The Tell-Tail Heart: A Cat Cozy (Cattarina Mysteries) by Monica Shaughnessy Page B

closed.
    "A leg of lamb."
    "Give me a hill, and I'll roll it home."
    "A side of beef. Now you couldn't
possibly—"
    "Oh, I'll steal it. One bite at a time if I
have to." He raised his face to the sun, looking more regal than the
embroidered lions on Eddie's slippers. Ah, the glorious Thief of Rittenhouse. Even
if he hadn't led me to Mr. Abbott, Midnight might still be able to give me insight
into the man's behavior.
    "A good thing you're qualified, because I
need your opinion." I paused, considering the best way to phrase my
question. "What do you make of humans who steal body parts?"
    "Arms? Legs?"
    "No, no…eyes. And not real ones. Fake ones
made of glass."
    "Would this have anything to do with Mr.
Abbott?" His ears twitched when I didn't answer. "Very well,
Cattarina. There are two types of pilferers—those who steal for necessity
and those who steal for pleasure. Get to know your man, and you'll know why he
does what he does."
    I gazed upon Midnight's black fur, admiring its
luster in the full light. He'd stolen my admiration as easily as the wind
steals leaves from a tree. But he wasn't, as he stated, thebest. Eddie
held that title, having chastely taken my heart long ago. As a man of letters,
he cares about language, nay, the proper use of language more than any
other human I've ever met, which thrills me because for some time, I've fancied myself a cat of letters. No, not of written ones, but of ones passed
down in the oral tradition. To say that Eddie and I are sympathetic to one
another's needs is a grotesque understatement. For his sake and his alone, I ended
my Rittenhouse adventure. Besides, teatime was nigh, and I yearned for the
comfort and ritual of the Poe house. Muddy would be putting on a kettle, laying
out salted crackers and jam and, if I were lucky, cheese.
    With reluctance, I called an end to our hunt and
asked Midnight if he would escort me part of the way home. Ever the gentlecat,
he took me as far as Logan Square, the uppermost reaches of his roaming ground.
I paused at the entrance of the park and examined the pale stone building
across the street. Yesterday, Mr. Limp had taken great interest in the
structure. "Do you know anything about that place?" I asked Midnight.
    "I've never been inside, but I've heard
rumors. It's where they keep the broken humans," he said. "The ones
with shriveled legs or missing arms. The ones that bump into things."
    The ones like Mr. Limp.
    Our tails overlapping, I sat beside Midnight in
the waning afternoon. Clouds of clotted cream drifted over the Home for Broken Humans,
cushioning the white marble façade. Above it, a brilliant stretch of
sky—eyeball blue, to be exact. "It's been a lovely day," I
said. "Thank you."
    "Don't thank me. We didn't find your man."
    "There is always tomorrow."
    He stared at me with eyes as wide and pale as
the moon. "Will I see you again?" he asked.
    "When I'm in need of a whole chicken or a
leg of lamb, I'll know whom to call upon."
    We touched noses and parted—a sad but
necessary event. While I hoped to come across Midnight again, Eddie was my
world, and it would take more than the cleverest, handsomest thief in Rittenhouse
to change that. I waited until Midnight became a black smudge in the distance
before approaching the home. I climbed the stone steps, fearing the horrors inside. Broken humans . The very thought of it thickened my blood. Still, if Mr.
Limp lived here, it would be rude not call on him and thank him for saving my
life. To quote the ancient philosopher, Ariscatle, "Without propriety, we
are but dogs."
    Tucking myself into a loaf, I balanced at the
edge of the small porch and waited for the door to swing open. I'd give it half
a catnap, nothing more. If no one appeared in that time, I would depart for the
Poe house and be home in time for tea.
    A rattling harness stirred me from slumber as a closed
coach pulled alongside the curb and stopped. The horse team danced back and
forth, eager from the brisk air, but the