Scratch the Surface

foyer, she regained her self-confidence. Despite high ceilings and wood paneling, the interior of the building was shabby. Discarded junk mail and freebie local newspapers lay on the stone floor beneath the mailboxes, and the glass door that led to the main hallway was dirty. More to the point, it was locked. The numerous doorbells were marked with apartment numbers. Next to the numbers, residents’ names appeared on business cards, scraps of paper, and, in few cases, tattered strips of masking tape. Quinlan Coates’s name was on one of the business cards, albeit a yellowed one. Felicity rang Coates’s bell, but the ancient-looking speaker near the bells remained silent, and no one buzzed her in.
    What would Prissy do? Rather, what would Prissy’s creator cause Prissy to do? Felicity searched the cards, scraps of paper, and bits of masking tape in search of a building manager or caretaker. In her mysteries and in other people’s, the apartment building the amateur detective wanted to enter invariably had some sort of concierge, doorman, or manager who could be conned into believing a trumped-up story about a distant cousin making an unexpected visit or a paralegal desperately eager to deliver crucial documents that couldn’t safely be left in a mailbox. As Felicity was grumbling to herself about the absence of anyone to whom she could tell her perfectly genuine story about the need to rescue an abandoned cat, the outer door opened and in walked a man of about her own age. He had curly black hair and dark eyes, and wore a dark suit. In his hand was a ring of keys.
    “Pardon me,” she said. “Do you happen to know Quinlan Coates?”
    “He’s on sabbatical. He might be away.”
    “Yes, I know he’s on sabbatical. You haven’t seen him lately?”
    “His car’s out back. But he could be traveling. I haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”
    “Actually,” Felicity said, “I have reason to believe that something may have happened to him. He seems to have abandoned his cats!”
    “I doubt that,” the man said. “He boards them when he goes away. That’s probably where they are. At Angell Memorial.”
    “Well, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, I have to tell you that I came into possession of one of his cats under extremely sinister circumstances. And the other cat may very well be in his apartment. You don’t happen to know anyone who has a key, do you?” To emphasize the nature and urgency of her mission, she lifted the carrier by its handle.
    “I have one. Quin’s apartment is right above mine, and the plumbing’s old. I have a key to let the plumber in if something leaks when Quin’s away. He wasn’t too crazy about the idea, but then he had to pay for my ceiling, and he wasn’t too crazy about that, either. He’s an old tightwad, but I hope he’s all right.” The dark man inserted his key in the door, held it for Felicity, and took the cat carrier. “Let me take that thing for you. If anything’s happened, he’ll want the cats to be all right. It’s on the second floor.”
    Felicity followed him up a flight of carpeted stairs. The carpeting was dark brown, the walls a muddy beige, and the atmosphere oppressive. At a door with “24” printed on adhesive tape, he stopped, searched through his key ring, and finally found the right key and let Felicity in. “I have to warn you, you’re going to want to open a window. Quin won’t hire anyone to clean, and he doesn’t get around to taking out his trash all that often. I’ve got to go. You can let yourself out.”
    After thanking the neighbor, Felicity moved the carrier into the apartment, closed the door, and, in spite of the thick, rancid odor, smiled broadly. She stood in a large living room with a high ceiling, dark wood doors and trim, and walls that had once been white. The furniture had probably been sold as Scandinavian and had certainly been bought a long time ago. A sectional sofa and two soft chairs had also been white or possibly the color called “oatmeal.” The arms of one chair had turned brown, and the patterned rug in front of it bore black stains. The tops of the side tables were invisible under piles of scholarly books and journals, but the legs were teak or maybe teak-stained pine. Dust and cat hair were especially prominent on the standing lamps and table lamps, which, like the other furnishings, were domestic Scandinavian in style. Their condition was battered. Strands of gray fluff clung to stained