The Groaning Board

a cat. Jimmy.”
    “Yes, Jimmy. A pure Angora. A
classic, with a royal personality.”
    “He died recently?”
    “It was pretty awful.” Dr. Bowers
pulled out the drawer of a filing cabinet and riffled through it.
    “What was?”
    “Here,” Dr. Bowers said, removing a
folder. She opened it. “It was appalling.” She sat down next to Wetzon. “I’ve
never seen anything like it, and I’ve seen a lot, let me tell you.”
    “What happened to Jimmy?”
    She smiled slightly. “Jimmy had the
soul of an alley cat. He was a wanderer. He’d slip out a window at night and go
off. I hate to think it was someone in the neighborhood, someone who knew Micklynn,
but it had to have been.”
    Squirming in her rickety chair,
Wetzon steeled herself for the rest. It was impossible not to think of Izz...
    Dr. Bowers sighed. “Someone soaked
Jimmy with gin and set him on fire. He died a horrible death.”
    Wetzon’s morning coffee and orange
juice threatened reflux. She was having trouble breathing. “Why do you think it
was someone Micklynn knew?”
    “Because whoever did it scooped up
what was left of Jimmy and put him in a plastic bag with the empty gin bottle,
then hooked it over Mickey’s front door. Her niece found it and freaked out.
Micklynn fell apart completely, and who could blame her?”
    “Did anyone report it to the police?”
    “I did. The cops walked around and
talked to a few people, but nothing came of it, and Micklynn wouldn’t cooperate.
If you ask me, I think she knew who did it. The niece too. A friendship that
had gone bad. Something like that.”
    “My God. The person who did that has
to be sick and full of hate. Do you do autopsies on animals?”
    “Sometimes. But really, Ms. Wetzon, I
saw what was left of Jimmy. It wouldn’t have told us much. And Mickey was
devastated. An autopsy would have prolonged the agony and not allowed her to
mourn.”
    Taking out her checkbook, Wetzon
thanked Dr. Bowers for her time. “How much do I owe you?”
    The doctor waved her off. “No
charge,” she said.
    On First Avenue, Wetzon gulped great
breaths of exhaust-filled air. What a horrible thing. First Jimmy, then Sheila.
And last, Micklynn. What did it all mean? Was it possible I that all three
deaths were connected? What if Sheila had flipped out and killed Jimmy, and
Micklynn killed Sheila for revenge? No. Not possible. Everything she’d learned
about I Sheila told Wetzon that Sheila was a caring person. She pushed the
thought away.
    Why had Todd Cameron tried to push
Wetzon off Hem Barron’s roof?
    She began walking, then stopped.
Something had come to her out of left field. What if someone was killing off
the people around Ellen, to isolate her? But why?
    And what was Hem, the cat burglar,
searching for at The Groaning Board last night?
    No doubt Bill Veeder was at the
Nineteenth Precinct right now dealing with Hem’s rap sheet. The thought tickled
her. He’d left a message for Wetzon at eleven the night before, saying he was
home, where was she? Well, he hadn’t really said it like that, but she’d
enjoyed hearing it. He was so goddam sure of himself. She’d called him back at
midnight and left a sultry, “Hi, talk to you tomorrow,” with no explanation of
where she’d been.
    She chose to walk the thirty-one
blocks to the office and by the time she turned on Forty-ninth Street, she was
feeling much better, though the image of Jimmy hovered in her mind.
    The office was wonderfully cool.
“Good morning,” Wetzon said.
    Darlene looked up. “Good morning,
Wetzon.” She had an odd expression on her face. “Smith said you were to come up
the minute you got here.”
    “Any messages?” She shivered suddenly
and slipped on her jacket.
    Without a word, Darlene handed her a
packet of pink slips about an inch thick.
    “Wow! What’s going on? It’s not even
eleven o’clock. Did the market crash?” She flipped through the messages as she
climbed the steps. Bill Veeder. Carlos. Laura Lee. Arthur. Bill again. Mort
Hornberg. Louie. Bill Veeder. Nina Wayne. “My God,” she muttered, truly
puzzled.
    Smith was on the phone when Wetzon
walked in. She looked up, with obvious relief. “Hold on, sweetie, she just
walked in.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Bill, sugar. He’s
called four times. He’s just desolate about—”
    “Did something happen to Evelyn?” She
set her bag and briefcase on the floor behind her desk.
    “No. Here take the goddam phone. It’s
the