Scratch the Surface

to the cat that was presumably in the carrier. After checking in at the counter, the woman with the golden retriever took a seat near the couple. Her dog sat on the linoleum next to her without so much as sniffing the cat carrier. Neither the people nor their animals were of interest to Felicity, who continued to focus her thoughts on tax-free cash until a phrase drew her attention.
    “…tract mansions!” the elderly woman exclaimed. “That’s what they’re called.”
    “McMansions,” the elderly man said. “Like McDonald’s. I think that’s quite clever. And very appropriate. Do you know that those people pretend that their development is in Newton? Someone was telling us about some scheme of theirs to have their mail delivered with Newton addresses.” Felicity knew all about the so-called scheme. To her disappointment and that of her neighbors, it had failed, as had the effort to have trash collected by Newton trucks.
    “They’re more than welcome to their pretensions,” said the woman with the golden retriever. “All I object to is the traffic. And the way they drive! Our streets aren’t meant for all those cars, and those people treat them like speedways. One of these days, someone’s going to be run over and killed. I don’t know why they can’t use their own entrance.”
    “Because it’s in Brighton!” the elderly woman crowed. All three Norwood Hill residents had a laugh at what Felicity felt to be her expense. To her relief, the young woman behind the counter had the phone at her ear and was reading off a number. Felicity gave her a questioning look, and she nodded. After hanging up, she said, “The chip number’s on file. They’ll call the owner, and then the owner will call us.”
    “Do you have any idea how long this is going to take?” Felicity asked.
    “It depends on whether they can reach the owner.” Felicity cursed herself for having failed to bring her notebook computer along. A veterinary clinic would have been the ideal setting in which to work on the latest adventure of Prissy and the cats. Since the little gray man was dead, he wasn’t going to answer the call from the microchip company, so she’d probably have to sit here for hours with nothing to do. In case she ever wanted to have Prissy take Morris and Tabitha to a vet, she studied the waiting room and made mental note of details. A board with removable letters gave the names of the clinic’s veterinarians, veterinary technicians, and veterinary assistants. What was the difference between technicians and assistants? If she got it wrong, an irate reader would let her know. The elderly couple and their cat carrier vanished into an examining room. Two new clients arrived with dogs. The phone rang several times, and a young man who’d replaced the young woman behind the counter dispensed advice about bringing animals to the clinic. When the phone rang again, Felicity assumed that the caller was once again a pet owner. This time, however, Felicity overheard the young man say “microchip.” She rose and stepped to the counter.
    “My cat,” she mouthed to him as he took notes.
    “So you’re the breeder,” he was saying. “California?” After a pause, he said, “If you wouldn’t mind. Yes, she’s right here.” To Felicity he said, “This is the breeder. She’d like to talk to you.” He handed the phone to Felicity.
    “Hi. My name is Felicity Pride. I’m the one who found the cat. Or rather, she was left in my vestibule.”
    “The Felicity Pride? The author?”
    “Yes. I’m a mystery writer.”
    “I know! I just love Morris and Tabitha. And you’re the one who found Edith?”
    “Edith,” Felicity said flatly. Edith? What a bland, disappointing name! How was she supposed to do effective publicity with a cat named—damn it all!—Edith! “Yes. I didn’t exactly find her. I think that she was left for me. On Monday night.”
    “Well, where on earth is Quin? He must be frantic. He’s devoted to his Chartreux.” It took Felicity a second to connect the spoken word with the name she’d seen in one of her new books. The woman said “Char-troo,” whereas Felicity had assumed that Chartreux should be pronounced with an effort at a French accent. The accompanying picture had shown a big gray cat with greenish-hazel eyes. Why had she of all people trusted a book to be accurate! Especially a book about cats! “He must be worried sick,” the woman continued. “Why didn’t he call me? Why