Curiosity Thrilled the Cat

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1 - Slant Flying

  Chapter 2 - Carry Tiger to Mountain

  Chapter 3 - Grasp Bird’s Tail

  Chapter 4 - Repulse Monkey

  Chapter 5 - White Crane Spreads Wings

  Chapter 6 - Single Whip

  Chapter 7 - High Pat on Horse

  Chapter 8 - Step Back, Seven Stars

  Chapter 9 - Slant Brush Knee

  Chapter 10 - Play Guitar

  Chapter 11 - Wild Horse Separate Mane

  Chapter 12 - Fair Lady Works at Shuttle

  Chapter 13 - Wave Hands Like a Cloud

  Chapter 14 - Snake Creeps Down

  Chapter 15 - Slant Flying

  Chapter 16 - Needle at Sea Bottom

  Chapter 17 - Wave Arms Like a Fan

  Chapter 18 - Slap Face with Palm

  Chapter 19 - Single Lotus Kick

  Chapter 20 - Step Back Ride the Tiger

  Chapter 21 - Shoot the Tiger

  Chapter 22 - Step Forward and Punch

  Chapter 23 - Push Forward

  Chapter 24 - Cross Hands

  Chapter 25 - Conclusion

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CAT TRICKS?

  “Hercules,” I called. “C’mon, puss. Where are you?”

  There was silence and then a faint “meow” from the other side of the closed door.

  He was in there. Somehow he was in there. I grabbed the doorknob. Locked. I twisted the knob in frustration. Of course it was locked. The room was part of a murder investigation. And I’d just been trying to get inside. I yanked my hand away from the door like it was suddenly on fire.

  Now my fingerprints were all over the door. I used the hem of my T-shirt to rub the doorknob. Then I dropped to my knees and polished the bottom section of the door where I’d looked for some kind of hidden access panel.

  I caught a bit of my reflection in the brass kick panel and realized what I was doing. “You’re nuts,” I said aloud, sitting back on my heels.

  I shouldn’t have touched the door at all. I took a couple of deep breaths. I should call the police, I realized. How else was I going to get Hercules out? Then I thought, Oh, sure, call Detective Gordon and tell him my cat just walked through the door into the room. No, that wouldn’t make me look like a nutcase.

  Was that what was wrong? Was I crazy? I remembered a psych prof in first year telling the class that if you could ask the question, then you weren’t. Of course, three-quarters of the time he came to class in his pajama bottoms.

  Then I remembered how Owen had seemed to just materialize on Gregor Easton’s head, just the way he’d suddenly seemed to appear in midleap, chasing that bird in the backyard.

  I couldn’t breathe. Was it possible? Did my cats have some kind of magical ability?

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, February 2011

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47705-2

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are many people who have helped take the Magical Cats from an idea to a completed book, and I owe them all my thanks. Thank you to my agent, Kim Lionetti, for answering endless questions and never losing her patience, and to Jacky Sach for making everything happen. Thank you to my editor, Jessica Wade, whose editorial skills make me look good.

  Thanks also go to Lorraine Bartlett, who urged me to write this story, and to Judy Gorham, Susan Evans, and Janet Koch, who have always been terrific cheerleaders.

  A special thank-you to the Guppies; a more supportive group of writers doesn’t exist.

  And a big thank-you to Dr. Jennifer Brown, veterinarian, who answered all my questions about cats. Any errors or out-of-character cat behavior in these pages is due to my playing with the facts.

  And last, thanks to Patrick and Lauren, who make it all worthwhile. Always.

  1

  Slant Flying

  The body was smack in the middle of my freshly scrubbed kitchen floor. Fred the Funky Chicken, minus his head.

  “Owen!” I said, sharply.

  Nothing.

  “Owen, you little fur ball, I know you did this. Where are you?”

  There was a muffled “meow” from the back door. I leaned around the cupboards. Owen was sprawled on his back in front of the screen door, a neon yellow feather sticking out of his mouth. He rolled over onto his side and looked at me with the same goofy expression I used to get from stoned students coming into the BU library.

  I crouched down next to the gray-and-white tabby. “Owen, you killed Fred,” I said. “That’s the third chicken this week.”

  The cat sat up slowly and stretched. He padded over to me and put one paw on my knee. Tipping his head to one side he looked up at me with his golden eyes. I sat back against the end of the cupboard. Owen climbed onto my lap and put his two front paws on my chest. The feather was still sticking out of his mouth.

  I held out my right hand. “Give me Fred’s head,” I said. The cat looked at me unblinkingly. “C’mon, Owen. Spit it out.”

  He turned his head sideways and dropped what was left of Fred the Funky Chicken’s head into my hand. It was a soggy lump of cotton with that lone yellow feather stuck on the end.

  “You have a problem, Owen,” I
told the cat. “You have a monkey on your back.” I dropped what was left of the toy’s head onto the floor and wiped my hand on my gray yoga pants. “Or maybe I should say you have a chicken on your back.”

  The cat nuzzled my chin, then laid his head against my T-shirt, closed his eyes and started to purr.

  I stroked the top of his head. “That’s what they all say,” I told him. “You’re addicted, you little fur ball, and Rebecca is your dealer.”

  Owen just kept on purring and ignored me. Hercules came around the corner then. “Your brother is a catnip junkie,” I said to the little tuxedo cat.

  Hercules climbed over my legs and sniffed the remains of Fred the Funky Chicken’s head. Then he looked at Owen, rumbling like a diesel engine as I scratched the side of his head. I swear there was disdain on Hercules’ furry face. Stick catnip in, on or near anything and Owen squirmed with joy. Hercules, on the other hand, was indifferent.

  The stocky black-and-white cat climbed onto my lap, too. He put one white paw on my shoulder and swatted at my hair.

  “Behind the ear?” I asked.

  “Meow,” the cat said.

  I took that as a yes, and tucked the strands back behind my ear. I was used to long hair, but I’d cut mine several months ago. I was still adjusting to the change in style. At least I hadn’t given in to the impulse to dye my dark brown hair blond.

  “Maybe I’ll ask Rebecca if she has any ideas for my hair,” I said. “She’s supposed to be back tonight.” At the sound of Rebecca’s name Owen lifted his head. He’d taken to Rebecca from the first moment he’d seen her, about two weeks after I’d brought the cats home.

  Both Owen and Hercules had been feral kittens. I’d found them, or more truthfully they’d found me, about a month after I’d arrived in town. I had no idea how old they were. They were affectionate with me, but wouldn’t allow anyone else to come near them, let alone touch them. That hadn’t stopped Rebecca, my backyard neighbor, from trying. She’d been buying both cats little catnip toys for weeks now, but all she’d done was turn Owen into a chicken-decapitating catnip junkie. She was on vacation right now, but Owen had clearly managed to unearth a chicken from a secret stash somewhere.

  I stroked the top of his head again. “Go back to sleep,” I said. “You’re going cold turkey . . . or maybe I should say cold chicken. I’m telling Rebecca no more catnip toys for you. You’re getting lazy.”

  Owen put his head down again, while Hercules used his to butt my free hand. “You want some attention, too?” I asked. I scratched the spot, almost at the top of his head, where the white fur around his mouth and up the bridge of his nose gave way to black. His green eyes narrowed to slits and he began to purr, as well. The rumbling was kind of like being in the service bay of a Volkswagen dealership.

  I glanced up at the clock. “Okay, you two. Let me up. It’s almost time for me to go and I have to take care of the dearly departed before I do.”

  I’d sold my car when I’d moved to Minnesota from Boston, and because I could walk everywhere in Mayville Heights, I still hadn’t bought a new one. Since I had no car, I’d spent my first few weeks in town wandering around exploring, which is how I’d stumbled on Wisteria Hill, the abandoned Henderson estate. Everett Henderson had hired me at the library.

  Owen and Hercules had peered out at me from a tumble of raspberry canes and then followed me around while I explored the overgrown English country garden behind the house. I’d seen several other full-grown cats, but they’d all disappeared as soon as I got anywhere close to them. When I left, Owen and Hercules followed me down the rutted gravel driveway. Twice I’d picked them up and carried them back to the empty house, but that didn’t deter them. I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find their mother. They were so small and so determined to come with me that in the end I’d brought them home.

  There were whispers around town about Wisteria Hill and the feral cats. But that didn’t mean there was anything unusual about my cats. Oh no, nothing unusual at all. It didn’t matter that I’d heard rumors about strange lights and ghosts. No one had lived at the estate for quite a while, but Everett refused to sell it or do anything with the property. I’d heard that he’d grown up at Wisteria Hill. Maybe that was why he didn’t want to change anything.

  Speaking of not wanting change, Hercules was not eager to relinquish his prime spot on my lap. But after some gentle prodding, he shook himself and got off. Owen yawned a couple of times, stretched and took twice as long to move.

  I got the broom and dustpan from the porch and swept up the remains of Fred the Funky Chicken. Owen and Hercules sat in front of the refrigerator and watched. Owen made a move toward the dustpan, like he was toying with the idea of grabbing the body and making a run for it.

  I glared at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

  He sat back down, making low, grumbling meows in his throat.

  I flipped open the lid of the garbage can and held the pan over the top. “Fred was a good chicken,” I said solemnly. “He was a funky chicken and we’ll miss him.”

  “Meow,” Owen yowled.

  I flipped what was left of the catnip toy into the garbage. “Rest in peace, Fred,” I said as the lid closed.

  I put the broom away, brushed the cat hair off my shirt and washed my hands. I looked in the bathroom mirror. Hercules was right. My hair did look better tucked behind my ear.

  My messenger bag with a towel and canvas shoes for tai chi class was in the front closet. I set it by the door and went back through the house to make sure the cats had fresh water.

  “I’m leaving,” I said. But both cats had disappeared and I didn’t get any answer.

  I stopped to grab my keys and pick up my bag. Locking the door behind me, I headed out, down Mountain Road.

  The sun was yellow-orange, low on the sky over Lake Pepin. It was a warm Minnesota evening, without the sticky humidity of Boston in late July. I shifted my bag from one shoulder to the other. I wasn’t going to think about Boston. Minnesota was home now—at least for the next eighteen months or so.

  The street curved in toward the center of town as I headed down the hill, and the roof of the library building came into view below. It sat on the midpoint of a curve of shoreline, protected from the water by a rock wall. The brick building had a stained-glass window that dominated one end and a copper-roofed cupola, complete with its original wrought-iron weather vane.

  The Mayville Heights Free Public Library was a Carnegie library, built in 1912 with money donated by the industrialist and philanthropist Andrew Carnegie. Now it was being restored and updated to celebrate its centenary. That was why I had been in town for the last several months. And why I’d be here for the next year and a half. I was supervising the restoration—which was almost finished—as well as updating the collections, computerizing the card catalogue and setting up free Internet access for the library patrons. I was slowly learning the reading history of everyone in town. It made me feel like I knew the people a little, as well.

  I paused at the bottom of the hill, looked both ways and crossed over to the same side of the street as the library.

  Old Main Street followed the shore from the Stratton Theater, past the James Hotel to the marina. Main Street continued from the marina to the edge of town, where it merged with the highway. Having two Main Streets made getting directions very confusing if you hadn’t lived in Mayville Heights very long.

  The streets that ran from one end of town to the other all followed the curve of the shoreline. The cross streets mostly ran straight up and down the hill, all the way to Wild Rose Bluff. The bluff, I’d discovered, had provided much of the stone for the foundations of the gorgeous old buildings in the downtown.

  For me the best part of Mayville Heights was the riverfront, with all the big elm and black walnut trees that lined the shore, and the trail that wound its way from the old warehouses at the point, past the downtown shops and businesses, all the way out beyond the marina. Mayville was still a pretty busy Miss
issippi River town, but it was mostly tourists coming and going now. From the porch of the James Hotel you could watch the barges and boats go by on the water the way they had a hundred years ago.

  I stopped at the bottom of the library steps. Oren Kenyon had installed the new railing. The wrought-iron spindles look like fat licorice twists. The center spindle on each side seemed to split apart into a perfect oval about the size of both my hands and then reform into a twist again. The letters M, H, F, P and L, for Mayville Heights Free Public Library, were intertwined and seemed suspended in the middle of the circles.

  I climbed the stairs, stepped inside and turned to look up above the entrance. A carved and pieced wooden sun, easily three feet across, hung above the wide maple trim. Above it were stenciled the words “Let there be light.” It was beautiful.

  Oren had brought the sun to the library last week. He was tall and lean, in his midfifties, I guessed, with sunbleached sandy hair, like a farm-boy version of Clint Eastwood. He’d stood silently by the temporary checkout desk for who knows how long until I’d looked up.

  “Could you look at something? If you have time. Please?” he’d asked.

  After I’d asked him to call me Kathleen he’d stopped calling me Miss Paulson, but he hadn’t started using my first name. I’d followed him out to his ancient pickup. The sun had been lying in the truck bed, braced in a frame padded with an old wool blanket and covered with a tarp. Oren pulled back the canvas and my breath caught in my chest. I reached out to touch the wood and then stopped, as I realized the significance of the carving.

  I looked at Oren. “For over the entrance?” I asked.

  A carving of the sun and the words “Let there be light” were over the entrance of the first Carnegie library in Scotland. I knew that, but I had been surprised Oren did. Carefully I ran my finger along one of the sun’s rays. The wood was smooth and hard.