A FAMILIAR TAIL

A Witch’s Cat Mystery

by

Delia James

Reader Sample

CHAPTER ONE

            I want to be really clear about a few of things.  I don’t chase after stray cats, I don’t break into houses, and I most definitely do not steal valuable antiques from dead people.

            At least, I didn’t used to.

            My name is Annabelle Amelia Blessingsound Britton.  My well-meaning parents settled this bit of nom-de-overkill on me at the request of my grandmother, Annabelle Mercy Blessingsound Britton, back when she declared that her dying wish was to have a namesake granddaughter.  I was already on the way, and it was only after they filled out the birth certificate that my folks realized Grandma B.B. wasn’t departing this veil of tears anytime soon.  Or ever. 

            Some other pertinent facts and figures about Yours Truly:

            Age: 35.

            Profession: Freelance artist and illustrator

            Relationship Status: Emphatically single and giving up on men for good.  No, this time for real.

            Height: Short

            Weight: Seriously?

            Skin: Yankee White, except when burned Lobster Red.

            Eyes: Goldy-browny-amberish-kinda. 

            Hair: Medium brown, shoulder length, with either too much curl or not enough, depending on the day.

            Current Location: On the road with everything I own crammed into a pair of jumbo-sized red suitcases shoved into the back of my Jeep Wrangler, heading up I-95 from Boston to Portsmouth, New Hampshire for the first time since college.

            My impending return to Portsmouth did not occur under ideal circumstances.  It came down the day after the morning of my epic final break up with Truman Collins, my latest boyfriend.  That was also when Truman found out that what happens in Vegas does not really stay in Vegas.  Sometimes she shows up on the doorstep at three in the morning.

            I didn’t really want to have to stuff my life into my suitcases and slam the door.  I would have much rather thrown Truman, and Miss Vegas, out.  Unfortunately, I lived in his apartment.  It had seemed like a good idea, once.  Truman, after all, had been in his building for over a year.  I, on the other hand, had been staying in my brother’s spare room while I helped take care of Dad after his heart attack.

            It was almost eleven a.m. when I eased my Wrangler off I-95 and past the car dealerships and motels that clustered near the Route 1 roundabout.  The two-lane highway snaked under a railroad bridge and bent to the left, becoming Lennox Ave., and just like that, the scenery ceased to look like an off-ramp town, and became beautiful New England. 

            I followed shady twists and turns past old homes that ranged from stately to eclectic.  Another turn, and the homes gave way to converted brick warehouses lining the banks of the mighty Piscataqua.  My shoulders, tense from the drive, the shouting match, too much caffeine and not enough food, finally began to relax.  I put the windows down so I could breathe the summer air filled with familiar scents of fresh water, seaweed, and a hint of diesel fuel from the massive black and white tanker chugging under Memorial Bridge. 

            My initial destination was a three story, Colonial brick box of a building with a peaked slate roof and a sign declaring it to be The Pale Ale Inn, est. 1768.  As I turned the key, the inn’s door pushed open and an African American woman in a scarlet chef’s coat strode out.

            “Martine!”  I shouted.

            “Anna!”  Martine wrapped me in one of her patented spine-crushing embraces.  Martine Devereux was almost six feet tall with deep brown skin and arms like a major league slugger.  A professional chef, as well as my best friend since forever, Martine spent her life wielding knives and fire in confined spaces, not to mention barking orders with a force and speed that would put a drill sergeant to shame. 

            “Welcome to my castle!”  Martine took my arm and gestured grandly to the salt-box tavern with its weathered shutters and wood-framed windows.  My friend had been handed the mission of modernizing the cuisine while (and at the same time) keeping true to its New Hampshire heritage.  I had no idea how you did that, but I knew Martine was up to the challenge.

            “It looks fabulous!  How’s my town treating you?”

            “Your town?” snorted Martine.  “Since when?”

            “Since I was five,” I reminded her.  “We spent all our summers here while I was growing up.  The Blessingsounds roots are here.”

            “Yeah, yeah, after they all got run out of that other place, what was it’s name?  Oh yeah, Salem.”

            “We don’t talk about that,” I reminded her sternly.  This was true.  Clan Blessingsound did not ever talk about Salem.  Except, of course, when we did.  This usually involved a major holiday meal, a third schnapps, and the renewal of family arguments that had been going on for centuries.  Literally. 

            It’s the kind of thing that makes a New England family…special.  And usually lead to somebody abruptly changing the subject.  Like now.

            “So, Martine, do I get to come inside this castle of yours?”

            “Apres moi, Madamoiselle.” 

#

            The Pale Ale was a Portsmouth institution.  The tavern had been around since before certain radicals met there over tankards of the namesake beer to plot revolution.  Now it was the kind of landmark restaurant that got stars in the guides and on the websites.  Servers dressed in immaculate black and white, bustled around the spartan dining room, lining up silverware on blue napkins and adjusting the white tablecloths.  The clatter and bang of a kitchen in full swing drifted out from the swinging doors. 

            I stopped on the threshold, drinking in the scene.  Part of this was a professional hazard.  Any artist will stop and survey a new place for its picture possibilities.  Part was something else I do not talk about. 

            Sometimes, some places — homes, buildings, vacant lots, doesn’t matter — they give me…call it a Vibe.  Everybody else can find the place perfectly comfortable, but it will leave me cold, or even sick.  Other places that look so run down you wonder why they’re not condemned  can make me instantly cheerful, even bubbly.   

            I’d put a lot of work into believing “the Vibe” was random: a reasonless manifestation of that overactive imagination common to us artistic types.  Except there were those times when I was a kid and I got so dizzy or sick, I couldn’t make myself walk into my friend’s houses.  Afterwards I’d find out there’d been a recent death, or a divorce or some other disaster.  Or maybe it was a birth, or a marriage or money.  Good Vibes are just as freaky as the bad ones.  They all get inside from that same unknown source outside.

            Thankfully, the Vibe was not a constant, or I wouldn’t be able to walk into the grocery store.  Still, I tended to be careful when I got to new places.  Martine, fortunately, was one of the few people I’d told about my Vibe, so she knew not to rush me.  Equally fortunately, as I crossed the Pale Ale threshold, nothing came to me except a host of mouth-watering aromas and the awareness that my fast food breakfast muffin with cheese felt like a long time ago.

            “So,” began my friend as she led us to a table by the windows.  “Truman finally came out of the scumbag closet?” 

            I blinked.  “Never mind the soft sell, Martine.  Tell me how you really feel.”

            “I feel you are in need of a drink, and something better than the junk food I know you eat when I’m not looking.”  She twisted around so she could shout toward the bar.  “Sean?  Cocktail for the lady here, and get Ken to bring out some of the tacos from family meal, if there are any left.”

            “Yes, Chef!” The bartender saluted us and set about working with bottles and shakers.

            “It’s five o’clock somewhere?” I suggested.

            “For you it is.  I know you’ve been up since six.”

            “I’m a morning person.”

            “You’re unnatural.”  I will admit Martine was not the only person to voice that opinion about my love of sunrises.  The difference between Martine and other people is I let her get away with it.  Otherwise she might not invite me to dinner any more.

            “So,” Martine went on, “Do I get to say I told you so yet?”

            “You’re going to do it anyway, so let’s get it over with.” 

            “Well, I did tell you so.”

            “Yes, you did.  I admit it.  You told me so.  A lot.”

            Martine nodded, satisfied for the moment.  “Gotta say you’re awfully calm about this one.  I was ready for another boss-level blow up.”

            “I don’t blow up!  I retire from the field with grace and dignity.”

            “Uh-huh.  Was that what you were doing when you threw Orlando’s collection of vintage comic books off the balcony?”

            “That was in Los Angeles,” I muttered.  “Everybody makes grand gestures in L.A.”

            “Or when you stuffed — Whatwashisname’s — Chuck’s, cashmere sweater down the garbage disposal after you found out about his extracurricular activities?”

            “It was mohair, and he bought it with ill-gotten gains.”  Chuck, it turned out, made a sideline of selling illicit chemical substances around Chicago to help fill the income gap between acting gigs.

            “And what about…”

            “Okay!” I held up my hands.  “I’m a Fatal Attraction waiting to happen.  I see that clearly now, and promise to immediately mend my ways.” 

            Martine slowly raised one eyebrow, as if she doubted the sincerity of my words.  Fortunately we were interrupted before she could deliver her next insight on my love life.

            “Here you go, Miss.” A man’s hands set a plate of fresh tacos and a martini glass full of pale golden liquid in front of me.  “Enjoy.”

            I let my gaze travel past the hands, to the arms and on up to the shoulders.  Sean the bartender was younger than me, somewhere around his mid-twenties I guessed, and very tall.  He wore his golden brown hair pulled back into a pony tail long enough to brush the collar of his white shirt.  His beard was full, and neatly trimmed.  The old-fashioned tweed vest looked good on him.  So did the way he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows to show his muscled forearms.  He also flashed a smile guaranteed to light your day and curl your toes.  If you were into that kind of thing.  Which I was not, being fresh from my most recent, and (no matter what Martine said), perfectly dignified break up.  So, his smile had nothing to do with the way I stammered.

            “Um.  Is it strong?  The drink, I mean.  It is still early and everything.”

            Martine slapped her hand across her mouth, either smothering a laugh or a few choice words.  Sean, on the other hand, kept an endearingly straight face.  “Taste it, and you tell me.”

            The drink was bright gold, and slightly fizzy.  I sipped and got spice, lime and something warm and clean, with just a tiny bit sweet, which was perfect.  I hate cocktails that taste like Kool-Aid.  I sipped again.

            “It’s a Ginger Lady,” Sean said.  “Proseco, lime, ginger, of course, bitters and some orange blossom water for the perfume.”

            “It’s delicious.”  I sipped again, and smiled.  Sean smiled back.

            Martine frowned. 

            Sean gave a little waiter bow, and beat a strategic retreat back to the safety of the bar.

            “So, Anna, you were saying?” Martine settled back and folded her arms.  “You know, that thing about mending your ways when it comes to men?”

            “Are we changing the subject yet?” I muttered to my pretty, fizzy drink. 

            “Only because I’ve got less than an hour before we open for lunch.  And I’ve got something to tell you.”

            “That sounds less than good.”  I helped myself to a taco — which turned out to be spicy beef brisket and wrapped in fresh corn tortillas.  “Family meal,” was when the staff all ate together before their shift started, and Martine made sure her staff ate well.      She also looked genuinely embarrassed.  “I know I promised you could stay with me, but the boiler burst in my building this morning.  I tried to call, but you must have been on the road.”  I had also turned off my phone, in case Truman-the-Vegas-Playboy had any ideas about begging me to come back.  “The building’s flooded, and they’re saying no hot water until Monday.  My sous chef Casey is letting me stay with her, but well…” 

            I held up my hands.  “Don’t worry about it.  I saw a bunch of vacancy signs by the highway.”  They all had their No Vacancy neon lit, but I wasn’t too worried.  It was early in the tourist season.  If there weren’t any rooms in Portsmouth itself, there’d be something across the river in Ketteridge.

            “Actually, I got you covered.”  Martine pulled a business card out of her jacket pocket.  “McDermott’s B&B, over on Summer Street.  A friend of mine and her husband run the place.  They’re expecting you.”

            “Thanks, Martine.  I appreciate it, really.”  I dropped the card into my purse without looking at it.  If Martine liked the place, it would be fine, and the food would be outstanding.  What more could a girl ask for?  

            Martine regarded me thoughtfully for a minute.  “Any idea what you’re going to do now?”

            I shrugged.  “The usual.  Mope.  Eat too much.”  I took another bite of taco.  “Draw too many pictures of moody, rainswept coastline.”

            Martine cast a doubtful eye toward the sunshiny day outside.  “You know you need to cut this out, don’t you?”

            “I will.  Just gimme a couple of weeks or so.  I’ll be fine.”  It was amazing how quickly having a nineteen-year-old blonde show up in the wee hours could kill those pesky romantic feelings dead.

            “That’s not what I’m talking about.  The serial monogamy thing is bad enough, but whatever.” She waved it away.  “It’s this other thing, where you use your break-ups as an excuse to keep running away.”

            “That is not what I do.” 

            “Suuuuure it’s not.  It’s just a coincidence that everywhere you move, you immediately pick up the worst possible guy.  That way when he breaks up with you, you have the perfect excuse to move someplace new where you can find another lousy guy to break up with you.”

            “I’ve just had a run of bad guy luck.”

            “A ten year run.”  Martine leaned across the table and fixed me with a gaze that had been known to reduce swaggering hipster wannabe chefs to quivering puddles of creme brulee.  “Once or twice, yeah, okay, we’ve all been there.  But ten years starts to look a lot less like bad luck and a lot more like a fear of grown up life.”

            I opened my mouth to argue, and closed it again without saying a word, because Martine wasn’t entirely wrong.  I’d only moved back to Boston to help take care of Dad.  I’d only stayed because I met Truman.  Now that Dad was back on his feet, literally and figuratively, I had been feeling restless. 

            “It’s time to settle down,” said Martine firmly.  “Find something to throw your heart into.”

            “What?  You’re saying I should get out there and find my true love?”

            “With your track record?” She snorted.  “Better start with a cat.”  She also got to her feet.  “Listen, Anna, I’m glad to see you, and you know I don’t mean…”

            I nodded.  “I know, I know.  You share because you care, and you’ve got to get back to work.”

            “Call when you’re settled, okay?  The inn’s closed Monday.  We can take a girl’s day, but we’ll touch base before then.”

            We hugged and she had one of her minions wrap up the rest of my tacos in a take out bag.  I walked out of the Pale Ale with very mixed feelings.  What if Martine was right?  What if I the reason I wasn’t more upset over the Vegas Babe Incident was because I secretly wanted the excuse to leave town?  Again?

            But it couldn’t be.  I mean, it wasn’t as if I wanted really liked moving all the time.  I wanted to settle down and make a home, somewhere.  And I had tried.  I’d tried a lot.  Chicago, Los Angeles, St. Louis, New York, Boston…It just never seemed to work out. 

            I also had to admit, when all the cities and all the exes lined up in front of my mind’s eye it did not look good at all. 

            Lost in these less than happy thoughts, I juggled my purse and my bag of tacos to fish for my car keys, so I could open the Jeep. 

            “Merow?”

            Merow?  

            I froze.  I blinked, and I stared.

            A cat crouched on the driver’s seat and stared right back at me.