Read Online The Black Cats by Monica Shaughnessy - Free Book Online

murderer. Tabitha and Abner Arnold watched
us from the doorway of the shoemaker shop next door. Abner appeared to have recovered
from his trip to Jolley Spirits and stood a little straighter. Tabitha,
meanwhile, hadn’t changed a whit. She scowled at us, unamused by our conduct. Throughout
the courtyard, I wished for street. When we reached Franklin, I wished for soft
earth. Cobblestones are for paws, not backs. The entire trip home, Eddy did not
speak to me. And he certainly did not
speak to the neighbors, try as they might to engage him.
    “You’ve
got an odd anchor, Poe!” Mr. Cook shouted from his front stoop. “It’s got teeth
and tail!”
    Mrs.
Cook stuck her head out of an upstairs window and pointed. “Look! He’s caught a cat fish on his line. I know what Mrs.
Clemm is cooking for dinner!”
    Their
jeers held no meaning. I had a job to do, and nothing would stand between me
and my quarry, not even my pride. Just the same, I hoped I wouldn’t encounter
the tabbies, George and Margaret, or the Coon Cats, Samuel and Silas. Vanity
aside, I still prized my dignity.
    Eddy continued
in silence, stopping every few houses to see if I’d let go of the rope. But he
never once looked—really looked— at
the object between his fingers. With each passing stone that scraped my back, my
course grew more certain. Midnight was right. To help Snip and protect the cats
of Philadelphia from Mr. Fitzgerald, I had to steal Mr. Eakins’s book.

 

Buried
Secrets
    JUST AS I LICKED the last twig
from my tail, Muddy served dinner. Unfortunately, my harrowing drag was for
naught. Nothing came of these heroics, save for a bruise in a very delicate
place; my bottom had polished every cobblestone on Franklin. In the absence of
a hammer, Eddy pressed a candle stub onto the nail head, preventing Sissy or
Muddy from tearing their skirt again. But what skills he possessed in shirking handiwork,
he lacked in hunting. To snare Mr. Fitzgerald required the cunning of a cat,
nay, a tortoiseshell cat.
    I
pondered the complexities of the crime during the evening meal. I’d detected no
lavender or citrus anywhere in Mr. Fitzgerald’s shop, and I remembered smelling
it on the noose this morning. Further, what possible reason could he have for
killing Snip? And had he been Snip’s owner? Lastly, I judged him a fair human.
I have been mistaken or misguided on occasion, even ill advised, but I have
never been wrong. Doubt over his role in the murder abounded. I prayed Mr.
Eakins’s book would provide answers.
    Once
I’d downed Muddy’s feeble offering of chicken broth, I proceeded to Green
Street, stopping first at the Beal residence for help. The grey tom and orange
molly napped on the stoop, warming themselves in the dwindling sun. I thanked
the Great Cat Above for the long stretch of summer daylight. It made my
investigation that much easier, and quite an investigation it had been. I’d
done more today than I had all spring. I climbed the terraced steps and chanced
upon a crockery bowl of water. I took a sip of the cool liquid, thinking the
Quaker cats would not mind.
    George
lifted his head, one eye still closed. “Cattarina?” He nudged Margaret. She
awoke with a start and sprang to her feet.
    “Y-you’re
alive,” she said to me. “But how? Every cat tongue on Green Street is a-wag. They’re
saying the Butcher got his hands on you.”
    “He
did,” I said. “It was quite an ordeal.” I licked the water from my lips.
    George
sniffed me. “And you’re not dead?”
    I
shifted to my hindquarters, minding the bruise. “You should be asking about the
Butcher.”
    “The
way you talk!” Margaret said.
    “Were
you terribly frightened?” George asked. “How did you escape his sausage
grinder? Skeletons. Were there cat skeletons in the home?” He backed into the
water bowl, spilling it. “Do tell us, Cattarina! Do tell us!”
    “You
misunderstand Mr. Eakins,” I said.
    “Who is
Mr. Eakins?” George shook the water from his