Scratch the Surface

of course, Felicity Pride herself. It did not escape Felicity’s notice that Quinlan Coates had owned all of Isabelle Hotchkiss’s mysteries and only a few of her own. Furthermore, although she was anything but embarrassed about writing light entertainment, she was struck by the contrast between the feline subgenre fiction in the cat room and the academic tomes and journals in the living room. It crossed her mind, too, that most of her readers were women. The explanation for all the cat mysteries was, she thought, identical to the explanation for the cleanliness of the room and the cat beds, cat tree, and toys: Quinlan Coates had been a man who really loved cats.
    The next room she entered was obviously Coates’s bedroom. Although the shades were down, Felicity avoided touching a light switch. In the gloom, she saw a floor deep in discarded clothing and a rumpled bed topped with a heavy duvet. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw a length of fur in the center of the comforter. For a moment, she was unable to tell head from tail, but she then realized that the creature was on its back, its head twisted to one side, its tail stretched out full length. It reminded her of an exceptionally long and narrow gray bird with thick and ruffled feathers, a bird lying inexplicably dead. She had found Brigitte.
     

 
    When the apparently dead thing stretched, Felicity was able to discern four legs and, soon thereafter, a head and a tail. With presence of mind worthy of Prissy LaChatte, instead of lingering uselessly in the dim, musty bedroom and instead of making a quick grab at Brigitte, she tiptoed to the living room, opened the bothersome door of the cat carrier, and, using one hand to keep the metal door quiet, transported the carrier to the bedroom and put it on the carpeted floor. Faced with the task of moving the small cat from the smelly bed to the carrier, she hesitated almost as if she were hearing echoes of her mother’s raucous laughter and the inevitable taunt about Aunt Thelma’s cat: Cat’s got your number, Felicity! Cat’s got your number!
    Whether Brigitte had her number or not, the cat had to be shifted from the bed to the carrier. Was there a correct method for picking up cats? Should Felicity scoop the animal up in her arms? Grasp it in some manner known to the cat savvy and kept secret from people like her? Oh, my, yes, kept hidden from people whose numbers cats inevitably had, people whose essential character cats sensed and from whom cats therefore fled. Cats did sense things, didn’t they? Self-doubt, for example. Consequently, it was vital to act with a show of self-confidence that even a cat’s extraordinary powers of perception couldn’t spot as fakery.
    Taking a deep breath, Felicity bent from the waist, wrapped both arms around Brigitte, and pulled the cat to her bosom. Edith’s body had the density and solidity of steel, and her coat was like wool. Brigitte, in contrast, was almost weightless and remarkably silky. Felicity did not, however, pause to stroke Brigitte and, in the darkness of the smelly bedroom, did not even get a good look at her. Rather, in one swift motion, she transferred the cat from her arms to the carrier. Only when she was fastening the latch did she realize that Brigitte hadn’t clawed, squirmed, or yowled. On the contrary, she’d shown no sign of wanting to run away.
    Far from boosting Felicity’s confidence in her ability to handle cats, the observation made her wonder whether Brigitte was ill, perhaps seriously dehydrated or weak from starvation. She did not, however, linger in Quinlan Coates’s apartment to offer the cat food and water, but immediately left. On her way out, she was pleased to see nothing of the police, who, she assumed, would detain her for questioning without hailing her as the brilliant amateur sleuth who’d solved the mystery of the murder victim’s identity. Thank heaven that she hadn’t reached Detective Valentine himself but had been able to buy herself time by leaving him a message.
    As always, Felicity drove home through Newton. When she reached Norwood Hill, the unhappy memory came to her of the unkind remarks she’d overheard in the waiting room of Furbish Veterinary Associates. Dr. Furbish’s snobbish clients, she now decided, had been jealous of the luxury enjoyed by the residents of Newton Park. Some of the old houses she passed had slate roofs that probably leaked. The wood of some houses was so old that it wouldn’t