Chapter 12: The Cat

Colleen Bradlee's bridge club met on Wednesday mornings at ten, in the sunroom, with lemon cake.

I knew because I'd served that lemon cake every week for five years.

At five to ten I stood on her front porch with Elias beside me and Teagan's truck idling at the curb.

"Last chance to let me go in alone," Elias said.

"No."

"I thought not."

"You're the photographer," I said. "You can take pictures."

His mouth twitched.

He lifted the camera from his chest, switched it on, and nodded once.

I opened the front door without knocking, because I still had a key to the one lock she hadn't changed.

The sunroom was full of morning light and old money.

Eight women sat at four card tables, in pastel cardigans, with their cards fanned and their teacups poised.

They all stopped when I walked in.

At the head table sat Colleen, in her pearls, with a hand of cards, and on the wicker chair beside her was a pet carrier I knew.

Mustard sat inside it with his ears flat.

He saw me, and he screamed.

It was a long, outraged, furious shriek, and eight women jumped.

"Willa." Colleen laid down her cards with no hurry at all. "You can't barge in on a private gathering."

"I'm here for my cat."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Then why is he in your sunroom, in a carrier I bought, on the morning after he disappeared from my best friend's apartment?"

A woman in lavender looked at the carrier.

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