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Authors: Nancy Atherton
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withdrawing hastily. “Dinner first, introductions later.”
I filled one bowl with water, emptied a can of cat food into the other, and placed both on the floor. Hamish leapt down from the counter and began eating as if he’d never been fed. While he demolished his dinner, I rinsed the empty can and the cat-shaped spoon, set them on the draining board to dry, and boosted myself up on the sink to take a look outside.
The bare branches of a copper beech beckoned to me from the gathering gloom. The closest were no more than three feet away. Any cat worth his salt could use the tree as a handy stepladder and—with a carefully judged leap—gain access to Miss Beacham’s windowsill.
“So you’re not just a pretty face.” I slid down from the sink and closed the window. “You’re a clever climber, too. Tell me, did Miss Beacham provide for your every need?”
I surveyed the room attentively and noticed for the first time that a cat flap had been set into the door sporting the bright yellow corkboard. When I crossed to investigate, I found a utility room with a washer and dryer as well as shelves stocked with folded grocery bags, dust cloths, buckets, and miscellaneous cleaning supplies. I was completely unsurprised to discover a sack of kitty litter beside a plastic litter box on the floor.
“A good hostess is prepared for everything,” I declared, tipping litter into the plastic box.
Hamish padded to my side as I filled the box, as if to supervise the operation, then returned to his bowls, to continue the equally important business of stuffing his face. I turned my attention to the refrigerator. It had not only been emptied, but scrubbed clean. I recalled the grubby state of my own refrigerator and winced. Miss Beacham’s housekeeping skills put mine to shame.
The rest of the kitchen cabinets were filled with cooking utensils, an unusually large number of bread loaf pans, and a variety of canned goods. Since I couldn’t leave Hamish alone in the apartment—or toss him back onto the windowsill to meet an uncertain fate—I decided to plunder Miss Beacham’s shelves for my supper.
While Hamish cleaned his paws and whiskers, I heated a can of vegetable soup and ate it at the pine table in the kitchen. I was scooping up the last spoonful when I heard the familiar sound of my cell phone ringing, far away in the living room. I ran to answer it.
It was Bill, calling to tell me to spend the night in Oxford.
“Get a room at the Randolph,” he said. “Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to drive home tonight. The fog’s so thick I can’t see Peacock’s pub.”
“You can’t see across the square?” I said, amazed.
“I can’t see the war memorial,” he replied. “I’ll have to drive home at two miles an hour.”
“What about the boys?” I asked anxiously. “Are they still at Anscombe Manor?”
“They’re at home with Annelise,” Bill reassured me. “Mr. Barlow dropped them off at the cottage before the heavy stuff set in.”
“Thank heavens,” I said, and was momentarily distracted by Hamish, who bounded into the living room, batting a crumpled ball of paper before him like a hockey puck. I watched in fascination as he braced his paws against the Persian carpet, waggled his haunches, pounced, sent the ball of paper skittering beneath the Regency bookstand, and dove after it.
“Where did you find that? ” I said.
“Where did I find what?” Bill asked.
“Sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the cat. He’s found a ball of paper to play with, and it’s not mine.”
A brief silence ensued, followed by: “The cat?”
“Er. Yes. The cat. Didn’t I mention him?” I chided myself silently for leaving the kitchen door open in my rush to answer the phone, and told Bill about my uninvited guest. “I’m pretty sure he’s the mysterious Hamish Miss Beacham missed so much while she was in the hospital,” I concluded. “I can understand why she was fond of him.
I filled one bowl with water, emptied a can of cat food into the other, and placed both on the floor. Hamish leapt down from the counter and began eating as if he’d never been fed. While he demolished his dinner, I rinsed the empty can and the cat-shaped spoon, set them on the draining board to dry, and boosted myself up on the sink to take a look outside.
The bare branches of a copper beech beckoned to me from the gathering gloom. The closest were no more than three feet away. Any cat worth his salt could use the tree as a handy stepladder and—with a carefully judged leap—gain access to Miss Beacham’s windowsill.
“So you’re not just a pretty face.” I slid down from the sink and closed the window. “You’re a clever climber, too. Tell me, did Miss Beacham provide for your every need?”
I surveyed the room attentively and noticed for the first time that a cat flap had been set into the door sporting the bright yellow corkboard. When I crossed to investigate, I found a utility room with a washer and dryer as well as shelves stocked with folded grocery bags, dust cloths, buckets, and miscellaneous cleaning supplies. I was completely unsurprised to discover a sack of kitty litter beside a plastic litter box on the floor.
“A good hostess is prepared for everything,” I declared, tipping litter into the plastic box.
Hamish padded to my side as I filled the box, as if to supervise the operation, then returned to his bowls, to continue the equally important business of stuffing his face. I turned my attention to the refrigerator. It had not only been emptied, but scrubbed clean. I recalled the grubby state of my own refrigerator and winced. Miss Beacham’s housekeeping skills put mine to shame.
The rest of the kitchen cabinets were filled with cooking utensils, an unusually large number of bread loaf pans, and a variety of canned goods. Since I couldn’t leave Hamish alone in the apartment—or toss him back onto the windowsill to meet an uncertain fate—I decided to plunder Miss Beacham’s shelves for my supper.
While Hamish cleaned his paws and whiskers, I heated a can of vegetable soup and ate it at the pine table in the kitchen. I was scooping up the last spoonful when I heard the familiar sound of my cell phone ringing, far away in the living room. I ran to answer it.
It was Bill, calling to tell me to spend the night in Oxford.
“Get a room at the Randolph,” he said. “Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to drive home tonight. The fog’s so thick I can’t see Peacock’s pub.”
“You can’t see across the square?” I said, amazed.
“I can’t see the war memorial,” he replied. “I’ll have to drive home at two miles an hour.”
“What about the boys?” I asked anxiously. “Are they still at Anscombe Manor?”
“They’re at home with Annelise,” Bill reassured me. “Mr. Barlow dropped them off at the cottage before the heavy stuff set in.”
“Thank heavens,” I said, and was momentarily distracted by Hamish, who bounded into the living room, batting a crumpled ball of paper before him like a hockey puck. I watched in fascination as he braced his paws against the Persian carpet, waggled his haunches, pounced, sent the ball of paper skittering beneath the Regency bookstand, and dove after it.
“Where did you find that? ” I said.
“Where did I find what?” Bill asked.
“Sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the cat. He’s found a ball of paper to play with, and it’s not mine.”
A brief silence ensued, followed by: “The cat?”
“Er. Yes. The cat. Didn’t I mention him?” I chided myself silently for leaving the kitchen door open in my rush to answer the phone, and told Bill about my uninvited guest. “I’m pretty sure he’s the mysterious Hamish Miss Beacham missed so much while she was in the hospital,” I concluded. “I can understand why she was fond of him.
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