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Frantic barking woke me.
I’m sure most people would jump out of their beds at such a commotion, hearts pounding, hands shaking as they tried to turn on their flashlights to see what evil had invaded their neighborhood.
But not me.
Calmly, I rolled over and reached for my phone. It was 5:45—the paperman was running a little late. Since I had only about a minute to get downstairs, I tried to muster up a sense of urgency, but another sleepless night left me groggy and irritable and thinking, “Oh, just let him win this time.” But I couldn’t. The fierce warrior rose up inside me, and I tossed the covers, grabbed my robe, slid my tired feet into slippers, and shuffled across my bedroom. My dresser mirror revealed an extra in a zombie movie watching me as I passed by. “You’re up early,” I mumbled to my reflection, ran a hand through my mussed hair, and dreamed of coffee as I stumbled down the stairs toward the front door.
Samson the German Shepherd was racing up my steps with the prize within reach when I grabbed my newspaper and shook it at him. “Ha! Ha! The human wins again.” Even with having to race Samson most mornings, I would never consider switching to the on-line version of our town’s paper. The residents of Forman Falls, Texas, were fiercely proud of the Gazette, and we didn’t want to lose it. Besides, I loved the feel of the newspaper in my hands.
As did my next-door neighbor on my left, Jennie. Usually, she opened her screen door at the same time to get her paper, and we grunted at each other—two cups of coffee, minimum, were necessary for either of us to form meaningful language before sunup. But this morning, the only part of Jennie’s anatomy that appeared was her hand, dropping like a giant spider from the bottom of her door. It hopped around, landed on her newspaper, and both hand and paper disappeared up. When her front door slammed, I glared at Herman Farnsberry’s house across the street.
It appeared my good neighbor Jennie actually believed Mr. Farnsberry’s lies about me.
My sweet neighbor two doors down on my right called last night to tell me the latest gossip: that I was being accused of killing Farnsberry’s cat and tossing him into the toilet of the vacant house, directly across the street from my home. “Did you do away with his cat, Sophie?”
“Of course not, Mrs. LeGraff. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have chosen the vacant house’s potty for his reveal. I have more imagination than that.”
So, on this hot and mucky East Texas morning with the sun peeking above the trees lining our beautiful street, I marched myself over to Mr. Farnsberry’s house and knocked on his black wrought-iron screen door. I crossed my arms, tapped my foot, and rolled my eyes when he didn’t answer. He’s an early riser—the lights were already on in his kitchen and dining room—and I had no qualms about knocking again, louder and longer.
A piece of paper slid between the door and the screen frame. Do not trespass or I will call the police.
Oh, puh-lease. “Mr. Farnsberry?” I leaned over to see better, resting my forehead against the thick mesh of the screen door with my eyeball almost touching it, but I couldn’t see a thing. “Mr. Farnsberry, I did not kill your cat.”
Another sheet materialized. My finger is poised to dial 9-1-1. Please leave.
“This is ridiculous. I wouldn’t do what I’m being accused of! I’m a respectable, decent, caring...” Hmmm. “Okay. A reasonably caring woman who wouldn’t hurt a fly much less a cat. All right, yes, I would hurt a fly but never a cat. For heaven’s sake, let’s be reasonable here.”
A third page slid into view. Dialing.
“Oh, all right!” I tapped his screen with my newspaper—not very hard; it was more to satisfy the urge to tap him for not giving me a chance to defend myself. I stomped down his steps and stalked toward my house. But before I reached it, Samson the Paper Snatcher, with a snarl and a bark, raced up to me and buried his teeth in my paper.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” I yanked and did some snarling myself, but Samson won the tug-of-war and ran like the wind toward the vacant house.
I raced after him, shouting at him to drop my paper and drawing, I’m sure, the attention of most of my neighbors when I screeched. I could well imagine what they were saying: “There goes Sophie again, after another animal.”
When Samson slid under the vacant house, I fell to my knees and squinted into the dark netherworld only a dog could love. There he sprawled, his teeth still imbedded in my daily news. Flies swarmed all over his stinky paradise.
“Give it back, you thieving fleabag.”
He dropped the newspaper in muck that looked and smelled like a mixture of dung, mud, and decomposing bodies. “Great, Samson. What self-respecting person would want that paper now? Bad dog! Bad dog!”
“Is there a problem, ma’am?”
I bumped my head when the man spoke behind me. I didn’t recognize his voice but was sure my robe-draped derriere didn’t present a welcoming picture. I rubbed my head and squirmed around, but my right knee landed on something sharp. “Oh!”
I jerked and placed both hands in the tall grass as I lifted my knee and set it on another spot that didn’t bite me. Then I sat back and looked up at the man. I couldn’t make him out with my hair in my face and the rising sun behind him. I could see he was big—tall, like the Jolly Green giant looking down at me.
“Are you okay, dear?”
Across the street, Mrs. LeGraff stood in her yard, waving her newspaper at me. I sent her a thumbs-up with my best six-o’clock-in-the-morning smile and then turned my attention back to the man, his question still hanging in the air.
I tried to stand but by now, both my feet had gone to sleep. I grabbed the window ledge and pulled myself up and endeavored to look dignified despite wearing my most comfortable robe with a couple of missing buttons and one pocket ripped and hanging on for dear life. My right foot started to wake up—oh!—and I needed to stomp it. I wanted to say, “No, there’s no problem,” but I only got the word “No” out because when I lifted my foot, my house slipper slid off, and I couldn’t stop myself in time to not stomp it. My foot landed on a protruding tree root, and I yelped and danced on one foot, tried to grab my hurt foot, tumbled forward instead, and landed squarely on my face.
“Ma’am, are you hurt? I’m Officer Burke Maguire with the police department. Can I help you up?”
Well, dear Gussie!
What was he doing here?
I turned my head just enough that I wouldn’t be inhaling grass or bugs. “Thank you, but I don’t need help.” I tasted blood. I wasn’t about to get up and present a bloody face to him, of all people. “Was there something you wanted, Officer?”
There was a long pause before he said, “Are you Mrs. O’Brion?”
My mother, an Irish hippie-wannabe who married Murphy O’Brion, named each of her children after long-dead Irish relatives. None of us had the same last name. I was the youngest. My name, Sophie MacIvey, came from a great-great-great-aunt who, I learned, discovered not only opium on a trip to London in the 1890s but the scandalous nightlife. I legally changed my name to O’Brion right before college.
I didn’t correct his use of the word Mrs. “Yes?”
“We’ve had a complaint from Herman Farnsberry that you killed his cat.”
Samson the Betrayer barked as if he sat in the ‘Amen Corner’ at church. I heard Burke rustling in the grass, and then he grunted. Was he looking under the vacant house?
“Is there any reason I should be concerned about this animal being hurt or killed?”
Oh, for crying out loud. “Of course not.” Since my mouth had grass and dirt and, for heaven’s sake, blood in it, I spit and spit again. “Samson stole my newspaper. I was just, um, just...”
He cleared his throat—or was he stifling a laugh? “Were you trying to get your paper back?” he prompted. I could hear the chuckle in his words.
“Absolutely not. It’s ruined now, as you can see—and smell.” I sniffed for good measure.
“So, you were?”
“Fussing at him. The dog doesn’t possess one stitch of good manners.”
It sounded as if Burke stood and took a few steps away from me. A page flipped.
“Where were you yesterday between eight-thirty a.m. and one-thirty p.m.?”
“In my home.”
“Were you at home the entire time?”
“Yes. I didn’t leave at all yesterday. I usually don’t.” Well, great. Just paint me pathetic.
“Can anyone verify your whereabouts yesterday from eight-thirty to one-thirty?”
“No. I didn’t talk to a soul.” Pathetic, pathetic.
He was writing again. “Why do you think Mr. Farnsberry named you as his cat’s—” Here, he stopped, flipped a page. “—as Yoda’s murderer? Do you two have a history of disagreements?”
“Who? Yoda and I?”
He chuckled. At least he still had a sense of humor. This could work in my favor.
“I meant you and Farnsberry, but you can tell me about your history with Yoda if you’d like.”
“There is no history between me and the cat. We were just acquaintances and rarely spent time in each other’s company.” I made it to my side. Ouch, but my knee hurt.
“Ma’am, I’d be happy to help you up.”
“I don’t need to get up.”
“All right. Then, uh, you and Farnsberry have a history?”
“He was my principal in middle school and has lived in this neighborhood since then.”
I heard him shuffling something. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. O’Brion. I’ll be in touch.” He walked away from me. A door slammed. A car started. He drove away.
Finally.
“Oh!” I sat up, shivered, and frantically brushed any bugs or spiders off my robe and out of my hair. Samson’s cheerful bark brought me back to my newspaper, and I bent over and looked him square in the eye. “You can keep my paper, Samson, but if you ever set your teeth on another newspaper of mine—” At this point, I had the good sense to lower my voice. “Well, you heard what happened to that cat!”
Samson whined, slithered through the stinky gook, and buried his nose in it. When he came up, he had something in his mouth. I quickly grabbed the window ledge and stood, clearing a wide path when he wriggled out into the sunshine and deposited the glob near my feet. “Oh? A peace offering from your grimy world? Not accepted, buddy boy.”
But my inquiring mind had to know, so I picked up a twig, stabbed at the muddy lump, and moved it around. It was a necklace, with two pendants and a cross on it. I maneuvered the chain onto my stick and hurried home.
♦
THE NECKLACE SOAKED in my kitchen sink while I showered and dressed. I carefully washed and rinsed it and turned over one of two tear-shaped pendants. Sharon was engraved on the back of the gold one. I didn’t know anyone named Sharon, but the necklace was stunning. I was sure those were real diamonds imbedded in the gold pendant; the other pendant was silver with what looked like rubies and emeralds in it. Someone had spent a lot of money on this necklace.
In the middle of the two pendants was a cross, simply made of wood with no jewels.
I placed the necklace on a paper towel on my table/writing station near a window. I was on a deadline with my next book, and I needed to get my mind off Samson, my newspaper, the necklace, and Burke Maguire. I shoved the cat murder to a back burner in my brain, too, until the local news van drove slowly by around ten o’clock as if the driver expected to find a toilet-paper-draped cat collar dangling from my front porch. Bertie the editor would be thrilled to have a crime to report in her newspaper, especially one involving me.
When the van drove by again, I stepped out onto my porch, smiled, and waved at the driver. He slammed on his brakes, leaned over to see me better, and then kept going, without answering my greeting.
About ten minutes later, someone knocked on my front door. I checked outside as I passed the row of windows in my living room. No news van in sight or a vehicle of any kind.
I looked through the peep hole.
Burke Maguire again! What now?
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
He chuckled as if he’d caught me pilfering cash from the church collection plate. “Well, Sophie, it is you. You clean up real nice these days.”
So, he’d known it was me earlier and hadn’t said a word. But who could blame him? I probably looked wild enough to have killed a cat and contemplated the same for a paper snatcher. “Is this an official call? You think I killed Yoda?”
He reached for the screen door.
I hesitated a fraction before I pushed it open.
We faced each other for an awkward moment, and then he stepped inside, looked around, and joined me at my big front window. He had certainly grown since high school, was a good two inches over six feet, and he’d filled out.
“I’m walking the neighborhood, talking to folks.”
“Slow day for crime?”
“Even if the accusation is absurd, I have to—”
“You think I’m innocent?”
He looked into my eyes without blinking, without humor, and actually seemed to see me. His features softened. “Unless your character’s changed drastically over the years.”
“Well, it hasn’t. I didn’t kill Yoda. Although, there were times I wanted to—”
He held up his ringless left hand. “I don’t need to hear a confession about your desire to off Yoda.”
“Not the cat. His owner.”
He chuckled. “Or Mr. Farnsberry. You tormented him no end in middle school with all your pranks.”
“I was a writer in the making, honing my plotting skills.”
“Is that what you call it?” He quickly sobered. “You live across the street from the vacant house. Have you noticed anyone playing there lately or snooping around?”
I looked out at the old, two-story clapboard. All the windows were boarded up. Tall weeds hugged the concrete steps leading up to the landing under the scarred front door. Rusted hinges dangled on the door jamb, the only thing left of the screen door ripped off by Halloween ghouls years ago. Old chipped paint covered the house. It was an eyesore but for the large back yard surrounded by lush greenery hanging over its fence on all three sides.
“It’s still a favorite haunt. Kids play football. Girls play dolls on the landing. Oh, and a couple kids sneaked out from around back night before last.”
“What time?”
“Around one o’clock.” The question in his raised brows caused me to add, “I couldn’t sleep. The thunderstorm cooled everything off, so I enjoyed the quiet on my porch.”
“Do you know what they were doing?”
This time, I raised my brows. He knew good and well what they were doing. When we were in high school, it was a favorite place for kids—including me and Burke—to sneak onto the property and steal a kiss or two. “For the record? Enjoying the stars.”
The corners of his mouth lifted as he scribbled a few words and turned the page. “Would you write down all the kids’ names for me, please? And their addresses, if you know them.”
“They don’t live on my street, and I don’t know their addresses.” But I wrote down their names and handed the notebook back to him. “Oh. And Mr. Farnsberry.”
“He told me he was there last week.”
“Not last week. Two days ago.”
“He didn’t mention that. Did he go inside?”
I shook my head. “It was right after sundown. The oddest thing, though. He looked under the house with a flashlight.”
“Probably searching for Yoda.”
“He was holding Yoda.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“Yoda was a distinctively gargantuan cat. It was him all right.”
A dimple appeared when Burke tightened a corner of his mouth. “I meant, are you sure it was Farnsberry?”
“I watched him until he went inside his house.”
“I’ll ask him about it.”
“Right. And be sure to tell him that Sophie O’Brion, his cat’s alleged killer, ragged on him.”
“I’ll keep my source a secret.” He studied the page of names. “One of these kids could have killed Yoda.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“Who, then?”
“I haven’t given it much thought.”
“Maybe you should. You’re the only suspect who—” His gaze settled on the necklace spread out on my writing table. He drew the paper towel close to the edge and leaned over. “Sharon?”
“Samson gave this to me as a peace offering for stealing my newspaper.”
“How could he afford it?”
Despite my resolve to keep this strictly business, I laughed.
Burke chuckled, picked up the necklace, and thoroughly examined it. “This is high quality and expensive. Gold, rubies, diamonds, emeralds.” He turned it over several times. “Where did Samson stash this?”
“In his palace.” Burke glanced at me, and I shrugged. “Just a joke between us, Officer. Palace. Under the vacant house. Same thing.”
“So, you don’t hate animals.”
I looked heavenward and steered the conversation back to the necklace. “Maybe Sue at the jewelry store can tell us something about it.”
“It couldn’t have been under the vacant house for long because it’s still in remarkably good condition. Mind if I take it in and call Sue?”
“You’re thinking there’s a crime here?” I handed him a sandwich baggie, and he slipped the necklace inside.
“I don’t know. I’ll check to see if it’s been reported missing.” He walked to my front door and turned around. “It’s good to see you again, Sophie.”
I opened the door and the screen and said the first stupid thing I thought of: “Thanks for coming by. Be safe out there.”
He walked outside and stood quietly as he scanned the neighborhood and then headed for his patrol car.
As he drove off, I stepped onto my porch and watched his vehicle until it turned off my street. Burke Maguire, standing on my front porch again after twelve years. The thought made me sad, and I walked inside and shut the door.
♦
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I received a call from Edna Conroy, a lady in her mid-fifties who attends my church. “Why, hello, Miss Edna. How are you today?”
“I had nothing to do with killing Herman Farnsberry’s cat, that’s how I am.”
Well, well. “How did you get mixed up in this mess?”
Edna sighed. “Missy, my cat, and I paid a friendly call on my old friend Herman and his not-so-friendly, mentally-disturbed cat. My Sunday school class is visiting backsliders, and I never leave my Missy alone at home. It makes her nervous.” She sniffed. “I had considered leaving her in the car, you see, because I intended staying only long enough to say, ‘Hey, how are you, we miss you at church, dear friend, so come back soon and have a nice day.’”
Edna hardly took a breath. “But it’s much too hot in the car. The second we walked inside Herman’s house, my sweet Missy jumped onto my shoulders. Do you know why she jumped up there, Sophie?”
I stifled a snicker. “Yoda?”
“He practically flew into my arms to get at her. Well, she was so upset, she crawled onto my head—and me with a new hairdo from Suza’s just that morning. My sweet Missy isn’t a tiny cat, so can you just imagine what she did to my hair? Her nails were clipped a few days ago, thank the good Lord, but still.”
“Missy’s adorable,” I answered diplomatically, but the cat isn’t a whit adorable. She’s fussy and ill-tempered and wouldn’t know a meow if it licked her. She snarls like a dog and sometimes barks like one, too.
“And then,” Edna continued, “I was about to lose my balance, when Yoda ran up my dress—”
“Your dress!”
“On his way to my head where my sweet Missy was clinging for dear life. Herman grabbed Yoda, whose claws were concreted to my dress, and he ended up pulling all of us over, onto his not-so-soft carpet. To top it off, my dentures fell out. I was absolutely mortified.”
“Oh, my goodness, Miss Edna. Were you hurt?”
“Thankfully, no. I landed on Herman. But my sweet Missy was so upset, she scratched Yoda. They got into a fight and I screamed and dialed 9-1-1 and that nice young police officer came over—oh, what’s his name—the new one that just moved back here?”
“Burke Maguire.”
“And what a nice man. He happened to be in Herman’s neighborhood when the call came in. I will admit this, Sophie: if someone hadn’t done away with Yoda, I considered putting him at the top of my list. He gives—gave—felines a bad name.”
“Well, Miss Edna, I’m glad you’re okay, and I appreciate the confession. It’ll be our little secret.”
Another suspect in the mysterious demise of Yoda couldn’t keep my hair from needing a trim. I told Edna that I had to leave in one minute if I intended to make my appointment on time.
On my way to Gladys’ Hair Lair, my phone rang. Unknown Caller. I answered it anyway. “Hello?”
“Sophie?”
“Burke.”
“In the last few years, has Herman Farnsberry exhibited hostility toward you?”
“How did you get my phone number?”
“It was on file.”
Hmmm. “Just a sec.” I pulled into the salon and quickly saved his number to my phone.
“Any hostility, Sophie?”
“Mr. Farnsberry and I aren’t close, but I don’t growl at him when we run into each other, and he doesn’t growl at me. Why?”
“I’m trying to establish intent. I can only come up with your middle school pranks.”
“You think he’d accuse me of killing Yoda because I pranked him a few times?”
“A few times?”
“All right, maybe more than a few. Burke, have you verified that Yoda is dead? Have you seen a body?”
“Why would he lie about his cat dying?”
“He shreds my reputation on his word alone?”
The silence between us pounded with my question.
Good gracious. “I have an appointment, and I’m already late. Let me know when you find Yoda stuck up a tree or hiding behind a sofa.”