Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

Otis had lived in a town house that was part of a cluster of recently built houses. Spent leaves littered the tiny front yard and rust crept up a white van parked in the driveway. Nina pulled the Jag in behind it.

No one answered when I rang the doorbell. Nina tried it a second time and we heard it chime inside the house. I stepped back, off the raised stoop, and searched the exterior of the house. It didn’t provide any clues about the owners. The red brick facade and Federal accents looked like all the other houses. But when I turned to go, I saw a curtain move in the window to the left of the door.

I motioned to Nina and knocked on the front door. “Mrs. Pulchinski? I . . . I have your cat.”

A voice answered from inside the house. “What cat?”

“The one Otis had with him when—” I stopped abruptly. Why hadn’t I prepared a way to say this?

The voice behind the door grew hysterical. “I’m not taking him back!”

Nina and I exchanged a look. She shrugged.

“I don’t want to give him back.”

With a creak, the door opened two inches. “Got him with you?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t be lying, would you?” She swung the door open and eyed us with suspicion. A cloud of stale cigarette smoke enveloped us.

Ebony hair jutted from her head at odd angles and she’d applied a black eyebrow pencil with a heavy hand. A spandex-tight top and capri pants in a leopard print clung to her small frame. “That cat’s nothing but trouble. Sold him twice, gave him away once, and everybody brought him back. Well, don’t just stand there, doncha see I’ve got cats who’ll run out the door?”

I wondered if she was confused and had another cat in mind. On the other hand, I wanted to keep my little Mochie and wasn’t altogether unhappy that she didn’t want him back.

We scooted in, taking care not to step on any of the inquisitive kitties. They were everywhere. Lounging in bookcases, sitting on top of the TV, milling around our legs. Chocolate, cinnamon, silver, and fawn and every one of them spotted, like an ocelot.

As was the furniture. Leopard print throws, pillows, chairs, even the slipcovers on the sofas sported spots.

“What are you going to do with him?” She took a long drag on a cigarette. “Take him to the pound?”

“I planned to keep him.”

Mrs. Pulchinski couldn’t hide her surprise but she recovered quickly. “Did Otis tell you he’s a very valuable cat? Purebred ocicat.”

I didn’t think Nina was paying attention. She made no effort to hide her curiosity by taking in every detail of our surroundings. But she startled me by asking, “Then why doesn’t he have spots like these cats?”

Mrs. Pulchinski motioned us to the sofas. She sat down and six cats immediately jumped on her, vying for her attention. “That’s what makes him so expensive. He has the spots on his tummy but those stripes only appear once or twice in a dozen litters. The striped ones have”—she paused and considered her word choice—“outgoing personalities that make them very popular. I sell ’em for eight hundred dollars.”

Mrs. Pulchinski watched our reaction with crafty eyes. Did she think we were complete dolts? I changed the subject before she could demand payment for Mochie.

“I’m very sorry for your loss. Were you and Otis married long?” I wanted to keep the conversation moving. The cops must have told her a woman found her husband’s body. If she’d made the connection to me, she showed no sign of it.

“Spent fifteen years with the old coot.” She dabbed at her nose with a tissue. “I don’t know what I’m going to do for money. He had some big-shot clients and we were expecting the dough to roll in any day, but now all I have is my wonderful kittens. I hate to part with any of them but I have to live off something.”

“I thought you were a breeder.” I had expected to see photos of Otis, but all the framed pictures in the room featured spotted cats. Most of them professional photos of cats posed in front of becoming backdrops.

“I am. But it still breaks my heart to part with any of them. Especially that little sweetheart Otis gave you.”

Did I have “idiot” written across my forehead? “I can’t help wondering why he had the kitten with him the day he died,” I said.

She searched the room as though she was looking for an answer. “Vet. Was taking him to the vet.”

“Was he sick?” I asked. “Does he need medicine?”

This time she had a ready response. “Shots. Just needed his shots.” She examined us carefully and her gaze locked on Nina’s three-carat engagement ring. “You know, cats are much happier when they have a cat companion. You interested in buying a kitten?”

“No, thanks.” I had a very bad feeling that I was about to write a check for Mochie.

“How about a PI? Either of you need to spy on your husbands? I’ll give you a good price.”

“You worked with your husband?” Nina asked.

Mrs. Pulchinski stabbed the butt of her cigarette into a glass ashtray. “You know how it is, all wives work with their husbands.”