Free The Black Cats by Monica Shaughnessy Page A

squinted into the setting
sun. “Cattarina, between this crime and the ones last fall, you’re turning into
a four-footed constable,” she said to me. “I know you pilfered that page from
Mr. Eakins’s book. I can tell by the teeth marks.” She removed the slip of
paper from her bosom and showed me its frayed edge. “It was beyond clever of
you to bring it home. I’m impressed.” She replaced the item and gave me a worried
smile. “I want to know who took the poor tom’s life, too. It’s peculiar, but
I’ve taken an interest in him.”
    Unlike
the brightly clad ladies of Fairmount, Quaker women dressed in dull browns,
free of adornment—no ribbons, no velvet flowers, no dizzying patterns. The
gentlemen sported equally somber attire. Sissy spoke to a few them, including
Mr. Beal, George and Margaret’s companion, and a lady she called Mrs. West,
which struck me as odd since the woman traveled east. But what these Quakers
lacked in fashion sense, they more than made up for in culinary acumen. Delicious
smells drifted from the dwellings on either side: roasted chicken, broiled
pork, stewed beef. I battled my stomach, fending off hunger pangs. Muddy’s broth
had done little to appease me.
    We
crossed over Franklin and arrived at the cottage with the rooster weathervane,
the one I’d encountered this morning. An entire lifetime had passed since the
murder, or so it seemed. “We should knock, shouldn’t we?” Sissy said to me. She
touched the brass knocker, wiped her fingers on her bodice, and tried again.
    Tabitha
Arnold answered the door. Perhaps she had not been taught to smile as a child. “Mrs.
Poe?” she said. “Store’s closed, but I can fit you for shoes if you like. Come through
to the workshop.” From our interactions on the street, she’d proved unlikeable.
But I didn’t take her for a killer. And a man’s scent graced the murder weapon,
not a woman’s. Mr. Arnold, however,
had just become my chief suspect.
    Sissy retreated
to the walkway, widening the gap between them. “No, no. I’ve come to…” She touched
her throat. “I’ve come to ask you about the black cat this morning.”
    I
trilled in agreement. Yes, black cat .
We needed answers, and we needed them now.
    Mrs. Arnold
flew at Sissy and grabbed her by the arms. “It was so awful! Poor Pluto! Why
did he have to hang him like he did?” She looked skyward and appealed to forces
unknown. “Why? Why did this have to happen?”
    I noted
her shoes. They held too many scuffmarks to count, and tarnish flecked the
buckles. An old proverb came to mind, something about the mouser’s kittens
going hungry. Humans must’ve had a similar saying about shoemakers, and if so,
it applied to Mrs. Arnold. I realized something else, too. While Green Street housed
a preponderance of Quakers, the Arnolds did not seem to be of their ilk. I
sniffed the hem of the woman’s dress—nothing of concern.
    Sissy
extracted herself from the woman’s grasp. “So it’s true. You are the hanged cat’s owner.”
    “Yes. We’d
adopted him from Mr. Eakins a week ago, maybe a little longer. I scarcely think
anyone knew we had him except the dentist fellow. Why should I admit this and
have people think ill of me? I have a business to run, you know.” Mrs. Arnold
dabbed her nose with a tattered handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve. “How
did you find out? Did Mr. Eakins tell
you?”
    Sissy
glanced at me. “No, there’s a constable involved.”
    “Harkness?”
    “No.” Sissy
smiled demurely. “Constable Claw.”
    My ears
pricked at the skittering of tiny feet. I sniffed the air. A mouse lived in the
Arnold residence. They should’ve taken more care with their cat.
    “You
said ‘he’ a moment ago,” Sissy said. “‘Why did he have to hang him like he did?’ To whom were you referring?”
    “Mr. Fitzgerald,
of course. The only thing he hates more than Englishmen are cats.” She tucked
her handkerchief away, leaving a lace corner poking from