Scratch the Surface by Susan Conant Page A

any case, in Felicity’s view, Ronald lacked sufficient interest in his fellow human beings to go to the bother of killing one. Also, he doted on cats and would have been far more likely to claim and keep the beautiful gray animal than to abandon it anywhere, never mind to incarcerate it in Felicity’s vestibule with the remains of its presumed owner.

    Felicity’s reflections on Ronald’s eccentricity made her think of Dave Valentine’s question about strangers she might have noticed in her neighborhood. In the eyes of the police, Ronald would be a suspicious-looking character. His ancient gray Volvo sedan would be out of place in Newton Park, as would Ronald himself, with his straggly ponytail, his handmade leather sandals worn over loudly patterned fleece socks, and, most of all, his odd demeanor. Even when engaged in some wholesome and blameless activity such as restocking the shelves in his store or eating one of his natural-foods lunches, he somehow managed to look as if he were lurking. Somewhat belatedly, Felicity put on her trench coat and went out the back door to try to intercept Ronald before he aroused the attention of the police. By the time she reached the street, however, Ronald was speaking to Dave Valentine.

    “. . . a friend of Felicity’s,” Ronald was saying as if passing along a state secret to an enemy agent. “She called me.”

    Rather than undertake the impossible task of explaining Ronald, Felicity greeted him in a fashion meant to confirm his statements. “Ronald, you’re here! Thank God!”

    “Thank me,” he said with a glance upward at the fog obscuring the view of the heavens.

    In an effort to smooth over her friend’s dedication to voicing his atheism, she said, “Ronald has a dry sense of humor.” She made quick introductions: “Ronald Gershwin. Dave Valentine.” The detective was looking at the cat carrier and the bags suspended from Ronald’s hands. A devoted environmentalist, Ronald never allowed shops to place his purchases in paper or plastic bags, but provided string bags of the type popular in Europe before the introduction of the plastic bags to which Ronald objected and unpopular in the United States except among socially out-of-it intellectuals who hadn’t been abroad for decades. Felicity considered telling the detective that Ronald had gone to Harvard and thus couldn’t be expected to behave like a normal human being.

    “Ronald, you’ve brought cat food. Thank you.” The weird fishnet bags had the advantage of making their contents plainly visible. “And cat litter.”

    “I knew you’d never think of it.”

    “Of course I would.” The fictional Morris and Tabitha managed their bodily functions in complete privacy, which is to say, never on the pages of Felicity’s books. The litter needs of a real cat hadn’t occurred to her. “But for obvious reasons, I haven’t exactly had a chance to run errands. We’d better go inside. The poor cat may be in desperate need.”

    Satisfied to have ended Ronald’s contact with police on the ordinary, practical note of feline excretion, Felicity hustled Ronald indoors to the kitchen, where he unpacked cat supplies and spread them on the table. Without consulting Ronald, Felicity opened a bottle of a wine called Mad Fish. Although Bob Robertson had been a drinker of single malt scotch and the occasional beer, the basement of the house had a small, cool room that served as a wine cellar. Felicity, who knew nothing about wine, had originally selected Mad Fish when she’d invited Ronald for a housewarming dinner. Her choice had been based less on his liking for red wine than on her sense that Ronald might accurately be described as something of a mad fish himself. The wine had been a success, and she’d taken to serving it whenever he visited. By the time she had uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses of wine, Ronald had placed a disposable cardboard cat box on the floor, added litter, and set out two