Scratch the Surface

duct tape that I’d brought with me on his nose and mouth, and just to be safe, I sealed his head in some plastic from the dry cleaner, which I’d also brought along. It’s hard when you’ve read a lot of mysteries. The possibilities are endless, and there’s always the question of what’s reliable and what isn’t.”
    Eager to maintain the role of sympathetic listener, Felicity said, “And then you drove to my house. You knew I’d be at Newbright, I guess. Janice, I understand why you were angry at me. You had every right to be. I should have known what a wonderful book you’d write, and I should’ve found the time to read it and blurb it. But, of course, I wasn’t thrown off my work. Most people would’ve been, I guess, and that would’ve made two down.”
    “Room at the top. But you were sort of incidental. The real competition was Isabelle Hotchkiss.”
    “For both of us.” In an effort to maintain the appearance of normality, Felicity forced herself to eat a little chicken. “In that sense, you did me a favor.”
    “God moves in a mysterious way,” Janice said. “Like, take the cat. Edith. I thought that would freak you out. I mean, if you’d wanted a cat all these years, you’d’ve had a cat, and you didn’t. So, I thought maybe you’d hate being stuck with the cat. Only you weren’t. Anyone who lets a cat get on the table and eat off plates really is a cat lover.”
    “Brigitte doesn’t exactly eat off plates. Not really. She just likes to see how food smells. But tell me something. How did you move the body to my vestibule?”
    “Not easily! I parked in your driveway. This neighborhood is totally deserted, you know? I’d checked it out. No one walks around or anything. What’s wrong with these people? Anyway, I parked there, and I dragged him, which was not, believe me, easy. But I did it. People get superhuman strength in a crisis, you know? Like those mothers who lift cars that their kids are trapped under. And then I carried up the cat in her carrier, and that was that. Oh, except that I returned his car to the spot behind his building where he always parked. And I walked home from there. It was a long walk, but that was the way. And on the way home, I found a dumpster behind a store and threw out the raincoat and the gloves I was wearing. It was a wet night, remember?”
    Felicity took a token sip of wine. “Yes, I do remember. It was foggy.”
    In one of her books, the resolute and resourceful Prissy LaChatte wouldn’t have been blathering about the weather. Rather, Prissy would have decided that the time had come to talk the murderer into surrendering herself to the police. Did real murderers ever turn themselves in? Could they be talked into it? Felicity felt sick to her stomach. She lacked the persuasive powers of Prissy LaChatte. Furthermore, the woman seated at her table was not a creature of her imagination, but a ruthless, ambitious killer who had no reason to confess to the police and go to jail. In fiction, amateur sleuths convinced murderers to give themselves up. In real life, murderers murdered again. Still, having been in comparable situations many times in fiction and never before in real life, Felicity did what Prissy would have done.
    “Janice,” she said, “just think! Once people know about all this, Tailspin will make the Times bestseller list. And stay there forever! The public will be so curious about you.” Janice rose, reached into the big woolly purse that she’d hung on her chair, and pulled out a small handgun. Pointing it at Felicity, she said, “Curiosity killed the—” She let seconds pass. “Finish it, Felicity!”
    “Cat,” said Felicity. Edith and Brigitte! No, not the cats! “Cat writer, ” said Janice. “In this case, curiosity killed the cat writer.”
     

 
    Out of the corner of her eye, Felicity saw that Edith was standing awkwardly in the doorway that led from the front hall to the kitchen. The big cat wore a puzzled expression, as if she’d just awakened from a trance and had no idea where she was or how she’d arrived there. Felicity broke into a sweat. Hack mystery writers had a phrase for the trick of injecting a thrill into a story by placing a pet at risk: pet jeop . Was Edith in jeopardy? The combination of the gun and the cat terrified Felicity and filled her with a deep, raw sense of protectiveness. Always beautiful, Edith was somehow more extraordinary than ever, her dense coat a more vivid shade of