A Familiar Tail (3 page)

3

YOU MIGHT THINK
somebody with a Vibe like mine would be open to all sorts of . . . let's call them “alternative perspectives” when it comes to the nature of reality. That's not how it works, though. What really happens is you get very good at talking yourself out of having seen or experienced anything the least bit, well, weird.

By the time I turned the corner onto Summer Street I had pretty much managed to convince myself that Alistair the cat had not, in fact, vanished into thin air. He had just done the regular cat thing and whisked away, really fast. I'd blinked. I'd looked around. I'd missed it. That was all.

As for how he got into the Jeep in the first place . . . well, I must have left the window down and not realized it. Or maybe the top wasn't on quite right, or it had gotten jiggled when I went over a particularly impressive Boston pothole and there was a gap someplace. It didn't matter. What mattered was there would be some kind of simple explanation, and it'd show up soon. There was nothing more to think about here. Move along, Anna.

•   •   •

PORTSMOUTH, LIKE A
lot of harbor towns, had grown outward in rough rings from its center by the river. The oldest buildings were the ones closest to downtown and the Piscataqua. After that, it was like a tour through the timeline of American architecture. I went from the 1700s and 1800s, with their brick-and-clapboard farmhouses, into the Victorian era, with its cozy cottages or elaborate gingerbreaded homes, to bungalows from the 1920s and ranch houses from the 1950s, with the newest homes and the strip malls curving like a shell between the town and the highways.

Summer Street and McDermott's Bed & Breakfast turned out to be squarely in the 1800s ring. The B and B was a beautiful Georgian house, doubtlessly the former residence of some prosperous sailor, merchant or smuggler. A tangle of ivy and rambler roses climbed the orange brick walls. As with a lot of older Portsmouth homes, there was only a narrow strip of lawn between the front of the house and the sidewalk. Here, the yards and gardens were mostly at the back or sides of a home.

“Good morning!” A gate in the privacy fence swung open and a pale woman wearing a denim skirt and loose pink T-shirt waved as she walked down the drive. “You must be Annabelle. Martine phoned and told us you were on your way over. I'm Valerie McDermott. Welcome to Portsmouth.”

We shook hands. Family vacations had left me with the idea that B and Bs were all run by white-haired grandmotherly types. Valerie McDermott, though, looked to be about my age, maybe a little younger. The bandanna tied over her strawberry blond hair matched her pink T-shirt, and her heart-shaped freckled face was as cheerful as her greeting. She also had a spherical bulge under her shirt, which signaled the imminent arrival of yet another McDermott to the Portsmouth area.

“Your room's all set.” Valerie smiled as I heaved the
massive red suitcases I dubbed Thing One and Thing Two out of the Jeep.

“Ummm . . . ,” she said. “Martine didn't say you needed a room for the whole summer . . .”

I laughed. “Oh, no. I'm only with you for a couple of days. I've been living out of my brother's spare bedroom for the past few months, and it just seemed easier to toss everything in the backseat instead of sorting out a third bag.” Yes, I've heard of traveling light. It is one of those things that other people do.

Valerie was doing her best not to look relieved. “Well, let's go in. Normally I'd help you with those, but”—she gestured toward her belly—“Roger would throw a fit.”

“When are you due?”

“September.” Valerie sighed. “Really, really ready for the debutante here to make her appearance. Aching ankles and . . .” She stopped. “I am not going to start in on pregnant-woman whining while you're standing out here. Let me show you to your room.”

Six months pregnant she might be, but Valerie set a brisk pace up the steps, across the pillared front porch and into the house. I had to blink hard to get my sun-dazzled eyes to adjust to the dim and narrow oak-paneled foyer. A staircase—equally dim and narrow, and also very steep—ran up along the left-hand wall. Valerie had her foot on the first stair.

“Your room's on the second floor. I hope that's all right?” She eyed my suitcases again.

“I'm good. I've had plenty of practice with these monsters.”

Valerie gave one of those little shrugs people use when they don't know you well enough to say,
It's your funeral.
“Okay, then. This way.”

Did I mention those stairs were steep? Two hundred years old, fainting-couch-on-the-landing steep. Wrestling Thing One and Thing Two up was indeed a challenge, but I'd met
worse and we all made it safely, if a little short of breath. The upper hallway had been done in shades of gold and cream—that is, where it wasn't dark carved paneling.

“Is this your first time in Portsmouth?” Valerie asked while politely waiting for me to stop panting.

I nodded, then added, “My dad's family is from the area, though.”

“Really?” I watched her do that thing where you run through an index of names in your mind. “I don't think I know any Brittons . . .”

“It was my grandmother who lived here. She was a Blessingsound,” I added, because she was going to ask anyway. Because this was New England and even the people who didn't give a darn in general about genealogy cared about the local families. It was kind of like how living in Detroit made you care about cars whether you wanted to or not.

“Wait a minute.” Valerie staggered. She actually staggered. “You're a
Blessingsound
? You're not related to Annabelle Blessingsound, are you?”

“Annabelle Mercy Blessingsound is my grandma, my dad's mother.” Okay, this was getting spookier than the thing with the cat. “And you know what? That's the second time her name's come up today. I didn't know there were Blessingsounds left around here.”

“Not for years,” Valerie said. “And you're really just visiting Martine?”

“Ummm . . . yes.” Valerie was still staring and I narrowed my eyes at her. I did not like this. At all. “I hope that's not a problem?”

“No. No. Sorry. Just . . . no. Your room's at the end of the hall.” Valerie turned away and started walking, leaving me and my suitcases to catch up.

Ooookaaayyy . . . first we've got the rich blond lady interrogating me; then we get a ghost cat with a dead, possibly murdered owner. Now we've got a landlady getting
weirded out about the family name. Looks like I picked the wrong week to visit Lovely Portsmouth.

“Here you go!” Valerie's cheery tone was a little strained as she pushed open the door. “The Green Room.”

And a very nice choice of greens it was. The color on the walls was clear and delicate, while the trim and ceiling were closer to a moss agate. Area rugs softened the dark floorboards, and simple white curtains decorated the windows. The centerpiece, though, was the four-poster bed with a white crewelwork canopy and matching coverlet. Anywhere else, that a piece of furniture would have looked like overkill, but it fit here. As a bonus, the room had its own fireplace, and the faint scent of woodsmoke told me it was in working order.

Valerie unfolded the luggage rack beside the closet so I could heave one of my suitcases onto it. The rack creaked and wobbled, but it held.

“It's all en suite.” Valerie waved toward a small green-and-white bathroom. “I'll let you get settled.”

“Thanks.”

She smiled, and I smiled and kept on smiling until she closed the door.

Now, a normal person would have begun checking out all the details of this lovely sunny room, or at least started unpacking. Me, I folded my arms and tried to brace myself for a Vibe to shimmy through the bright summer morning and into my unwilling self. Valerie's reaction to my Blessingsound ancestry had come too soon after the whole thing with Alistair, and the other whole thing with Mrs. Maitland. I fully expected the other shoe of weirdness to drop anytime now.

But the Vibe stayed quiet for the moment. Instead, I pulled out my cell phone, hit Grandma B.B.'s number and waited while it rang.

“Hello! This is Annabelle Britton, but I can't come to the phone right now . . .”

I rolled my eyes. Grandma B.B.'s social life was a matter of amazement for the rest of us. Wherever she lived, she was always joining some new club or other; then there were all the church committees, not to mention the adult education lessons and the knitting circles. The words “sit still” were simply not in her vocabulary.

The message ended and I got the beep. “Hi, Grandma B.B. It's your namesake. I'm in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and . . .” I hesitated. What was I going to say?
I'm in Portsmouth and everybody here seems to think they know you?
“And I thought I'd give you a ring,” I finished lamely. “Call me when you get this.”

I hung up and let myself flop backward onto the bed and sigh. It wasn't even dinnertime and I was already exhausted. More than that, though, I had a twitchy, uncomfortable feeling, and I couldn't tell where it came from. It wasn't one of my Vibes, really, but it wasn't anything else I could readily identify. I rubbed both arms and told myself it'd be okay. It wasn't like I had to stay here at McDermott's. I didn't even have to stay in Portsmouth. I could figure out some excuse for Martine, climb in the Jeep and head straight back to Boston. Maybe I could say an important client meeting had come up. Martine understood about scrambling for work, and while I wouldn't say my bank account was on CPR, it was definitely not healthy enough to be left alone without trained supervision. I thought about this as I gazed at the canopy and tried not to feel like I was a coward running away from shadows. Then I thought about the client I really did have. She needed poster art for a community theater production of
Hedda Gabler
. I pictured a spill of
white-patterned fabric draped over a Victorian sofa and a dark and gloomy background. My fingers twitched. I had pencils and a fresh drawing pad in my suitcase (somewhere). Maybe I'd just get a quick sketch of the crewelwork pattern. At the very least I could snap some pictures and work on it with PictureShop and DrawingPad.

I got up to push open the curtains to let in more light and immediately stumbled backward. I think I said something like, “Gaaah!”

Alistair sat on the windowsill, staring in at me.

4

“GOOD GRIEF, CAT!
You scared the life out of me!”

Alistair did not seem at all perturbed. He just put up one paw and batted at the spot over the window latch. “Mrrrrowww?” The feline question filtered through the pane. “Mrrp?”

“No,” I said, after I'd gotten my breathing back under control. “You are not coming in. There is no admittance for spooky cats, okay? Shoo.” I waved my hands. “Scat!”

Alistair blinked those big blue eyes once, indicating that he was not in the least impressed by my strange human antics. Then he got calmly to his feet, walked along the sill, leapt off the edge and was gone.

After a certain amount of internal debate, I shoved up the window sash. Leaning out into the afternoon sunshine, I looked down. Ah-yup. We were still on the second floor. No, there was no visible cat below me.

Neither was there a cat when I looked to the left or to the right. I twisted my neck to see if he could have jumped onto the roof, but the overhanging eaves were too wide. Plus,
those eaves were another whole story up above what I took to be the house's attic. I also couldn't help noticing that the ivy, which had been allowed to grow across the front and sides of the house, had been cleared away back here.

In short, there was no visible way up to my window from the ground, just like there was no visible way down to it from the roof.

I closed the window, latched it and pulled the curtains. Normally, my Vibe is reserved for places, but something about that cat set the back of my neck prickling, and those prickles spread quickly down my spine.

“It didn't happen,” I told the universe at large. “I am not being stalked by the magical mystery cat with the murdered mistress. This is not the kind of thing that happens to Annabelle Amelia Blessingsound Britton. I declare this to be a Rule.”

I don't think the universe listened.

•   •   •

MY VIBE FINALLY
hit in McDermott's great room.

I'd spent the rest of Friday in my room. I called Grandma B.B. again and got her answering machine, again. I also called Bob and Ginger to check up on how Dad was doing. Unfortunately, he was napping, so there went that chance to quiz him for extra information about the family's Portsmouth history. I sketched the crewelwork patterns from my coverlet and canopy, caught up on e-mail, dined on leftover tacos, and had a long gossipy phone conversation with my buddy Nadia, who ran a gallery in the Hamptons.

In short, I did everything I could to avoid thinking about my spooky stalker cat. I most definitely did not do anything radical like tell Nadia about Alistair or call Martine to tell her about Alistair. I also didn't open the window again, not even when I woke up from a surprisingly deep night's sleep and saw the beautiful summer Saturday outside.

I dressed in yoga pants, a paisley T-shirt and my red
Keds. I tiptoed downstairs carefully to avoid creaking the floorboards, just in case my fellow guests were not Morning People. We are a rare and special breed.

McDermott's narrow foyer opened into an airy and beautifully restored great room with white-painted trim and pale yellow walls. The moment I stepped over the threshold, warmth bubbled up like spiritual champagne. People had been happy here, my sparkly feelings told me. People cared for this place, loved and nurtured it. A stupid grin spread across my face before I got a handle on it.

Even without the emotional booster shot, the room was beautiful. The French doors had been opened to let in the morning sun as well as the fresh breeze that blew across the garden and the broad back porch. All the furnishings were simple, sturdy and comfortable. The curving corner alcove with its built-in bookcases and deep chairs looked like the perfect place to curl up on a rainy evening. I thought longingly of the pencils and drawing pad back in my room. I particularly wanted to do a detail of the elaborate chandelier hanging from the smooth white ceiling, and a close-up of the carved mantelpiece.

“I may never leave,” I said to myself.

At least, I thought it was to myself, but a laugh came from out on the porch, and Valerie appeared at the threshold, carrying a silver coffeepot. “Thank you. I'll tell Roger you said that. He's in the kitchen now, getting breakfast together. But the buffet's set and the coffee”—she hefted the carafe—“is ready. Or do you prefer tea?”

“Coffee would be great.”

This turned out to be an understatement. The brew Valerie poured smelled not so much like coffee as like the anticipation of paradise normally associated with your finer chocolates.

“Aaaaahhhhh!” I sighed happily as I wrapped my hands around the warm mug.

Valerie grinned. “It's serve yourself today.” She gestured
toward the buffet tables that took up one side of the porch. “Unless you'd like some eggs?”

“Thanks, but this looks perfect.”

Is there a phase beyond perfect? If so, it surely comes with homemade pastry, granola, yogurt and fresh berries. Carafes of juice and milk had been set out in ice trays, alongside several pots of that wonderful coffee, not to mention a chafing dish from which rose the mouthwatering and unmistakable scent of bacon. I wouldn't need to move for a week.

Then it got better.

“Make a hole! I got grunt!”

A tall blond man backed out of a screen door carrying a cast-iron skillet in his oven-mitted hands. Valerie slapped a cork trivet onto the buffet so he could set it down. The pan was filled with golden brown biscuits floating on a dark bubbling liquid that smelled of berries and cinnamon. My nose thought it smelled divine. My stomach agreed.

“Traditional New England blackberry grunt!” announced the man, stripping off his oven mitts. His white apron had the words
BACK OFF, MAN, I'M THE CHEF
emblazoned on the chest. “Welcome to McDermott's! I'm Roger, and you must be Miss Britton.”

“Anna.” We shook hands and I beamed. I liked this guy already, and it was clear from the indulgent way Valerie brushed at the flour smear on his suntanned arm, she was soppy in love.

“Now, you have to try this,” Roger said. I recognized that tone from meals with Martine and knew better than to attempt refusal. Not that it would have been a serious attempt. He scooped out one of the biscuits along with healthy spoonfuls of blackberry goodness. “It's even better if you do this.” He snatched up a pitcher of cream from the coffee station and poured a circle around the biscuit. “There you go.”

He watched anxiously as I dug out a spoonful of warm berries, cream and biscuit.

“Oh. My.” I rolled my eyes in sensuous appreciation. Valerie and Roger slapped palms in an energetic high five.

“Umm . . . would either of you care to join me?” I mumbled, only a little awkwardly around a second mouthful.

“Why don't you sit, Val?” said Roger. “You're supposed to get off your feet more, and I've got everything under control.”

I did not imagine that Valerie looked awkward. I tried to keep any possibly prejudicing eagerness off my face by eating more grunt.

“Well, all right.” Valerie gave me an eye roll that said she was humoring the anxious father-to-be. “Just for a minute.”

Carrying the bowl and mug, I decided to live dangerously and take a table on the brick terrace below the porch, in the full blaze of the morning sun. Valerie sank carefully into the chair across from me with a cup of peppermint tea and an audible sigh. I nodded in sympathy as I dug into my blackberry grunt. My invitation was not purely social, which was probably not going to come as a surprise to my hostess, who had already started eyeing me sideways. What she probably didn't guess, though, was that my deep ulterior motives for asking her to sit with me were not limited to her reaction to finding out who my grandmother was.

“Valerie, do you guys have a cat?” We could work around to what she knew, or thought she knew, about Blessingsounds slowly.

Valerie shook her head. “We'd like one, but so many people have allergies we decided against it. Why do you ask?”

“There was a gray cat on my sill yesterday.” I waved my spoon up toward my window and kept my tone very, very casual. Because on the way downstairs I hit on the perfect explanation for what had happened. The cat who'd turned
up here last night wasn't actually Alistair the Spooky Cat who had been in and under my Jeep. This was another cat entirely. It only
looked
like Alistair. Maybe they'd come from the same litter. It was a small town. It could happen.

Valerie followed my gesture with her gaze. She frowned and my heart plummeted. “Was he a sort of solid silvery gray, by any chance? With blue eyes?”

“Yes, that's the one.”
Oh, no. No. Come on, no.

“Alistair?” Valerie breathed. “Oh, my G . . .
you
saw Alistair? Where? When?” she demanded, leaning forward over her rounded tummy. Her pink cheeks flushed bright red, and she clutched her mug so hard I was afraid the thing might break.

I have to admit, the force of her reaction startled the heck out of me. “On my windowsill yesterday, and he was hiding under my Jeep before that, if it was the same cat.”

Valerie pressed her fingertips against her mouth and stared up at my window. “Could it . . . ? After all this time, I'd given up . . . Alistair? Really?”

“Alistair,” I repeated gloomily. I was right. The universe had heard my declaration about no mystery cats for Annabelle, and the universe had laughed. “Sean, the bartender at the Pale Ale, recognized him and told me he'd been missing for a while.”

“Yes,” murmured Valerie. “Yes,” she repeated more firmly, like you do when you're dragging your thoughts back from a long ways off. “Six months and more . . . since Dorothy—she was his owner . . . since she . . . died.” Her voice wobbled.

“I'm sorry for your loss.” This was a guess on my part, but normally a person didn't wobble for absent strangers, not to mention strangers' cats. Plus, I couldn't help noticing how Valerie was chopping her sentences to bits. This was also not normally a sign of emotional detachment.

“Sorry. It still hits me sometimes.” Valerie took several rapid sips of her tea, as if trying not to talk too much, or to
cry. Guilt shriveled my insides. Here I was worrying about a weird cat encounter when the woman in front of me had lost her very real friend. “I've known her since I came to Portsmouth. I had known her, that is,” Valerie said. “We were neighbors.” She gestured toward the back fence. “She was always in and out of here. In fact, she was the one who talked me into buying this house and setting up the business. It was after that I met Roger . . .” Val cut that sentence off too. “Anyway, very few people have seen Alistair for more than a minute since Dorothy passed. Not even us . . .” My hostess stopped yet again. “Well, cats, you know?” she went on, trying to sound casual and failing. “I guess we all assumed he'd come home when he was good and ready.”

I nodded, trying to look thoughtful. At the same time, that thing old novels call “a profound sense of unease” welled up in the back of my brain, complete with the theme from
The Twilight Zone
playing in the background.

“Maybe somebody in the neighborhood took him in,” I said, and it felt like a last-ditch effort. “He had a collar on, and he certainly didn't look underfed.”

Val smiled, but it was weak and watery. “Alistair will eat anything that doesn't move fast enough. Once, Dorothy left a loaf of fresh zucchini bread out on the counter, and when she came in from gardening, there was Alistair burrowed into it up to his shoulders.” That troubled, introspective look drifted back across her face. “You will let me know if you see him again?”

“Uh, sure.” I scraped my spoon through the last of my blackberry grunt.

“It's just that we've been worried about him. Dorothy died so suddenly and . . .” Valerie studied the steam curling across the surface of her tea. “Well, it was unexpected and unsettled.”