Scratch the Surface

bills.”
    “This would be easier if it was thousand-dollar bills.”
    “The largest U.S. denomination is one hundred.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes, really.” And you’ve been teaching school? “Janice, the box is quite heavy.”
    Nancy Drew would have managed to use the metal box as a weapon. And Prissy LaChatte? She’d never have allowed a murderer to pull a gun on her in the first place. Or she hadn’t yet, anyway. Mercury poisoning would be a big bother. Maybe a nice, simple gunshot would be a better choice. Felicity usually avoided guns, mainly because she knew almost nothing about them. They couldn’t be much worse than mercury, could they? The one in Janice’s right hand wasn’t difficult. Even Felicity recognized it as a revolver. What she knew about revolvers was that they were reliable: If you squeezed the trigger, a revolver fired a bullet.
     

 
    Edith recognizes the scent of unwashed llama. To Edith, Janice reeks of hunger, cold, and fear. In search of safety, the heavy-footed Edith runs upstairs to the bed she now prefers, the big one that offers warmth and companionship, the prime spot in this new household. So trusting is she of this secure place that instead of hiding under the bed, she hops up and settles on her usual pillow, where she rests undisturbed until Brigitte races into the room and onto the bed. With the unmistakable air of a cat looking for trouble, Brigitte sidles up to Edith and pinches the thick flesh at the base of Edith’s big skull.
    Edith flattens her ears against her head. Her eyes glow with suppressed rage. Still, she refrains from striking. Determined to awaken the wild ancestral feline that sleeps beneath Ediths infuriating air of civilization, her tedious contentment, her dull placidity, Brigitte withdraws to the foot of bed. Her eyes closed, her body relaxed, she pauses to enjoy a few moments of meditation. After taking two deep, full, cleansing breaths, she conjures the image of herself in her very own special place of perfect safety, and once she sees the place vividly with her inner eye, she relishes the sounds and smells of the place, its feel beneath her paws, and the tranquility of spirit with which it blesses her. After benefiting from her sojourn in the imaginary place, Brigitte says good-bye to it, gradually opens her eyes, and slowly returns to the foot of what was formerly Felicity’s bed. The remarkable feature of Brigitte’s imaginary place is that it is almost identical to the real pillow still occupied by Edith. The only difference between the real place and the imaginary one is this: Where Edith is, there Brigitte belongs.
    Relaxed and refreshed, strong and self-confident, Brigitte eases forward, crouches, and springs on Edith, who rouses herself, hisses at Brigitte, and, propelled by her mighty hindquarters, jumps off the bed and zooms into the hallway and toward the stairs. Brigitte follows in close pursuit. Little and fast, she is a sports car to Edith’s limousine, a sports car that catches up to the limo, trails it, edges forward, and smashes into its side, determined to force it off the road.
     

 
    “I’ll manage,“ said Janice. “I’m stronger than I look, remember? Just close the box. Don’t lock it. Now, move over there.” She gestured to the opposite side of the bed. When Felicity had complied, Janice bent over a little, wrapped her left hand and forearm around the metal box, and lifted it to rest on her hip. “Let’s go. You first. Walk slowly.”
    Felicity obediently moved to the door and into the hallway, where she scanned for the cats. Janice had done nothing to threaten them. She hadn’t aimed the revolver at either of them, hadn’t spoken about taking them hostage, hadn’t done a thing, really. Then again, she hadn’t said outright that she’d shoot Felicity before making off with the money, had she? She hadn’t needed to. Was she simply going to depart, leaving Felicity free to tell the whole story to the police? Did she expect Felicity to make so preposterous an assumption? Apparently so. Felicity knew better. Maybe Janice would kill her here in her own house, or maybe she’d force Felicity into a car, either her own clunker or Aunt Thelma’s Honda, and then commit her second murder somewhere else. Near Jamaica Pond? In the parking lot at Angell? What did it matter! This house would be her best choice, Felicity thought. Perhaps Janice would stage a suicide. She’d fire her weapon point-blank at Felicity’s