American Curls (2 page)

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been to see her yet.”

“Devon,” called a woman from the shop’s back room, phone in hand, “I’ve got a delivery order, huggy bear with daisies to room 402.”

“I’ll take it up in a minute.”

Cindy wanted to get Sam a get-well kitten, but they were too expensive. She settled for a pansy pot (“Pansies Are For Thoughts”) and headed off to find Samantha.

Eventually she located the room on a busy hallway with nurses rushing up and down. Sam’s door was closed, which might mean the doctor was in there, or maybe they were giving her a bath. Cindy waited a while, but nobody came out. She knocked. Got no answer. She hesitated, then turned the knob and pushed the door open softly in case Sam was sleeping.

Afterward, she wondered whether she didn’t have a premonition or something. But she didn’t. Not an inkling.

She saw the pillow first. And fanning out from underneath it, caramel-colored spiral curls. Sam’s hair.

Then she saw Sam’s hand. Denim blue.

She screamed.

A nurse came running, pushed past her, made an unprofessional sound and rushed to lift the pillow from—from Samantha’s face, very still, blue like Lake Placid. After that, Cindy didn’t notice much. Nurses and doctors swept in and out, but Cindy stood where she was and stared at that blue face nested in spiral curls amid the bitterly bright room rife with get-well cards, bouquets of flowers, a knick-knack on the bedside table…

Eventually someone led her away to an office, where she sat. Time passed. She didn’t notice.

“You again,” said a male voice.

Cindy blinked and focused on the tall detective sitting across a desk from her.

“You found her,” he said. “Again.”

Cindy whispered, “She’s dead.”

“Yes, she is. Somebody finished the job. And I just have to wonder whether it’s a coincidence, your being here.”

Cindy didn’t react. One good thing about being big was it helped her look stolid. She had a lot of inertia.

“Somebody smothered her and left the pillow in place,” the detective said, watching her. “Might be some sort of kinky sex thing.”

Cindy shook her head. Her thoughts had begun to move again, slowly but surely, like deep water. She blurted, “Did you get any prints off that cat statue they clubbed her with?”

The detective gave her a blank look. “I couldn’t say.”

This meant “No,” Cindy reasoned, or he’d be inking her fingers this minute. “They wore gloves, right? Can you tell whether it was rubber gloves?”

He peered. “What makes you ask that?”

“One of those ceramic get-well kittens. In Sam’s room. Who brought it up from the gift shop?”

* * *

But it was ridiculous to suspect Devon
, Cindy scolded herself as she drove toward the SPCA. What possible motive could Devon have to kill Samantha? Still, Cindy felt agitated enough to double as a washing machine. With no idea what to think, she trudged into the SPCA for her weekly volunteer stint, wheeled the mop out and started to scrub, hoping the drudge work would calm her down.

Working her way between ranks of pens and cages, she patted the yipping dogs and mewling cats, but without feeling. Just reflex. When a little gray tabby rubbed its side against the woven wire, imploring, Cindy raised her hand automatically before several small fluffy movements caught her eye—

She squealed like an elephant. “Queenie!” she shrieked.

Queenie answered with a feline trill. It was the lost kitty, all right, complete with her litter of weanling kittens, their baby fur starting to grow out. “Queenie, you never told me your boyfriend was a
longhair
,” Cindy cooed, because the kittens were turning into puffballs.

Footsteps pounded up the aisle. Cindy’s screech had brought the manager running from the front desk.

“What’s Queenie doing here?” Cindy demanded, turning on the woman as if it were her fault that Samantha’s shelter was thirty miles away, in the next county, for God’s sake.

“The little mama cat? Dumped,” the woman said with fervid scorn. “That country clubber could certainly have afforded to make a donation, but noooo, dump and run.”

Cindy felt something like a giant fist squeeze her chest, making it hard to breathe. She could force out only a couple of words. “Country clubber?”

“Yeah, yesterday morning, before we opened. I came in early, saw her hustling away. Blonde in a tennis outfit.”

Cindy managed another few words. “Was she driving?”

“Sure. Shiny new car, red and white.”

“A Beemer?” Devon’s red convertible had a white ragtop.

“Heck, I don’t know one car from another. Show me a dog, I know dogs.”

It was ridiculous anyway. How would Devon have gotten hold of Queenie and the kittens? And what for? And why wouldn’t she have said something? It was all nonsense. Cindy turned back to patting the little tabby and her adorable fluffy kittens…

“So you know this mama cat?” the manager asked.

Intent on the kittens, Cindy didn’t answer. One kitten, two, three, four, five… “Where’s the sixth one?” she demanded.

“She came with five. Phone’s ringing.” The woman ran to answer it.

Cindy closed her eyes a moment, visualizing Queenie’s litter. Two tabbies, gray, like Queenie. Two spotted kittens. A black one with a white tuxedo bib. And the pure white one with the funny-looking fur.

She opened her eyes. It was the white kitten that was gone.

It had died in the cold, probably. Or Queenie had somehow lost track of it and left it behind. Or it could have been dropped out of the box. Any number of things could have happened to it, and there was no use wondering about it, was there?

* * *

At nine o’clock that night, wearing a black top and black slacks, Cindy approached Devon’s stately residence on foot, having parked her rusting Pinto on the next cul-de-sac over. Just as Mrs. Heckmaster lived in the best old section of town, Devon lived in the best new one, in a modernistic dwelling about the size of a Gold’s Gym. Getting in would be no problem. Mrs. Heckmaster had keys, and Cindy had appropriated them. On the keychain was a laminated card with the numbers for the security system. And this was Devon’s night for modern dance class. Cindy foresaw no difficulties.

Just the same, she sweated as she unlocked a back door, silenced the alarm system, and slipped into the house through the garage.

She listened, and heard only a meow. She clicked on her flashlight and found herself in an immaculate back hallway the size of some people’s apartments, with several cats padding to meet her. Why in the world—oh. Duh, they were American Curls, that was why their ears were inside out. Stupid looking, but they couldn’t help it. Cindy whispered to them, “Where’s the kitten, guys?”

She had tried to tell the detectives about her suspicions, but had succeeded only in making them look at her as if she had sprouted several extra heads. Jerks.

Silently, like the cats, Cindy padded to the first door and cautiously opened it. Just a storage room. Okay, onward to the next door… Bingo. Cindy surveyed Devon’s luxurious cattery, thickly carpeted, with scratching posts and climbing apparatus and a row of frilled, curtained cages for cat shows. From one of them sounded a meow as tiny as the piping of a nestling wren.

Cindy smiled, folded to her knees, opened the cage door and reached in past the porcelain litter pan to the miniature canopied bed. From atop a silk pillow she lifted the kitten.

“Well, hi, little fellow,” she whispered, holding him in her lap as she shone the flashlight on him. He gazed back at her with unblinking blue eyes beneath white JonBenet curls—curls! Cindy gasped. All over the kitten’s petite body, the new hair was growing out in long, soft curls worthy of Barbie at her prime, curls that made even Cindy’s chapped hands itch for a comb and some ribbons and barrettes.

“Oh,” she whispered, “you
angel
.” With snowy little-girl curls, Shirley Temple curls, fashion-model movie-star all-American curls. “
Pretty
boy!”

Click
went the light switch, the ceiling fixture blazed on, and Cindy jumped so hard she dropped her flashlight. There in the doorway stood Devon, exquisite in mauve silk pajamas, with quite a large carving knife in her hand.

Devon, with a look in her eyes fit to curl Cindy’s very commonplace hair. Cindy knew she should be afraid, very afraid. But her wonder at the white kitten overrode her fear. She blurted, “He’s a mutation, isn’t he?”

Devon’s lips twitched in a grimace too cold to be called a smile. “Imagine how much money people will pay,” she said, “for a new breed of pretty kitty with long, silky, naturally curly hair.”

An explosive mix of emotions lifted Cindy to her feet. “Is
that
what you killed Samantha for?” she cried.

“I never meant to hurt her! I just told her I wanted the kitten, and she got stupid about it.”

A number of sleek cats with backward-tipped ears seated themselves on the cages as if on bleachers, watching. Devon advanced a step.

Keep her talking
. Trying to think what to do, Cindy became polite and conversational. “Samantha knew this kitten was valuable?”

“No, she just wanted to keep him. The fool. I even offered to pay her for him.” Devon’s voice went squeaky shrill. “And she said no. After all the work I’d done for her stinking shelter! I lost my temper.” Devon said this with a certain pride. “I thought I’d killed her.”

Forget politeness. “Well, you did now, didn’t you?”

Devon just showed her teeth. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re a murderer.” Holding the kitten gently even though her hands wanted to clench into fists, somehow Cindy found murder easier to accept than… “Did you
have
to put the cats out in the cold?”

“Don’t be stupid. Of course I did. So no one would know I took one.” Devon raised her knife. “Stick that kitten in his cage.”

“No.” As she said it, Cindy felt her sweat start to run cold.

“You always were a stupid lard ass.” Slowly, watching her fixedly, Devon advanced.

Devon in her mauve silk peejays, planning to spill her blood all over the thick cream-colored carpet. Sweating, Cindy blurted, “You’re going to make an awful mess.”

“So who’s ever going to look?” Devon took another step toward her.

“I made substitutions in your mother’s medicines.” Cindy wished this were not a lie. “If I don’t get back there before she goes to bed, you’re going to have a very sick mother. She might even die.”

Devon paused, considering, then paced forward again. “So let her die.”

Cindy lifted the white kitten in both shaking hands. “If you take one more step, I’ll wring his neck.”

But Devon gave a cold bark of laughter. “Bull. You’re an overstuffed cream puff.”

One more step put her almost within arm’s reach of Cindy.

“Here. Catch!” Cindy tossed the kitten at her. Devon squeaked, grabbing for the baby reflexively, and Cindy bent over and lunged to head-ram Devon just below the ribs with all the force of her way-too-many pounds.

She flattened Devon, fell on top of her, and lay there panting, mostly with relief that she did not feel any knife sticking into her. There it was, lying on the carpet several feet away. Cindy started to shake, but that was okay. She closed her eyes, taking time to recover, to think what to do next. Under her, enveloped by her, Devon struggled briefly, then apparently decided it was no use and lay still. In order to restrain Devon, all Cindy had to do was remain lying on top of her. Overweight had its advantages.

She lay catching her breath a few more minutes before something wet and raspy massaged her face. One of the cats was licking her…oh, God, where was the kitten? Was it all right?

Cindy opened her eyes, took a look around, and there was the white kitten, just fine, batting at the carving knife’s shiny blade.

“Stop that. You’ll hurt yourself,” Cindy muttered, knowing she should get up and take possession of the knife. But she still felt shaky. That and inertia kept her where she was. Even the sound of running footsteps in the hallway didn’t budge her.

A pair of battered brogans appeared in the doorway below rumpled khakis. Suddenly lighthearted, Cindy heaved herself up to stand facing the tall detective.

He waved her to one side. In his other hand he held his pistol at the ready. “Tailed you,” he explained while never taking his eyes from Devon. “Heard most of it from outside the window.” He ordered Devon, “Ms. Heckmaster, clasp your hands on top of your head!”

Devon did not respond, just lay still. Very, very still. Staring blankly at the ceiling.

Cindy started to shake again. “I knocked the breath out of her,” she murmured, “then lay on top of her…oh, my God.”

The white kitten bounded over to Devon and pounced on her trailing blonde hair. He clutched her golden locks in his tiny paws, then climbed her head to prance on her face. He batted at her motionless eyebrows, lost his balance, and sat his furry little butt on her nose. He piped a soprano meow. From atop Devon’s corpse he gazed at the world he was born to conquer, his wide blue eyes haloed by angelic curls.

Edgar Award-winning author Nancy Springer,

well known for her science fiction, fantasy, and young adult novels,

has written a gripping psychological thriller—smart, chilling, and unrelenting...

available in paperback and e-book in November 2012

from New American Library

Dorrie and Sam White are not the ordinary Midwestern couple they seem. For plain, hard-working Sam hides a deep passion for his wife. And Dorrie is secretly following the sixteen-year-old daughter, Juliet, she gave up for adoption long ago. Then one day at the mall, Dorrie watches horror-stricken as Juliet is forced into a van that drives away. Instinctively, Dorrie sends her own car speeding after it—an act of reckless courage that puts her on a collision course with a depraved killer...and draws Sam into a desperate search to save his wife. And as mother and daughter unite in a terrifying struggle to survive, Dorrie must confront her own dark, tormented past.