Free Scratch the Surface by Susan Conant Page A

began by looking up the Russian Blue. The photo illustrating the breed showed a cat not entirely unlike the big gray cat, but according to the text, Russian Blues had large, pointy ears and bright green eyes. Damn! But there were more alley cats than purebreds, weren’t there? Therefore, the majority of her readers probably owned . . . What was the correct, inoffensive term? Another book supplied three possibilities: domestic, mixed-breed, and nonpedigreed . Considering herself to be a quick study, Felicity switched to a book about cat care that emphasized the need for physical, mental, and social stimulation. Illustrations showed carpeted cat trees, repulsively realistic plush mice, and feather-and-bell teasers like the one Ronald had used. Having mastered the topic of stimulation, Felicity picked up another book and had only begun to read about the sanitary needs of cats when she remembered her complaint to Ronald about the inadequate size of the disposable litter box he’d brought.

    Abandoning her course of study, she ran upstairs and into the cat’s room, where she found that the small box had indeed been used. Yuck! Morris and Tabitha never made such a stench! The cat herself was huddled under the bed, where, far from communicating the solution to the murder of her defunct human companion, she was communicating nothing except her wish to be left alone. Well, physical, mental, and social stimulation would shape her up! Then, too, there was the urgent need for a large litter box and a fresh supply of litter.

    An hour later, Felicity was back home after a trip to a large pet-supply store. In uncharacteristic fashion, she had spent more money than she’d have believed possible on the props required to present herself to her public as the very model of the modern cat owner: a gigantic gold litter box with a hood, a bag of litter, a molded plastic cat carrier with a quilted pad, a velvety cat bed, premium dry and canned food, two brushes, feline cologne, nail scissors, and a dozen toys that ranged from colorful bits of artificial prey to a battery-operated device that whirled feathery lures enticingly through the air. She comforted herself with the reflection that these ghastly expenses were tax deductible.

    Although the representatives of the media were still infuriatingly absent, she was gratified to find three messages on her answering machine, one from Dave Valentine and two from members of the local mystery writers’ community, Sonya Bogosian and Janice Mattingly. Valentine’s message was nothing more than a request to return his call. Sonya Bogosian was the president of the New England branch of Witness for the Publication, an organization of mystery writers and fans that met at Newbright Books. Felicity served on the board. Sonya’s message was not, however, about board business. Ronald, she said, had told her about Felicity’s misadventure, and she wanted to touch base before the Witness meeting tonight. Until recently, Janice Mattingly had been a “wannabe,” an unpublished writer with hopes, but her first mystery had been accepted. She edited the local Witness newsletter, saw to the food and drink offered at meetings, and otherwise made herself useful. She, too, said that Ronald had told her what had happened. She hoped that Felicity’s creativity and concentration weren’t affected by the terrible experience. Would Felicity please call her? Felicity intended to return Sonya’s call but not Janice’s. Eager to hear that the baffled police were finally seeking her advice, she called Dave Valentine back immediately.

    “Miss Pride,” he said, “thank you for getting back to me. I just wanted to let you know that we’re all done. You can use your front door again.”

    Struggling to keep the disappointment out of her voice, Felicity said, “Who was the man? Who killed him? Why was he left here?” And how soon am I going to be able to milk this murder for its full promotional value?

    “We don’t