Scratch the Surface

off this condescending missive. What’s not said here is that they see urban crime at their doorstep. Not without reason, of course.” Felicity felt everyone’s eyes on her. “That letter requires no response,” she said. “If they have a traffic problem on their streets, they should call the police. Do we look like traffic cops?” A few people tittered. Encouraged, Felicity added, “And I am as concerned about the horrible event that took place here as everyone else is. More so. But it does seem clear that the man, Quinlan Goates, was killed somewhere else. There is no reason to suppose that we’re seeing the start of some sort of crime wave.”
    Trotsky angrily shook his copy of the letter. “We are going to take this insult lying down?”
    “In my opinion,” Brooke said, “Felicity is right. Our best course is to be perfect ladies and gentlemen. In other words, we should do nothing.”
    “Place the burden on the opposition,” a man agreed. “I’m for that.”
    “All in favor of no reply,” said Loretta, “raise your hands! Done! Same as the last vote. Mr. and Mrs. Trotsky, you’re seeing American democracy in action here. You win some, you lose some. That’s the American way. Well, we wrapped this up fast, didn’t we!”
    Everyone stood up. Loretta moved swiftly to the front hall and opened the door. “So nice to see you!” she said. “Until next time!”
    Hustled out, one couple headed for the next house. All the others except Brooke and Harry got into the cars parked on the street.
    “Chickens,” said Brooke. “We’re not afraid to walk, are we? Sorry about that mix-up with Isabelle Hotchkiss. Your books are much better than hers.”
    “Thank you,” Felicity said. “Loretta certainly knows how to run a meeting, doesn’t she?”
    Harry said, “She kept that Trotsky under control. I have to give her that.”
    “Actually,” Felicity said, “you were right that something triggered that condescending letter, but it wasn’t having the police here. It had nothing to do with the murder. It had to do with Mr. Trotsky. He had a nasty encounter with some woman who was walking her dog. He accused her dog of killing his grass. She acted quite entitled and supercilious, and he got nasty. I tried to smooth things over, but I didn’t have any luck.”
    “As if the relationship between the neighborhoods weren’t bad enough to begin with,” Brooke said, “without him making things worse.” Like the Norwood Hill woman with the golden retriever, Brooke sounded as if she’d never had a Boston accent to lose, but Felicity didn’t resent the apparent effortlessness of Brooke’s correct vowel sounds. Brooke preferred Morris and Tabitha to Olaf and Lambie Pie, and she was as close as Felicity came to having a Newton Park ally.
    “He creates a terrible image of our neighborhood,” Felicity agreed. “Among other things, the woman thinks that Russians are gangsters.”
    “Gangsters?” Harry said. “Trotsky’s a legitimate businessman. A publisher. He’s an oaf, but he isn’t a gangster.”
    “How do you know that?” his wife asked. “Russians are notorious for pirating American software.”
    “They pirate American books, too,” Felicity said.
     

 
    Brigitte sits on top of the refrigerator. Her tail twitches, and her amber eyes scan the kitchen. She drops weightlessly to the floor, rockets to the front hallway, skids across the slate floor, zooms to the living room, slides across a low table, and bolts back to the hallway, up the steep stairs, and into the room where Edith remains huddled under the bed. Boring, boring, boring Edith! What that cat needs is a good bite on the head! Brigitte dives straight through the bed skirt, pounces on Edith, delivers a hard nip to Edith’s neck, and flees before Edith can retaliate.
    In the upstairs hall, Brigitte follows her nose to a room heavy with the scent of cosmetics. The bed in here is larger than the one under which that fat, silly Edith is hiding. Brigitte soars upward, lands, and settles herself on a pillow. Although she goes instantly to sleep, the tip of her tail resumes its twitch. She dreams of prey.
     

 
    When Felicity returned home from the condo association meeting, she saw no sign of the cats and made a mental note to herself about Morris and Tabitha, who, she now realized, had spent far too much time awake in her previous books. Real cats were dedicated sleepers. Furthermore, as amateur sleuths, they were duds. Morris