that it was vital not to chase the cat, she resolved, on the Mohammed-and-mountain principle, to move the bed. This bed, unlike the king-size platform bed in the master bedroom, was full-size. The headboard ran down to the floor, but the foot of the bed stood on wooden legs. The bed should be light enough for her to move, especially since she could get a good grip on the oak headboard. Grip she did. And managed to drag the bed a good eighteen inches from the wall. Startled at what must have seemed like an earthquake, the cat ran out, dashed across the room, and jumped onto a dresser. Assuring herself that she wasn’t