Claws For Concern

“Thank you,” she said. “Miss Laura came and got baby Charlie a few minutes ago.” She gestured to the oven. “Your dinner’s about ready. Chicken and rice casserole. Give it about ten more minutes.” She looked down at Diesel. The cat had come to a stop near her and stared hopefully up at her. She wagged a finger at him. “You can’t have any, Mr. Cat. There’s onions in it, and they’re not good for you.”

Diesel uttered a plaintive meow.

“No use complaining to me, Mr. Cat,” Azalea said. “Next week I’ll make something with chicken and no onions. No garlic, either. Then you’ll be able to have some. Okay?”

Diesel warbled happily, and Azalea let a smile hover briefly on her lips. She turned to me. “You got this cat spoiled worse than any child, Mr. Charlie.”

“I didn’t do it all by myself,” I said. Azalea had not taken to my cat when I first brought him home. Eventually, however, Diesel wore down her resistance, and I often caught her talking to him when she thought no one could hear her. She also slipped him tidbits from the stove, and I pretended not to notice, most of the time.

Azalea ignored my comment. She pointed to my phone. I had left it on the table when I went upstairs. “That was making noise a few minutes ago.”

“Thanks.” I picked up the phone and checked the screen. I had missed a call from Teresa Farmer. I listened to her brief message, asking me to return her call at my earliest convenience. She sounded a bit harried, so I called her right away.

“Hi, Teresa, this is Charlie,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Oh, Charlie, thank you for getting back to me so quickly,” Teresa said. “Look, I hate to ask you this, but I’m in a bind over staffing tomorrow. Lizzie has come down with some kind of virus and went home sick about twenty minutes ago. I don’t think she’ll be able to come in tomorrow, and I have to be in Jackson tomorrow for my cousin’s wedding. I’m one of the bridesmaids, and I’d hate to let her down at the last minute.”

Lizzie Hayes was one of the full-time staff, along with Teresa and Bronwyn Forster. All three were librarians. The other workers were all part-time. Having two full-timers out at the same time made staffing difficult.

“Would you like me to come in and help out?” I said. “I’d be happy to. I don’t have anything special planned for tomorrow, so it’s not a problem.”

Her relief was obvious when Teresa replied, “Thank you, Charlie. I hate to impose, but I’d feel so much better if you could be there with Bronwyn. Saturdays can be so hectic in the summer. I know she’ll appreciate it, too.”

“I remember all too well how Saturdays can be,” I said, recalling my own days as a public library branch manager in Houston. “Diesel and I will report for duty at nine tomorrow morning.”

After expressing her gratitude at least three more times, Teresa ended the call. I set aside the phone. “Looks like we’ll be working at the library with Bronwyn tomorrow, boy,” I told Diesel. He chirped in response. He knew he could count on Bronwyn for attention when the patrons weren’t claiming it.

Azalea bade us good night, after reminding me to keep an eye on the casserole. I stood near the oven to make sure I didn’t wander away and get distracted. I didn’t dare let Azalea’s food burn.

Diesel loped off to the utility room, and I heard him scratching around in his litter box. He rejoined me in the kitchen moments after I opened the oven door to take out the casserole. I sniffed appreciatively at the delicious odor, and Diesel did the same. He meowed again, but I told him firmly that he couldn’t have any as I set the dish on a large trivet on the table.

I foraged in the fridge and found some bits of chicken that Azalea had probably set aside just for Diesel. I warmed them in the microwave while I took out the makings for a salad. A few minutes later both cat and human were happily eating their dinners.

I spent many Friday evenings on my own—with Diesel, of course—because Friday evening was a busy time at the bistro. Stewart and Haskell occasionally joined me, but this particular evening, they were in Memphis visiting friends for the weekend.

During the meal, aside from occasional remarks in response to more muttering from Diesel, I thought about the letter from Jack Pemberton. I didn’t want to respond until I had a chance to talk in person with his reference, Miss Carpenter. I also wanted to discuss the subject with Helen Louise, but that would have to wait until Sunday.

I hadn’t sought the limelight in the aftermath of the various murder investigations I’d been party to, and luckily for me the local paper hadn’t played up my role—for the most part—outrageously. I was happy for Kanesha to get the credit. After all, she was the professional. I was content with being an advisor of a sort.