14

The Real Chrysanthemum

I dragged Shane away from the Tower of the Winds and into the ruins. The ground beneath my bare feet reminded me of the old sand lot where my dad had tried to teach me how to catch a ball.

It only took a single baseball lesson for both of us to conclude that my talents lay in non-throwing, catching, running, or outdoor directions.

Yet here I was both outdoors and running.

The sandy earth crunched under my toes, and random sprouts of scraggy foliage grew up between large blocks of ancient stone. We ran past a twisted olive tree, and I hurtled a low rock wall only to have Shane’s manacle snap me back against him as he teetered after me. I ended up sitting on the wall staring up at him.

“Are you OK?” I slid my hand around his neck and pulled his head down toward me. Carefully, I peered into his eyes. His pupils weren’t uneven. That was good, right?

“Yeah, just need some air.” He sucked in a few breaths and then straightened. His color looked a bit better. Shane stepped over the rock wall.

We hastened onto an ancient pavement surrounded by broken pillars. We passed a two story building of uncut stone with an odd roof constructed out of a number of low tile mounds. After a long run along a grassy stretch interrupted by random pillars and a stone well, we came to another small olive tree and the Gate of Athena.

The gate was a massive triangle of worn stone blocks held aloft by five monstrous pillars. The monument had been constructed using donations from Julius Caesar and Augustus but was dedicated by the Athenians to their patron goddess. If I’d had more breath, I would have played the tour guide and mentioned all this to Shane. As it was, I was just grateful to make it to the end of the ruins. We ducked past the Gate of Athena and slipped through a narrow opening in the fence and back onto the street.

Shane pulled me along now. He seemed to have recovered from his recent strangulation.

The box with the real Chrysanthemum felt like a chunk of marble in my arms compared to the other Chrysanthemum. This box contained a whole, recently-thawed cat. I tried not to think about it. But the fact remained that the pelt and cat-shaped mold had been much lighter.

Shane stopped and gave me a moment to catch my breath. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the side of a whitewashed building. It had faded green shutters on the upper story windows and daunting black bars on the lower ones.

I sucked in weary breaths for a moment and finally came to a decision. “Let’s try to go home. They have their cat, and you only have a day and a half to stuff Chrysanthemum.”

“What if there are still men watching the house?”

“Then you can go to the police without me. But if their day was anything like ours, those guys never want to see us or our cat again.”

Shane tugged the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder and took the box from me.

It wasn’t fair; I should have carried something. Nonetheless, I let him be all gallant and didn’t complain. Hey, I don’t meet chivalrous strangers so often that I can afford to go around refusing gentlemanly gestures all willy-nilly.

Shane was being sweet despite the fact that he was no dental surgeon.

I would let him.

We trudged down the street, and I hoped against all hope that Ya-Yá’s house would be vacant and safe.

****

Ya-Yá’s street was empty of muscle-bound fiends and lurking sedans in dark, malevolent shades.

So I pulled Shane through the simple iron arch into the garden. We crept past the twisted cypress and jagged palmettos to stand staring up at the bright yellow stucco of my favorite place in all the world. Ya-Yá’s house always looked a little haphazard, like a giant child had built it out of a pile of massive yellow blocks. There were corners everywhere, nooks, stairs, crannies, several tiny balconies, and friendly scalloped awnings over the windows. The perfect sanctuary.

And here I was walking inside with a taxidermist and a dead cat.

Things could only get better from here, right?

Shane found an ancient pair of pruning loppers in one of Ya-Yá’s many hall closets. They were rusty and wobbled whenever one tried to snip anything, but the loppers made short work of our handcuffs.

Shane threw the broken cuffs in the trash and spread the new Chrysanthemum out on the kitchen counter along with an assortment of tools. He examined the fuzzy mound closely, and frowned over a sticky spot where it appeared someone had spilled a bit of coffee on her.

This cat was in better shape than the one we had toted all across Athens. But having the real cat meant starting all over again for Shane. I kind of wished that the other cat owner had been happy with Chrysanthemum. I mean, who hires private investigators to find a dead cat? Those hooded behemoths must have been P.I.’s, right?

Shane unzipped his bag of tools, but I put a hand on his shoulder. “Wait, Shane. How is your head? You were almost unconscious when that guy finally dropped you. I mean, are you OK?”

Shane looked up at me confused for a moment. “Don’t fret, Jack. I think I’ll live long enough to get your cat stuffed.”

I sniffed and stalked over to the medicine cabinet. I rummaged around and then came back with some pain killers, a glass of water, and a cool cloth. Shane took the pills, downed them in one gulp, and then met my gaze. “I’m fine.” He started to turn away.

I gently pushed down on his shoulders until he sighed and sank into a kitchen chair. I pulled up the other chair and leaned in so that I could wash the sweat and dust from his face. I stopped before the rag touched him. “Would you rather, I mean, you can have the first shower. That would probably be better anyway.”

Shane held my gaze for a long moment. “No, Jack. Go ahead.”

I could feel a blush heat my face as I scooted forward and gently wiped his face.

Shane caught my hand when I was done. He stared down at it for a moment undoubtedly noting the rough, red skin where our handcuffs had chaffed all day. After a moment, he placed a swift, soft kiss against the inside of my wrist. Then, he stood quickly and mumbled something about organizing his tools.

I remained where I was, silent, my pulse pounding. I turned away and staggered to the bathroom hoping my wrist wouldn’t look quite so raw after a warm soak. Although the burn of Shane’s kiss against the broken skin felt more real than the actual injury itself.

The bath was pure bliss. I washed my hair and then poured in some scented olive oil and just laid my head back and pretended that I lived in a world void of masked men, cats, and all forms of taxidermy.

After my fingers and toes were all pruney with wrinkles, I was finally able to coax myself out of the tub. I toweled off and slipped into a pair of soft cream yoga pants and an oversized man’s dress shirt in five different shades of blue.

Shane was bent over Chrysanthemum when I dragged myself back into the kitchen. He heard my steps and looked up. Our eyes met.

“Jacqueline…” Shane sighed and leaned back against the kitchen wall. He’d used my real name, again. This must be serious. “I need your help.”

“I’ll make us dinner, put on some coffee, run to the store for needles and a Bowe knife, whatever you need.”

“Coffee would be great. But what I really need is help with the cat.”

“You mean…that cat? As in Chrysanthemum? The one that is dead, and melting, and on my counter, and dead. You mean the dead cat?”

“Yeah.”

A long silence swirled about the room, like leaves blown off the branch by a lingering storm.

“The cat needs to be stuffed and on your mantel by noon tomorrow, right? Before the coupon expires.”

“Yes.” I sagged against a tall kitchen stool and propped up my cheek with one fist. We had less than a day; the task seemed impossible.

“I can get Chrysanthemum stuffed by then, but only if you don’t care how long she lasts. The pelt won’t be properly tanned. And it will only work if I have a little bit of help.”

“But I don’t even cook with raw meat.”

“We aren’t eating her; this is a cat.” He watched me, his gaze weary but steady under the soft hum of the kitchen lights. “Are you hungry, Jack? I could call for a pizza. My wallet is in the back room.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t even cook a meat dish from scratch because that would involve touching actual raw meat. It’s too terrible, all squishy and full of veins and strings and ooziness.” An acidic ache twisted inside my middle.

“Then you must be brave.” Shane leaned forward and cupped my face in his hands. He waited until I met his gaze. His hands were wide and strong. Calluses brushed against the soft skin along my jaw, but despite their rough texture, his hands were incredibly gentle. “I saw you run across the Acropolis in bare feet, show up for a meeting with your boss even though you had barely slept, or eaten, or bathed, and you snatched Chrysanthemum out of the hands of three grown men. You can do this.”

I stared up into his face rooted in place as though my feet had melted into the house’s foundation, never to move again.

Shane believed that I could do this wretched, ugly thing. He thought I was strong enough to help him stuff Chrysanthemum and claim Ya-Yá’s house.

And so I did.

It was terrible. I shall not describe all the horrendous cutting and scraping and stitching required to permanently preserve a deceased feline. Trust me when I say that it is unsightly to the highest degree.

Fortunately, Shane had brought a pre-made cat mold just in case things went awry. There was no time for a custom mold based upon Chrysanthemum’s actual remains. I was glad that Ya-Yá had demanded I supply her cat’s weight, because the mold looked pretty close to the original cat’s body type. Under-exercised was a kind way to describe Chrysanthemum, but Ya-Yá had wanted her to look authentic, not svelte.

It took us twelve straight hours. Twelve hours on our feet, without sleep, after having run through the city of Athens all day barefoot.

We finally found sustenance in the form of delivered pizza and Greek salads paid for with Shane’s plastic. I would have to reimburse him for that. I glanced over at the annoying Montana man who had invaded my kitchen and saved the day. Dark shadows lay under his eyes, and his brown hair was tousled.

His was not the profile of a dental surgeon in a crisp, white coat and tie.

But for some reason, I smiled and brushed my fingers along my jaw where he had touched me.

Shane bent over the counter wrapping Chrysanthemum in plastic for her night in the freezer. She needed to…evaporate, or solidify, or something.

I changed out of my cat preservation clothes and left a message at my lawyer’s office asking him to meet me at the house in four hours.

I hoped Chrysanthemum would at least be presentable enough to sit upon the mantel and fulfill Ya-Yá’s requirements by then.

I settled the receiver back into its place on the wall.

The phone rang.

I picked it up just a moment before I remembered that it was four thirty in the morning. I had been getting a lot of wrong numbers, and so I reached for the yellow pad and my favorite pen on the counter where I was keeping track of all the calls.

The caller spoke in rapid Greek. “We have the cat, but it’s in bad shape. Paw’s shot, fur’s all torn up, but our guy says the explosive will still fit. I need you to make room in the schedule for a “special presentation.” Make sure the personnel at the gala are clued in. Make it sound like a surprise. Although, now that I think about it, I suppose it really is.”

I heard a click on the other end, followed by an annoying tone. I looked down at my pad of paper. What had I just written? The words matched the ones from my head, but they sounded no less impossible for having been put to paper. I pressed the “End” button and tried to set the phone down on the counter. It clattered to the floor instead. The back of the receiver popped off and batteries and wire tumbled out onto the polished pine flooring.

These men had Ya-Yá’s phone number. Not only that, they thought it belonged to someone they knew.

This wasn’t about a dead cat at all.