Scratch the Surface

heart. Or head? She’d wrap her victim’s hand around the gun to leave prints. A good forensics expert would spot the ruse, but by then, Felicity would be dead. And Edith and Brigitte? Brigitte was so annoyingly interested in everything. It would be just like her to get in Janice’s way. And both cats were so hideously vulnerable. Edith was big and solid, like an old-fashioned doorstop, but against a malevolent human being, she’d be defenseless. Where were they? Edith had probably taken refuge under the bed that had once been exclusively Felicity’s. Where was Brigitte?
    As Felicity moved toward the top of the staircase, with Janice right behind her, she experienced a sudden revelation: To her astonishment, she was more worried about Edith and Brigitte than she was about herself. Although a revolver was aimed at her back, her own fifty-three years were not passing before her eyes; rather, she was gripped by images of creatures who had just entered her life.
    She prayed silently. “Dear God, You are on the verge of letting Janice Mattingly kill me. Why You should thus have botched the plot of a cozy mystery is Your business and not mine, but I can’t refrain from pointing out that unless You’ve been publishing under an assumed name—if so, what is it?—I have more experience in these matters than You do, and it’s my professional opinion, and that of other published mystery writers, that the amateur sleuth, namely, me, is supposed to survive to the end of the book, and that the murderer is supposed to get caught. Readers like to see order restored and justice done. If Your sales are lousy, You’ll have only Yourself to blame. Anyway, I don’t have time to critique Your efforts in full because, as You can see for Yourself, I’m about to die and would consequently like to put in a few last words. First, if there’s one thing readers hate, it’s the death of animals, so You would be ill advised to kill Edith and Brigitte. Second, on the subject of my immortal soul, in writing Your review, please ignore everything my mother has to say about me. She is wrong. I am capable of love. In particular, I love Edith and Brigitte. Love counts for something, doesn’t it? If not, it should. Respectfully yours, Felicity Pride”.
    Felicity rested her right hand on the banister and began to descend the stairs. A scrap of her award-winning Latin came to her: Facilis descensus Averno. Virgil. The Aeneid. Easy is the descent to Hades. Ha! Her own route to the underworld was steep and uncarpeted. Why hadn’t Uncle Bob hired an architect instead of buying a house from a developer! Money. Always, money.
    “Slow down,” Janice ordered her.
    Only three steps from the top, Felicity paused. In the stillness of the big house, the sound of Janice’s footstep was unnaturally loud. Then, breaking the silence, came a hiss, a quick snarl, and the familiar and uncatlike pounding of Edith’s paws, followed immediately by a melee of sounds and sights as Edith rocketed down the stairs with Brigitte in close pursuit while, simultaneously, the metal box banged its way down after the cats, the revolver clattered after it, and Janice, tripped by the cats, lurched into Felicity’s left shoulder, lost her balance, and, with a short, hideous scream, plunged down the steep, hard steps to the slate floor of the hallway. Felicity, who had no recollection of saving herself, found that she was huddled against the wall near the top of the staircase, still only three steps down, with her derriere planted on the wooden tread and both hands locked on the banister. Her eyes were on Janice Mattingly, whose motionless body lay below, face down on the gray slate. Near the door to the vestibule was the fireproof box. Close to it was the revolver.
    The cats again broke the stillness. Brigitte, truly possessed of little cat feet, darted lightly up the stairs and past Felicity. The little cat’s fluffy coat showed damp patches. With the unmistakable air of a victor, Edith strolled into the hallway from the direction of the kitchen, calmly seated herself on her haunches, casually bent her head to lick her front paws, and, with a glance up at Felicity, uttered her tiny meow, a single high-pitched note that Felicity somehow found reassuring.
    With the brittle composure induced by emergencies, Felicity pulled herself to her feet, carefully descended the stairs, and stepped around the bundle of ugly greenish-yellow sweater, chinos, and dark hair that was