CHAPTER I
"How soon will you get the lab report? I put King George the Magnificent back in his cat carrier, where he hunched down and swore in Siamese. I could tell by the look in his eyes as I closed the lid that he intended to get even with me for unforgivable lèse majesté. Not only had I forced him into a small, dark box, I'd allowed the vet to stick a needle in him.
"Tomorrow, Jerry said, scrubbing the examination table with disinfectant.
"How come so fast?"
Jerry grinned at me. "Holly, this is veterinary medicine, not people medicine."
"That settles it. In my next life I am definitely coming back as a cat."
"Shouldn't be a problem; you keep telling me you're already half cat. He lugged the cat carrier out to the car and said, "Don't forget we have a bridge game later this week."
"I never forget to show up for bridge games. I don't even mark them on the calendar."
"You must really be hooked, Jerry said, one hand resting on the hood of the car.
"I am. Every hand requires the use of strategy and psychology, and each hand is different. Every one is a challenge."
"Just like every cat is a challenge, he said, waving his hand at the cat carrier. "Particularly Mr. Magnificence there. He grinned and hurried back into his clinic.
As I drove through the serene April sunshine, past small farmsteads, then steep hills clad in fir, cedar and arbutus, toward the east side of Adriana Island where Ben and I lived on our mini-farm, I couldn't help worrying about the lab report. My other cat, Henry, my beautiful Buddhist cat, had been diagnosed with Feline Immunodeficiency Virus a year and a half ago. Though I was fairly sure George hadn't come into contact with Henry's saliva or blood, we'd decided to have George tested for FIV. Not that we could do much about it if the diagnosis was positive, but at least we'd know what to expect.
Henry was a big gray cat with white bib, belly and paws, who had turned up one winter night and somehow persuaded George, a fiercely territorial tabby-Siamese, to let him stay. Ever since then he'd been trying to teach George democracy and me the futility of worrying, but I doubted that either of his pupils would learn our lessons well enough to graduate.
The Chevy shuddered across the cattle guard that supposedly kept wandering cows out of our farm and George's muttered curses rose to a demanding yowl.
"I beg your indulgence, Magnificent One; you'll be out of that carrier in about one minute."
Three dozen hens and Mr. Mighty, the Leghorn rooster who continually competed with George for the title of King, scattered toward the orchard as I came down the driveway. Nicky, our fat, snow-white Samoyed dog, danced beside the car as I pulled into the carport next to Ben's battered blue pickup. Now I remembered, five miles and fifteen minutes too late, that I hadn't brought Nicky his usual treat from the grocery store in Mora Bay.
By the time I was out of the car, Ben had hurried over from the big greenhouse he'd built during the winter.
"When will Jerry get the lab report?"
I managed not to smile at the intense look on his face. When we'd moved to the farm three years before, Ben had thought cats were boring creatures who did nothing but eat and sleep. Now he was a devoted slave to George and Henry and called himself their Houseboy. He'd also become a modern-day version of St. Francis of Assisi, who fed deer, raccoons, birds and squirrels and would no doubt have fed mice if George had allowed any on our five-acre farm.
"Tomorrow."
"Oh, that's fast. Ben took the cat carrier in through the back door - though we should have called it the front door because it was the one we always used - and set it down beside the washer and dryer. He opened the carrier and George charged out, ears back, tail quivering with indignation. My ten-pound King stalked into the kitchen, lecturing us loudly in semi-Siamese tones.
"George, I said, "stop yelling. I had to do it."
He turned his back on me, sat down and began grooming his black and gray stripes to their usual elegance. His big ears were still folded back and I knew there was an angry glint in those large green eyes.
Henry strolled in from the living room, his big, gray froth of a tail carried jauntily upright, the sign of a happy cat, flopped down in front of George and said, "Prrrt?"
Ben stroked his beard, a sure sign he was worried about something. "Holly, we need to talk. I had a phone call while you were gone."
"Can it wait? I've got an appointment to interview the new owners of that RV park near Gordon Bay and I'm already late."
Ben sighed. He was proud of Tidelines, the column I wrote for our weekly island newspaper, the Adriana Advocate, but I was always rushing off somewhere just when he was in the mood to discuss weighty subjects like what kind of lettuce to plant or the mess the cats and I had made of his current budget. "It can wait. Go on, or you'll be even later. I'll soothe Georgius Felinus Rex's wounded feelings and give him an extra treat for lunch."
Ben's hobby was the study of ancient Rome and he'd given George the impressive Latin moniker about the same time he'd named himself Houseboy and me Head Slave. Now he carried George to the kitchen counter, saying, "It's not easy being a cat in this house, is it, Your Majesty?"
"Save me some lunch, too, I said, as I headed toward the door.
"I'll try, Ben said, "but Cal's eating with me. We're going to extend the watering system to the rose garden. Cal was our next-door neighbor, the local Mr. Fix-It, and he and Ben always had their heads together over one project or another. The only time they disagreed was over politics. Ben was right-wing, Cal left-wing. I didn't want to get involved in their fist-thumping arguments, so I refused to tell anyone, even the cats, who I voted for. I liked Cal a lot, but his stomach was a bottomless pit. There wouldn't be a crumb left, no matter how much lunch Ben made.
I climbed back in the car and retraced my route, this time skirting Mora Bay and heading south along the island's west shore. I'd visited Rollin RV Park, near Gordon Bay, in the fall, when the Rollins still owned it, and had written part of a column on what a great place it was for a vacation. The camp sites were scattered among the trees for maximum privacy and a shady trail wound though the arbutus trees down to a sand and pebble beach littered with driftwood. The Rollins had lived there for years, doing most of the development of their five acres after he'd retired from the small mill outside Mora Bay.
I drove in through the wide gate, surprised to see that the old hand-lettered sign had been replaced with a slick professional version in metal and bright blue paint. It wasn't out of place, but I wondered why the new owners thought they needed it. Ted Rollin had told me he always had a waiting list for RV slots and sometimes even for tent sites.
The small office was to the left, just inside the gate. I went in and rang the buzzer. While I waited for the young blonde woman who emerged from the old-fashioned stucco house fifty yards away, I heard a faint scratching behind the desk. Mice? Not likely. Mice were usually cautious enough to be quiet around humans.
"I'm Deanna Perry, the woman said, holding out her hand. "You must be Holly Sutton."
"Sorry I'm late, I said. "I had to take one of my cats to the vet this morning and it took longer than I expected."
"Cats? You have cats? Here, would you like another one? Deanna hauled a cardboard box from behind the counter, set it at my feet and retreated. "I can't touch the creature; I'm violently allergic."
Inside the box, crouched in one corner, was a cream-colored kitten with fawn feet, tail and ears. Out of a light brown little face shone the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. Definitely part Siamese. She croaked at me in a tiny voice and I picked her up and cuddled her against my chest. Her small body was warm against my hand and I could feel a steady heart beat and hear the rumble of a purr that seemed too loud for such a tiny creature.
I looked in the box. It was empty, except for a damp patch in one corner, and smelled of urine. No water, no food. I got a grip on my rising anger and said, "How long has she been in that box?"
"Since yesterday, Deanna said. She leaned on the counter and scowled at the kitten. "Some people in a motor home accidentally left it behind. Peter, my husband, found it trying to get in our back door. We're not going to allow stray cats around here, breeding and begging and being a nuisance."
"She's too young to breed. I was trying not to grit my teeth.
"Whatever. I called the people and they didn't want to come all the way back here for her. Apparently they only got the kitten because one of their kids nagged them into it. They said it wouldn't matter, that cats can look after themselves. But with my allergies, I simply can't have any animals on the place."
"Look, I said, "this kitten is probably dying of thirst. Could you get me a little dish of water?"
While Deanna was gone, I crooned to the kitten. Why was I calling it 'she'? Another glance at her face gave me the answer. She looked so tiny and helpless, so soft and delicate, it was difficult to think 'he.' But we'd made that same mistake when George adopted Henry. Henry had long soft cloud-gray fur, a white blaze on his nose, slanted yellow eyes and a great plume of a tail. Ben said the cat was too pretty to be male and named it Henrietta. When we took Henrietta to Jerry for shots and to have a leg wound treated, he surprised us by suggesting we have 'him' neutered. I'd told Ben it was lucky he'd given the cat a name that could be shortened to the male version.
Deanna returned with the water and I put it and the kitten back in the box. The kitten stuck her face in the dish and started lapping.
"I hope you'll take it, Deanna said. "Otherwise I don't know what I'll do."
I could tell her to hand the kitten over to the SPCA in Mora Bay, but who knew when she'd get around to it? "I'll make sure she finds a home. I hauled my notebook out of my bag. "May I ask you a few questions now?"
"All right. Deanna was keeping a wary eye on the kitten. "I hope it can't get out of that box. Is this an article you're doing about us?"
"No, Tidelines is basically tidbits about the business community on the island. When I run out of news items, I rant about whatever is on my mind at the time." There'd definitely be some ranting in the next column about people who abandoned small kittens.
