A Cat's Tale: Of Murderous Mystery

A Cat’s Tale

of murderous mystery

A detective story by

Bronwyn Gahan

This is an IndieMosh book

brought to you by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd

PO BOX 147

Hazelbrook NSW 2779

indiemosh.com.au

Copyright 2017 © Bronwyn Gahan

All rights reserved

Licence Notes

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Disclaimer

This story is entirely a work of fiction.

No character in this story is taken from real life. Any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is accidental and unintentional.

The author, their agents and publishers cannot be held responsible for any claim otherwise and take no responsibility for any such coincidence.

To my daughter Harriet

 – and to the memory of Felix,

an unforgettable cat.

Chapter 1

Dark Days

Damned kookaburras. How did they evolve? Some hiccup in Mr. Darwin’s evolutionary theory, I should imagine.

I snicker into my paw, as I watch the stupid creatures whacking delicate morsels of pre-deceased beef (purchased by my human companion from Coles, Katoomba) as if they’re live snakes! Unfortunately, I have no opportunity to become better acquainted with these dullards, as my human companion, Elizabeth, in collusion with an ill assortment of cat-hating conservationists, won’t let me outside of the confines of this house! … except within the confines of my carrier, or Elizabeth’s car. On rare occasions, I’m allowed to ‘explore’ open spaces, to feel the wind ruffling my fur, to observe the odd skink scurrying under a rock … if I’m leashed, like a dog, with my intrepid companion firmly gripping one end …

Dear Reader, I know how that human activist, so long under house arrest in Myanmar but now freed from her place of confinement must’ve felt; I walked across her photograph, on an open page of the ‘Herald’, only yesterday. Perhaps I, too, should wear a large white flower behind one ear? Elizabeth might find this gesture more eloquent than my feeble vocal protestations, my pathetic pawing at plate glass windows. I am not overly optimistic, however. Elizabeth is kindly yet obstinate. It has something to do with her hair, I suspect. Unlike other humans, hers doesn’t flop around, looking lank and meaningless, like her friend Charlotte’s … Oh, no. Whisker-straight and trimmed without mercy each month by Monica, form the ‘Happy Strands Salon’, Leura, it hangs, parade-ground smug, greyish-blonde, styled in what is termed a ‘bob’. Windy days hold no fears for Elizabeth. Without the assistance of a comb, her hair reverts to its tidy, helmet-like, immoveable state.

‘Don’t mess with me!’ her hair says. ‘Bring it on!’ it adds.

I am quite envious. My fur needs constant licking into shape, even without the complication of inclement weather. Yet, Dear Reader, it was not Elizabeth’s hair that first attracted my attention, when she, accompanied by Charlotte, came upon me at Katoomba RSPCA Animal Shelter … yes, I have touched upon my past. Sad as it was, I must, Dear Reader, place my paw in yours and take you there … figuratively speaking, of course; I am not a tactile cat.

I have very few memories of my early days, more a series of sensations – of sharing the dark with others like myself, of warm fur, sweet tasting milk, wet, rough, licks. Even now, I like to bury my head into something dark and soft, to feel that comfort, when the human – and kookaburra! – world annoys or depresses me …

My next memory? When I found myself in a pet shop. No comforting darkness here, but perpetual light and loud noise, at least from 9:00 a.m. until 5:30 p.m., Mondays to Fridays, early closing Saturdays and Sundays. My fellow kittens were, like me, anxious to be free of our glass-walled prison cell (situated within a vast shopping mall) away from the dopey stares of a ceaseless stream of uninteresting humans.

Recently, I alighted upon a painting, reproduced in one of Elizabeth’s books, entitled ‘Collins Street 5:00 p.m.’, by an artist called John Brack. As I gazed upon it, I could feel the hairs on my tail stiffen! … oh!! The terrible blankness of the faces! The Pavlovian shuffle towards … what? How deeply that painting has affected me. I often wonder what masterpiece Mr. Brack could’ve produced of the human species, if he’d viewed them from the perspective of myself and my fellow kittens, long ago, in that ghastly shop? I shudder, to imagine!

I’m sure, Dear Reader, you have sufficient perspicacity to predict what happened next. Stretched out, eyes closed, on my faux-fur covered perch one afternoon, I became aware of human voices near at hand. Presently, I ascertained they were talking about me:

‘Darling, look at that sweet little black and white one! … and cats are so clean!’ (adult human female)

‘Daddy, he has the cutest fluffy white chest!’ (non-adult human female)

‘Naaah, cats are boring! Dad, can’t we have a dog?’ (whingeing, non-adult human male)

‘Crispin, I agree with you, but it isn’t fair to keep a dog in a unit. Mummy and Cordelia seem to be very keen on this kitten … when the renovations are complete on our house, I promise you we’ll get a dog, a large breed I should think, the kind you can play ball with, we’ll have heaps of space.’ (long-winded adult human male)

I opened my eyes. At this point, the whingeing non-adult human male emitted an unpleasant wailing sound.

‘Darling, go buy him an ice-cream,’ suggested the adult female, to the long-winded adult male. ‘We’ll meet you back at the car’.

Old Windbag flashed me a cold look, before complying.

I remember my tail hairs started to stiffen. The small female, Cordelia, bore me off in a cat carrier they’d purchased, along with a catnip-filled felt mouse and a food bowl decorated with paw prints. Rather twee, I thought, but my relief, at being free of the pet shop, was immeasurable.

Unfortunately, I had a rather bumpy nausea-inducing ride to the car, as Cordelia kept swinging my carrier about, nearly dropping me, it seemed. Adding to my discomfort, was the visual restriction imposed on me by the carrier; all I could see, through its mesh-covered aperture, were human feet!

I don’t wish to offend, Dear Reader, but human feet are not a pretty sight, especially en masse, in a busy shopping mall. I saw toes hairy enough to make a Neanderthal blush; scabrous, lumpy old feet with lacquered toenails, bravely squeezed into strappy, gold sandals; funny, young, ‘kangaroo’ feet in thongs; ‘sensible’ feet in plain shoes with thick soles; ‘wobbly’ feet hoisted up onto narrow girder-like heels and, worst of all, lots of shapeless feet, flopping along, in plastic monstrosities!! Yikes! As I gazed upon them, they seemed to multiply!

It saddens me to report that Elizabeth’s friend Charlotte, who has woeful taste, favours this grotesque footwear. She owns several pairs, each ‘colour-coded’ to ‘blend’ with a succession of limp skirts of indeterminate colours and designs. Elizabeth, on the other hand, prefers to wear smart-looking sneakers; she has three pairs, all of them white and kept in immaculate condition by frequent washing, in a good quality laundry liquid. Charlotte finds this amusing, of course.

I think Elizabeth looks quite stylish, setting off in her sneakers, teamed with jeans, of course; I watch her departure from the dining room window. But, Dear Reader, my thoughts have strayed … reluctantly, I must return to Cordelia …

Her conversation, with the adult female she called ‘Mummy’, did not fill me with optimism, as we bumped along on our epic journey towards the car:

‘Mummy, I think I’ll call him … Snuggles!’

‘How sweet, Darling.’

‘Mummy, Mummy, we forgot to get him some food!’

‘What? Oh, you mean that rather expensive tinned stuff?’

‘Yes! And the dried stuff, in big bags.’

‘Cordelia, that all sounds a bit much. I’m sure we can find him something in the fridge. He can have our leftovers.’

‘Mummy, what if he doesn’t like leftovers?’

‘Rubbish, Cordelia! Think of the starving humans, in Africa! They would love our leftovers, so I’m sure Snuggles will be more than happy with whatever he gets.’

Finally, we reached the car, which wasn’t a car at all, but ‘a gargantuan petrol guzzler’, as Elizabeth calls them, ‘favoured by suburban fantasists, who want you to believe they do fearless things in the wilderness.’

Old Windbag’s driving was certainly fearless, involving as it did abrupt stops and starts and lots of swaying, punctuated by him directing snarling sounds at other road users.

‘Darling, could you not get quite so close to that other car?’

‘And Darling, could you refrain from telling me how to bloody well drive? And shut that fucking cat up!’

Charming.

‘Daddy, he’s frightened!’ whimpered Cordelia.

I certainly was! The hairs on my tail had stiffened, yet again …

Dear Reader, I do not wish to spend an inordinate length of time recalling this painful situation in my young life. Thankfully, it was brief. The Pratfield-Frasers, as they were known, lived in an enormous apartment, roughly the size of a domestic air terminal, it seemed to me. Elizabeth’s cottage would’ve fitted snugly onto the patio!! – and was every bit as cold and cheerless. I can recall the clicky-clack of little claws, as I tried to grip its shiny wooden floors. The apartment overlooked a portion of Sydney Harbour called Manly and was surrounded by water. At night I would settle myself on Cordelia’s pillow (Mummy hated me doing this, as she thought it was unhygienic) and listen to the repetitious slapping of waves hitting rocks, as I fell asleep. Such a mournful sound!

Thank goodness I now live in the Mountains, dozing off to lots of funny little noises – possums, frogs, owls, gum leaves rubbing together – all of it a little mysterious and not at all depressing. I greet each morning with a contented stretch … Anyway, it wasn’t long before the Pratfield-Frasers (except Cordelia) made me feel I was no longer a welcome member of their family. It happened one afternoon, not long after my arrival; in my haste to pursue a moth, I pounced upon a high bookshelf in the living room, knocking off a figurine of a hunched, unsmiling human in long robes, which lost its head as it made contact with the floor.

The Pratfield-Frasers were pursuing desultory activities in the living room, at the time: Old Windbag reading a golfing magazine, Mummy poking a needle into a dull-looking tapestry depicting an English country garden, Crispin and Cordelia doing something with a PlayStation … they all jumped as if they’d been stung by cattle prods. Mummy’s tapestry took flight, as she leapt from the sofa.

‘You hideous little creature! You’ve broken my lucky god!’

‘He doesn’t look too lucky now, Mummy!’ sniggered Crispin.

‘Shut up, Crispin,’ said Old Windbag.

‘Mummy bought that in Honshu, many years ago, on our honeymoon!’

‘Whatever,’ muttered Crispin, as he smirked at Cordelia.

I cowered behind a copy of Mummy’s favourite book, ‘The Power of One’, by Bryce Courtenay, a singularly apt title, I thought, given the circumstances. Not surprisingly, as a result of this incident, I knew my presence within the household was tenuous. My little paws were starting to slip down the sharp incline of their displeasure. The descent gathered momentum a few days later when Mummy found me in the kitchen, scooping pieces of bacon out of her Carbonara. Cordelia had rushed off to cello practice without bothering to feed me. Crispin was not at all happy, to