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  I gazed around the spacious ballroom, holding my clipboard to my chest like a shield. My granddaughter had offered to lend me her iPad, but I was stubbornly old fashioned in my belief that a clipboard and a pencil could solve all problems, where an electronic device could only let you make mistakes that much faster. This was the crunch, the night of the Kitty Noir Cat-illion and for all intents and purposes, we were ready. It’s amazing what a large group of enthusiastic volunteers can do. Screw the belief that slaves built the pyramids; I tend to agree with a new theory that they were built by zealous volunteers banded together for a common cause.

  The hall couldn’t have looked lovelier. Black and gray gauze hung from ceilings and walls, interspersed with drapes of glitter beads in contrasting hues, giving a mystical feel. Hundreds of round black balloons trimmed with cat ears and golden eyes bobbed freely, helium ones taking fanciful flight and air-filled ones bouncing along the carpet at the whim of the breeze. The dinner tables with their inevitable white linen tablecloths each had floral centerpieces, silver vases filled with white mums and crimson roses—‌we had skipped the usual Halloween orange, opting for a deep blood red to offset the otherwise-monochromatic palette.

  According to my roster, which I do admit to having on my smart phone, there were to be over three hundred guests. At a hundred bucks a pop, that was a good start for the shelter. There would also be the silent auction and raffle to bring in even more revenue. Put it all together with the proceeds from the donation cauldrons placed strategically around the room and Friends of Felines should be able to run their loving vocation for the good part of another year.

  I could hear someone giving last minute instructions to a group of helpers. I may have been in charge, but I had delegated the responsibility of herding the crews to those more capable. I silently patted myself on the back for making that decision. It had been my first instinct to oversee everything, but that talk with Frannie at the shelter had made me realize I was overdoing. She’d been right, I didn’t need to take it all on singlehanded.

  “Is that what you’re going to wear, Lynley?” came a solemn voice from over my shoulder.

  I turned to find Bernard Hamilton, dressed to the nines in an older but pristine tuxedo. Suddenly feeling shabby in my work clothes, I blustered, “I was about to change.”

  He broke into a smile, his lined face brightening. “Just kidding, Lynley. You look finer in your jeans and tee shirt than most women do in a dress.”

  “Thanks for the compliment, but I fully intend to be in costume by the time the guests arrive. I still have...” I glanced at my phone. “Oh, gosh, it’s already six-thirty! I’ve got to run!”

  I took a last peek at my clipboard and then scanned the scene. No major snafus there.

  “It looks wonderful. You’ve done a fine job.”

  “Thanks. We all did.” I patted his arm and started for the side exit that led to the employee area, then turned back. “Could you check in with Grace and make sure the stage is ready?”

  “Already done. It’s a go, Lynley. Now get dressed, take some deep breaths, and have fun. We’re cat-people, remember? If something doesn’t come off as intended, we just pretend that was the plan all along. You know, like when Morris slipped off the counter the other day, then walked away with his tail in the air? I could almost hear him say, ‘I did that on purpose; now we shall never speak of it again.’ ”

  I laughed. We were a cat shelter, not the president’s men. This was supposed to be a night of merriment and glee. I took those deep breaths and walked down the hall to my dressing room.

  * * *

  The operational section of the old and prestigious Portland Hotel was nothing like the public area. Once through that inconspicuous oak door marked Employees, I could have been in a different world. Narrow, dimly lit hallways led into a warren of rooms. The floors were linoleum, clean but ancient, and the walls, a faded institution green. To my left, I could hear the commotion of the kitchen somewhere ahead; to my right, a row of closed doors concealing I knew not what. I’d only been in the back a few times, and I still wasn’t sure of my directions. Two rights and a left, or was it one right and two lefts? Sure enough, soon I was lost.

  I tried a few more cleansing breaths, a la Bernard, but it was too late for that. The clock was ticking and I didn’t have time for a tour of the Portland’s back rooms. I was getting madder and madder, walking faster and faster, scenarios running through my mind of late entrances with all eyes turned upon me, disapproving, or last minute disasters and I was nowhere to be found. Of course they were all in my imagination, and I told myself that but it didn’t help.

  Then there I was, the door clearly marked Dressing Room #1. I sighed with relief as I turned the knob. All would be well now.

  I turned the knob again. All was not well; the door was locked. Inside was my evening gown, so close I could have touched it had it not been for that inconvenient barricade. Now I would have to contact someone from staff, and I had no idea where to find them.

  I turned and looked around the deserted hallways, listened for footsteps but there was only an eerie silence, punctuated by kitchen clatter, now very far away. Then there was something. Shoe clicks, and they were coming my way.

  “Hello?” I cried, my voice echoing weirdly. “I need help here!”

  The shoe clicks continued to advance and a woman in a black suit came from around a corner.

  “Excuse me. Hi. Do you work for the hotel?” I asked.

  The woman never faltered. “How may I help you?”

  I sighed with relief. Reading her name off the shiny silver badge on her lapel, I said, “Lola, this door is locked and it’s where I’m supposed to dress for the Friends of Feline event. Which starts, well, right about now,” I added in frustration. “Do you have a key?”

  She looked me up and down as if to decide if I were a thief or a legitimate cause. Then she came forward and tried the door, which was still unopenable. The fact that I was telling the truth must have tipped her to my side because she unhooked a small walkie-talkie from her belt and called someone to come.

  “They’ll be up in a moment,” she said politely, then continued on her way. I watched her dark figure disappear around another corner, leaving me alone once more. In the repossessing silence, I wondered what her definition of a moment might be.

  Almost immediately, I heard footsteps and felt bad for doubting. I waited, my mind wandering to the act of putting on the unfamiliar dress with its valuable, borrowed accessories; whether to carry the small beaded purse or wing it free hand, hoping I didn’t need a Kleenex or re-application of lipstick.

  Then I paused. I no longer heard the footfalls. Feeling slightly woozy, I leaned against the wall to regain my equilibrium. If I’m not there for the arrival of the first guest, I told myself sternly, it’s no big deal. I had lots of people with lots of instructions. The hard work had been done. The whole thing could probably run itself from here on in.

  But that wasn’t it. My sudden anxiety wasn’t about the dinner; it was something else. The footsteps had stopped, but I couldn’t shake the feeling they hadn’t gone away, that someone was watching me.

  Purposefully I told myself I was being paranoid and recited a mantra or two. I had almost convinced myself when the next wave of weirdness hit full force.

  An explosion of noise erupted, this time from inside the dressing room. I heard a crash, the tinkle of breaking glass—‌probably one of the long wall mirrors. Without warning, the door flew open and someone charged through, bowling me over as he roughly ran past.

  I stumbled and cried out as I hit the floor with an impact that rattled my teeth. Briefly I saw stars, those little floaty white flashes that mean my brain is doing things it’s not supposed to. I blinked back tears, trying to get a glimpse of the attacker as he vanished down the hall. Light blue hoodie, black pants, running shoes, slim build, and then he was gone.

  With a moan, I slumped backward, my cheek coming to rest against the cold and s
lightly gritty linoleum. I tried to decide which hurt worse, my elbow or my tail bone. I felt shattered. People my age don’t fall well, though I supposed that if anything were actually broken, it would hurt even more.

  By the time help arrived in the form of the busboy with the key to the room, I was sitting up again and could truthfully say I was okay. As he assisted me to my feet, I told him in all seriousness, “I don’t think I need the key anymore.”

  * * *

  The remainder of the night went off without a hitch. I managed to wiggle into my sparkly peach formal, jewelry, and cat-ear headband in time to be only fashionably late, and the bruises from my fall wouldn’t begin to darken until after the dinner was over.

  At one point, I had to excuse myself to talk to a policeman about the incident, but nothing had been stolen so it was a less than enthusiastic encounter. They had better things to do on a Saturday night in Portland than investigate someone hiding in a dressing room. The hotel would follow up since it was their property that had been vandalized, so once I gave my statement, I was thankfully out of the picture.

  When the gala was over and the cleaning elves were doing their magic, taking down decorations and sorting things to return to their various sources, I called for a taxi. I would have brought my car, but at the last minute, opted to be chauffeured by Broadway Cab Company instead. I was extremely glad I did; between the evening of polite chit-chat—‌not really my favorite thing—‌and my fall, I was done in. I didn’t even bother to change out of the formal; I just stuffed my belongings into my rolling suitcase and headed out. As I took the elevator to the ground floor and waited in the lobby like an abdicating princess, my mind was already sleeping.

  The concierge called me when the cab arrived. I rose and pushed through the revolving glass and brass doors. Immediately I was hit by a blast of cold wind which carried with it a stinging rain that drenched me before I could cross the sidewalk. The dress was organza and would survive, but the satin pumps were taking a beating. I slipped them off once I was in the cab and replaced them with a pair of runners from my bag. Didn’t match, didn’t care. If the cab driver made a comment, I’d sue him for harassment. But I needn’t have worried. This was Portland after all; chances are his pervious fare was a hippie, cowboy, cross dresser, or just plain Portland-strange.

  I was so thankful someone else was driving. As I gazed out the window, I noted the drizzle that had been falling when I’d arrived hours ago had quickened into a full-fledged storm. Lightning flashed across the river, thunder claps following a few seconds after. I thought of Clover Island, of the treacherous tempest that had brought slaughter in its wake. There was that same sense of foreboding. I closed my eyes and settled back into the seat, wishing I had a less active imagination.

  * * *

  When the cabbie pulled over and stopped in front of my house, I could feel the wind buffeting the substantial car.

  “We’re here, ma’am,” he said politely.

  “Thanks.” I dug in my purse for the fare, twenty-some dollars for the trip across town which I thought was pretty steep, but still worth it since the way I felt, I would probably have wrapped myself around a tree had I been driving. I gave him a good tip for not pestering me with banal conversation and got out into the weather. Again, the drenching rain. I hadn’t noticed before how warm it was—‌not like one would expect from an October storm. More like a summer squall. More like that night on Clover Island.

  I picked up my skirts and ran for the stairs and the shelter of my porch. I had the key already in my hand, holding it throughout the cab ride like an impatient child. The deadbolt clicked and I pushed inside. I dragged my rolling suitcase across the threshold, dropped the handle, and gave it not another thought. I’d unpack tomorrow. Tonight it would be check the cats, then bed.

  Speaking of cats, where was Little? My sweet black female always met me at the door when I came home. She was usually front and center with a big meow welcome, or at least on her way if I’d caught her off guard. Because I arrived in a cab instead of my car, I thought maybe she hadn’t realized I was back, but as I moved into the living room, there was still no sign of her.

  “Little?” I called, to no avail.

  I had left a table lamp on, but now I flipped the overheads as well. Little wasn’t the only one missing from the scene; there was not a cat in sight. No sounds of them, either. With eight cats, the unlikelihood of such a phenomenon was next to nil.

  I began for the kitchen but something stopped me. I paused in the doorway, reached over to the wall, clicked on the dome light and froze. On the far side of the room, staring out into the night as I had done so many times was a figure. I instantly recognized the blue hoodie and black levis. As I turned to run, he turned as well.

  “Wait!” he called.

  With slow determination, he flipped back the hood of his sweatshirt so I could see his face.

  Chapter 21

  How many cats can you fit on a bed? All of them.

  “Simon!” I exclaimed. “What the...?”

  Simon Jon Bird started toward me. He was as drenched as I was and looked a pitiful sight. I had to say I’d never seen him so forlorn. That didn’t make me any less furious, however. After all, he had locked me out of my dressing room, then knocked me over as he ran out without apology, explanation, or even letting me know who he was. Now he had broken into my house and given me the scare of my life. Angry didn’t even begin to cover how I felt about Simon Bird at that particular moment.

  I gave the man a withering glare and turned back to the living room. Shrugging off my coat and tossing it onto the couch, I flopped down beside it like a drowned Cinderella and pulled off my runners, one by one. The first I threw, much too zealously, onto the floor, making it bounce on its rubber sole for another couple of yards; the other, I held in my hand. A few seconds later, it was flying through the kitchen door toward Simon. I barely remembered hurling it, as if something blind and cranky had taken over my body for that moment in time. I gasped when I realized what I’d done. The shoe fell far short of the man, but we both stared at it as if it were a comet descended from space.

  Then we looked at each other. The surprise on both our faces was so acute it was funny, and suddenly we were laughing like the good friends we were.

  Simon came into the living room, pointedly skirting the running shoe, now haplessly inert on the floor.

  “I’m still mad at you,” I guffawed.

  He sank down next to me and took my hand, which I immediately pulled away. “You have every right to be, Lynley. I’ve treated you terribly.”

  “Yes you have. You nearly gave me a heart attack just now. And I’ve got bruises from the smash-up at the hotel. Whatever were you thinking?”

  The laughter was gone now, the hard question posed. Simon put his head in his hands. The next thing I knew, he was weeping.

  “Simon, what is it?”

  He turned and buried his face in my shoulder. Sobs wracked his body.

  I put an arm around him and let him cry. I said things like, “It’s okay,” and “Try to relax.” I may have even passed on Bernard’s advice to “Breathe.” They were platitudes, random words in a soft and caring voice, but finally he stopped, sniffed hard, and turned away. I picked up a handy box of tissues—‌I keep them everywhere because you never know when you might need one. He gratefully plucked a handful. While he pulled himself together, I took some deep breaths of my own.

  “Sorry, Lynley,” he choked. “It’s been a rough few days. Weeks,” he amended, and then with a decided nod, “Months, actually. Ever since the deaths at the sanctuary. Nothing’s ever been the same.”

  “No, I can imagine not. I’ve tried to call you a couple of times, but you were never there.”

  “I know. I took some time off and went on sabbatical. I just couldn’t stay after Crystal and Marissa were killed. I usually take a few weeks after the retreat. This time I stretched it a bit. It’s not that I won’t go back,” he added.

 
; “You’ve been gone since August?” I was surprised. That was over two months.

  He nodded.

  “Where have you been?”

  Simon stood and put his hands in the pockets of his levis. He walked to the front window and stared out into the rain. I remembered that stance from the night on the island. What did he see in those dark raindrops? Or was it his own reflection he studied with such serious contemplation?

  I heard a patter of footsteps cascading down the stairs and in dashed Little, followed by Mab. The older female and the Siamese kitten cavorted across the carpet, and I couldn’t help but smile.

  “So that’s why you guys were hiding,” I said to the cats. “Avoiding the stranger in your midst.” I turned to Simon. “How did you get into my house, anyway? I’m going to make some tea, and then you got some ’splainin’ to do.”

  * * *

  I felt a lot better once I’d changed out of my ball gown into a pair of moss-colored sweats. I offered Simon an old plaid bathrobe which was much too big for me but I’d kept because it was the black, blue, and green of the MacKay tartan, and after a little hemming and hawing, he had accepted, trading his soaked hoodie and pants for the comfort of fleece. We had hot cups of chamomile tea and a few oatmeal Raisinets cookies to replenish our spent energies. I tucked my feet up under me, Tinkerbelle on my lap and Big Red behind my head on the back of the sofa. Simon sat in the easy chair, feet up on the ottoman. He had begun his tale without prompting, for which I was grateful. I let him ramble at his own pace, zoning out and petting Tink when he got off on a tangent, then tuning back in when I heard something important.

  I’d been off in space for a while as he described in detail the tiny art museum he had discovered in Podunk, Idaho, but my ears pricked up as I registered I’d missed a vital fact.