Scratch the Surface

her, and she did very well. I granded her, but she hated shows, and I wanted a good pet home for her. And then when I had a litter with a fluffy, I thought he might be interested, and that’s how he got Brigitte. He really loved his cats. I think he was lonely. He was a widower. Why in God’s name would anyone murder him? And leave him at your doorstep?”
    Granded ? Felicity made a mental note to look up the word, which must be a piece of cat show jargon. “I have no idea,” she said. “I never met him, either. I’d never even heard of him. The only connection is cats. I write about them, and he owned them. But beyond that? Millions of people own cats. I have no connection with most of those people.”
    “Well, it must be someone who reads your books. But that doesn’t narrow the field down a lot, does it? Your books are so popular.”
    Do go on, Felicity wanted to say.
    But before she could say anything, Ursula resumed. “I see your books all over. Even at airports. Speaking of which, you can ship Edith and Brigitte back to me. Quin has a son, but I have the feeling they’re not on good terms, and Quin always said that his son didn’t like cats, so Edith and Brigitte better come home here. I always take responsibility for the cats I breed. A direct flight would be best. There are plenty from Boston to San Francisco. That’s the nearest airport to me. I don’t know if you’ve ever shipped a cat before, but it’s pretty simple. Edith and Brigitte have flown before. That’s how they got to Quin. I’m never comfortable when my cats are flying, but I’ve never had a problem.”
    Brigitte, maybe. But Edith? Edith, who was so timid, so shy, that her response to finding herself with the freedom of a big, luxurious house was to huddle under a bed? Lock her in a cage and condemn her to hours in the roaring, terrifying belly of an airliner? No!
    “Edith can’t possibly fly. She is—”
    “Oh, that’s just Edith. Has she come out from under the bed yet?”
    “Yes, but she does spend a lot of time there.”
    “Edith always has to do everything on her own time schedule.”
    “She’s beautiful. So is Brigitte. Their eyes are... Look, Ursula, is there some reason they can’t stay with me?” Forgetting for once that she was the Felicity Pride, she rushed to establish her reliability: “I have a big house, plenty of room, no other cats, no dogs. Dr. Furbish seems very good. I’d take them to her all the time. I’ve bought the best food I could find, dry and canned, and toys and cat beds. They’d be inside cats. There’s no one here but me, so they wouldn’t get out accidentally.” Recollecting her place in the world, she added, “They’d have their pictures on the covers of my books!” She paused. “Only if they wanted to. If Edith was too shy, she wouldn’t have to have her picture taken. I’d be more than happy to buy the cats. I can pay you.”
    “You really don’t need to present your credentials. I know who you are! And you don’t owe me anything. But if you change your mind, I’m here. Edith and Brigitte are always welcome. Just stay in touch with me, would you?”
    “Of course.”
    “And let me know what turns up about Quin.”
    “î’11 call you soon.”
    “You’ll want the cats’ registration papers. We’ll get them transferred to you, unless you change your mind. And if you have any questions, I’m here, not that you of all people...”
    “You never know,” said Felicity, who already had a question that Ursula would be unable to answer. It was this: What am I doing adopting two cats? A second followed: Have I gone totally out of my mind?
    As if in answer, the phone rang. The caller was a reporter from one of the two major Boston newspapers. Had he reached the author of the cat mysteries? He had. And had Ms. Pride found a cat and a dead body on her porch? No, she had not. Both had been in her vestibule. Would she be agreeable to an interview sometime in the next few days? She would not. The police had ordered her not to speak to the media.
    Not until the murder was solved.
     

 
    Felicity’s considerable experience as a consumer and producer of mystery fiction had given her a great fondness for emotional magnetism between female amateur sleuths and male homicide detectives. When the attraction became outright romance, the relationship often fell victim to author-imposed impediments cruelly placed between the would-be lovers to prolong tension from book to book,