Mew is for Murder Page 3

  But she was facing into the kitchen, not out the door, I thought. And I didn’t see a phone in there, just mugs and appliances and dishes for the cats. I stood and turned in toward the house again. This didn’t seem right. He must have seen the questions rising, and put a hand on my arm. “She was probably disoriented.” I looked up at him. He stood a few inches taller than I did in my sneakers, and I saw that his nose had probably been broken at some point. “One of the neighbors, a Ms. Wright, has told us she was kind of out of it much of the time. But we will be looking over the evidence, including all the photos and such, and the coroner will have a look at her, too. Don’t worry.”

  I opened my mouth to speak. The old lady hadn’t seemed that far gone when I’d talked to her, and if he was talking to the same neighbor I’d met the day before, I wasn’t sure I trusted her intentions.

  “I’m calling animal control to bring the van!” His partner interrupted, his voice rising with what sounded like the first hint of panic. “There must be twenty cats here.”

  “Animal control?” I asked, not what I’d meant to say. “Animal control?” The cop’s hand was still on my upper arm, the grip of his long fingers pressing gently, but his face had turned serious.

  “What else can we do? I’m sure they’ll do what they can. Theresa—Officer D’Amato—loves animals. She’ll only euthanize the ones that are in bad shape.”

  “Bill, want to give me a hand?” the pudgy partner called from inside the stuffed sitting room. “Bill?” The panic note was higher now. “I’d like to locate a next-of-kin and get out of here!” I heard a hiss and a muttered expletive, and the cop standing next to me excused himself to help. Just then I felt a warm pressure against my ankle. Two round green eyes looked up at me. My little friend, the kitten with a limp, I thought. An injured cat.

  “Talk about timing, kitty. You’ve got it.” I scooped her up and into my courier bag and she didn’t even mew.

  “I’m going to head out,” I yelled into the room, where various scuffling sounds and a particularly annoyed howl marked the interlopers’ presence. “You know how to reach me.”

  “That’s fine, Ms. Krakow. We’ll call if we need anything,” my detective, Bill, called back. Just then a box went thud, someone yowled, and I slipped out the door.

  mmm

  The phone was ringing as I unlocked my apartment door, and I grabbed it as I lifted my bag’s heavy top, liberating the kitten.

  “Worcester? At one?” One of the assistant editors who toiled under Tim had fielded a call from a radio station hack and been casting about, a little frantic, to find a free writer. Thrilled that I had answered, she took a deep breath and quickly filled me in.

  Supposedly a fading rocker, a local boy who’d made good for a while back in the early ’90s, was planning an “unannounced” surprise appearance at the station this afternoon. Unannounced, that is, except for the series of phone calls to press outlets like ours that had probably started early this morning, but the assistant editor didn’t realize she was being played. Marc Starr had a new album out, so she should have expected something like this. I could have warned her. Still, it was a gig. The breathless assistant said she’d pay me for a full review if I could just get her thirty lines on the event by deadline. What about mileage? I’d asked, looking for an excuse to say no. But she was on the spot. Ralph was taking a personal day, so I was it, mileage and all. I could’ve requested meal vouchers, but why push my luck?

  Putting down a small dish of water for the kitten, who was sniffing around the edge of my radiator, I thought about other essentials. I found an old jug of scoopable litter in the back of the larder and after improvising a tray out of a typing-paper box—and making sure she knew where it was—I grabbed my car keys and took off. I felt like I’d been up for a week already, and it wasn’t even noon.

  There was no reason to rush. Despite the fifty-mile drive out to the station’s studios, I had more than enough time and let myself enjoy a set of vintage Irma Thomas soul after checking out a collection of Starr’s so-called hits for reference. As Thomas had sung—months before the Stones—time was indeed on my side. The supposedly spontaneous event, a rooftop concert by Starr and his band, wasn’t even going to start till after five, as I found out soon after I arrived. Till after the station hack had done all he could to work up the local media, that is, and till six o’clock television deadlines threatened to remove the few cameras he had gathered.

  Grateful for the company, I spent the afternoon chatting with the other reporters, an intern from the Worcester weekly and a local stringer for Boston’s other daily, writers for the city glossy and some fanzine contributors as well as the crew from a small cable station, all of us sitting around the station’s windowless waiting room, drinking their bad coffee. Under the posters and the signed gold records—mass produced for distribution to program directors around the country—we writers traded war stories: in-depth pieces slashed to the bone to make way for celebrity photos, magazines gone bankrupt, owing us fees.

  The TV folk stayed on their side of the room as we grew increasingly raucous, one-upping each other with the ways editors tended to “lose” expense sheets or forget stories that had been assigned. Of course, there were the usual copy desk horror stories as well. Meat Loaf becoming “Mr. Loaf,” for example. Or the first name of local guitarist Dick Tate translated to the more formal, and meaningless, Richard while his assumed last name stayed in.

  “I’d written that the piece was in 6/8 time,” Larry, an older writer from the other daily, was telling us. “The next morning, I picked up the paper to see the term ‘simplified’ to 3/4!” We all groaned in sympathy, even though the story was an old one. If it had really happened to Larry it was the thirtieth or fortieth time, and I suspected that all of us (with the possible exception of the intern) knew it. But it was a good story anyway, an “evergreen” as our editors would say.

  “Hey, I can top that,” a newcomer, whom someone had introduced as Ethan, chimed in. “One of our editors was on a campaign to improve our diction, cut down on slang and contractions.” The dark-haired writer with thick glasses had our attention now; all of us had experienced similar reform attempts. “And he was as smart as the job requires. So, I guess I can see what happened. After all, it was right in my lead: ‘the local authorities can’t be blamed.’ Some editor wanted to open that up.” He paused for effect, in command of the crowd. “Except of course, that once he typed out ‘can’ he forgot to add the ‘not.’”

  “Ouch!” someone cried out loud, and at that—as well as the new guy’s look of righteous indignation—we all laughed. Even as a former copy editor, one of what this crew would consider the enemy, I chuckled and moaned along. It was the camaraderie, more than the veracity I valued. After my morning, I wanted nothing more than to trade tall tales and battle stories in the company of colleagues, and if we had to make some up to pass the time, I was okay with that.

  The new guy’s story had trumped the lot, however, and we broke into individual conversations after the laughter died down. “Who is that guy?” I asked Larry, whom I’ve known for years. He raised his bushy eyebrows and fixed me with a comical look. “Why, Miss Theda, could you be interested?”

  I shook my head, smiling. Ethan, with his close-cropped curly hair and those Coke-bottle glasses, had a kind of Buddy Holly thing going on, and he was certainly sharp. I pitied the editor who had to face his stern disapproval. But for better or worse I like my guys a little more happy-go-lucky. “Not my type,” was all I said.

  “Ah, checking out the competition, then?” Larry didn’t wait for an answer. “He’s a news stringer, a crime reporter with one of the Western Mass. papers,” he explained. “But he’s been stuck too long on GA”—general assignment reporting—“and he wants to get more into the features and arts side of things. A little sick of his editors, I gather. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to move into the Boston market, too.”

  “Huh,” I murmured in response. That was a lo
t of information, and not all of it good. But even if this guy was an ace crime reporter, that didn’t mean I had to worry about losing my gigs to him, did I? I wanted to believe in that camaraderie I’d been basking in only moments before.

  “He was asking about you, you know.” Larry’s dark eyes were watching me closely, those shaggy eyebrows slightly raised. Personal or professional interest? “Said he’s seen you somewhere, and wanted to know who you wrote for.” Professional then.

  “Well, I assume you told him that I wasn’t the great Theda K., and if I was, I had a tendency to bite.”

  “Of course,” said my friend, looking over at the small crowd that the new guy had gathered around him. “But I don’t see him as a threat to you, Theda. He’s not really a music guy. I told him he could learn a lot from you though. And that once upon a time, I’d been your mentor, too.”

  With a grin that made me feel even more guilty about my territorial instincts, he walked over to join the group and, after a moment, I followed. Larry was right, of course. Without his aid, I’d have had a much harder time getting established, and he’d been a freelancer then, too. This was our way: we all competed, but we all helped each other as well. It was time to make nice. I walked over to the new guy and introduced myself.

  By the time Starr finally made his appearance, I’d gotten the basic Ethan outline. He was, as Larry had reported, primarily a news guy. But after years of chasing cop cars and fire trucks, he was more than ready for a change.

  “The first time I reported from a fire scene, it was thrilling,” he’d told me. The coffee had grown truly foul by then, despite generous scoops of pasty nondairy creamer. “I remember thinking, ‘This is important, it affects real people’s lives. This is what I want to do.’” I nodded, remembering my own early infatuation with the printed word. “I taught myself how to report by doing it. How to find things out by digging where you can and then getting close to anyone involved, asking questions but mostly just listening, you know?” I did. This was common ground, and I felt better about breaking the ice. Ethan, however, seemed troubled. “But after a while, all the crime stories start to read the same. It changed me, changed what I wanted. It’s like everything I wrote fed the blood lust, and as a freelancer I just had to keep pushing for more to get paid. The editors always want more; they never see the big story. And the writing? They just screw it up.”

  He paused as if he was going to continue, but only pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “It’s like I’ve shed too much of my own blood for editors who don’t know any different,” he said finally. “They’re all either tone-deaf or jerks.”

  I couldn’t understand all of what he was saying. I’d never reported on anything more dire than a city council meeting. But I could relate to his exasperation with editors. Spurred by my memories of Larry’s generosity, I gave him Tim’s name—with a word of warning about his shortcomings—and promised to put a word in. Ethan shrugged.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I don’t expect anything from editors anymore. What I really want is to be able simply to write. Write without worrying about the rent and only about things I really care about. Something important—and without some imbecile hanging over my shoulder asking if there were signs of arterial spray at the scene. I’m sick of these dimwits—and I’ve seen too many dead bodies.”

  I’d seen too many dead bodies, too, I wanted to explain, ready to share and maybe exorcise the horror of my morning. I started to tell him about my earlier misadventure, but just then the cry went out—Starr was in sight and we were all up against deadline. As a group, we raced up the stairs to the tarred, flat roof to find a professional sound system waiting. And even though a breeze had picked up and the setting sun didn’t give off much warmth, we all stayed up there as Starr made a desultory swing through a few of the old hits, pop metal as dated as his thinning teased hair. When he announced that the next song would be the upcoming single from his new album, though, a happy murmur rustled along the rooftop. The small crowd gathered at street level might feel otherwise, but we reporters were all glad that the show was coming to an end. Not only was I shivering, I had an hour’s drive ahead of me. Still, I wanted an edge, some local color, before I headed out for the Mail’s newsroom. Generosity only goes so far, and I managed to race down the stairs before Starr’s crew blocked it with equipment. Out on the street, I cornered one of the sparse crowd before it dispersed.

  “It was cool, huh? Seeing him here. Like the old days,” said the fan, whose moussed coif paid tribute to her idol. “New song kind of sucked, though, huh?” Not the most articulate, but at least she looked of an age to remember Starr’s fleeting fame. I had my story, and all I had to do was write it.

  mmm

  Between editing and traffic, it was after nine by the time I got home from the Mail, where I’d gone directly to file. It felt like midnight. The kitten greeted me at the door with a purr that belied her petite size, and when I checked I was pleased to see that she’d understood the concept of the litterbox, as makeshift as it was.

  “You’re a good little house kitty, aren’t you?” I asked, as I scooped her tiny turds. “You’re going to make somebody very happy.”

  Cute as she was, what pleased me most were these signs of socialization, her willingness to come into contact with me as much as her house training. Cats will always look for a way to bury their waste, but they won’t always greet you with a purr. This was no feral kitten, although she seemed awfully young to be on her own. As soon as I could get her leg tended to, I was sure she’d be adopted. Kittens, after all, have a much better chance of finding a home than perfectly sound adult cats. “You’ll be a wonderful pet.”

  “Wow,” she replied, in a voice so high it barely registered. “Wow!” Litter, water—clearly there were other needs to be taken care of.

  “I’m sorry, honey. Musetta, isn’t it?” She followed me as I stepped into my tiny kitchenette, twining figure-eights around my ankles. “Wow!” No cans showed themselves in my cabinets, even when I reached all the way in past an ageless pack of popcorn. No dry food could be found under the sink, either, where once I had kept James’ big bag of crunchies and, later, the prescription food that he had never really liked.

  “Wow?” For a little cat she was growing insistent. And then, success! In the back of the fridge a roast chicken quarter from the local deli offered its juicy self to me. I’d thought of that as my dinner, but I’d be willing to share it. I pulled the flesh from the drumstick bone, shredding it with my fingers into a saucer, and placed it on the floor.

  “We can share, right?” I asked. But in the moment when I hesitated, the meatier thigh in hand, the kitten cleared the plate. Sighing, I picked up the saucer and shredded the rest of my dinner for the greedy little beast, those big round eyes watching every move I made.

  She made quick work of the remaining chicken, and at last seemed satisfied. Rubbing against my leg as a feline thank-you, she strode into the living room and began a meticulous, if noisy, tongue bath, beginning with her white mittens and proceeding to her face with its off-center star, and then her ears and, finally, her body. While watching her lick her rounded side was amusing—she hadn’t quite mastered the art of balancing while reaching for those hard-to-get-to back spots and kept tumbling over—my own belly had started rumbling. Nothing for it but to head out again into the increasingly chill night.

  When I pushed open the glass door to the Casbah, a bar and restaurant a few blocks away, the idea of a steaming casserole topped with some peppery harissa was making my stomach growl louder than a tiger.

  The place was packed despite it being a Tuesday, the temperature a good thirty degrees warmer than the street outside. I looked through the sea of students and locals, a young crowd that tended toward denim and leather, searching for a seat. A pale-faced brunette squeezed by, and the black plastic of her too-tight PVC dress felt hot and sticky where it rubbed against my hand. The music was loud and almost everyone was yelling to be heard over it. Some rock
abilly band, I thought, from the twang of guitar that broke through. Not my favorite style of music, but the hubbub felt like home to me. This was the sound of life, of people. I shed my jacket and worked my way sideways through to the bar.

  “Krakow, come here!” An arm waved up in front of me, and I headed crablike toward it and the beckoning voice, ending up at the restaurant’s high wooden bar. “Take a load off!”

  Ralph was nursing a Rolling Rock, and something about the way he gestured and then fell back against the tall, polished bar made me think it wasn’t his first. “Garçon!” he called out to Risa, the bartender, as I slid into the empty seat he’d grabbed for me, neatly ducking his slightly-too-wet kiss of greeting. “Get the lady a drink!”

  “‘Garçon’ means ‘boy,’ Ralph,” I said, thanking Risa as she set an open bottle of Blue Moon in front of me without having to ask.

  “Humph,” he replied, a moment of dissatisfaction crossing his round, ruddy face. For a moment he looked like an infant about to squall. “Well, you got your beer, didn’t you?” I smiled and nodded, not wanting a scene, and ordered without looking at the plastic-covered menu. Shikel mishi with extra harissa, anticipating the warmth of the eggplant and lamb casserole, the bite of the pepper-garlic sauce on my tired taste buds. Warm pitas soon followed, a stack of triangular slices in a plastic basket, and I tore into the soft bread before turning to Ralph again.

  “Have you been here all day?” I might be exhausted, but it was early by most standards for Ralph to look so bleary.

  “Late night,” he explained. “Called in sick today. Blame Connor, my new best friend. ’Scuse me.” As he slid off his stool, he motioned to his left, just as the stranger on the adjoining barstool turned. Black hair hung over the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, and the smile that unfolded had just a touch of little-boy guilt, made even more endearing by one chipped tooth.