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  Fern stood up and gazed at the sun which was creeping lower toward the rocky horizon. Clouds were gathering in the north, wispy and waffled, innocent enough but the sort that signified change.

  “Better get it over with,” she said. “The mirror side always goes faster since the cats spend more time out here.” She scrutinized me, searching for signs of shock, I assumed. “Don’t feel obligated, Lynley. No problem for me to do it by myself.”

  “No, I’m still up for it. Let’s go.”

  Without waiting, I pulled on my gloves and headed inside. Fern shut the outer door. “Food first,” she said, going to the bin of dry kibbles, “and then we herd cats.”

  * * *

  The rest of the afternoon was spent in efficient silence. Fern must have realized how deeply her disclosure had affected me. When we were done, she said, “Thanks for your help. Hope I see you again. And hey, Lynley. Sorry about...”

  “No, I’m glad you told me. Simon’s a good friend, but we actually haven’t been in contact for years. I guess he forgot to fill me in on that one little detail.”

  “It’s ancient history. Maybe he wanted to forget it ever happened.”

  “Not much chance of that now.”

  “Yeah. Well you take care of yourself. Come back any time you get homesick for cleaning litter boxes,” she joked.

  “I might take you up on that. I still have five days to go.”

  “You’ll love it; everyone does. But if you get fed up with being a pampered artist, the kitties are always thankful for your help. And I am too.”

  Fern turned and went back into Cat World, and I headed for my cabin. A haze was beginning to drift across the ground, creating an instant ocean chill in the air; I needed to get a sweater before I went anywhere else. I figured I’d regroup, take care of Emilio, and check the program to see what was planned for the rest of the day. An idea was forming in my mind. I wasn’t sure it was a good one—‌in fact, I was pretty certain it wasn’t—‌but I felt like I had no choice. The news that Crystal and Simon had been man and wife compounded the conundrum of her hateful manner. I needed to talk to her, face to face, in private. The thought made me antsy; I didn’t really consider her dangerous, but she certainly was strange. Maybe booze had curdled her personality, and I wouldn’t mess with her if she was drunk, but after her rampage of the night before, she might have decided to take some time off. It was worth a try. I hadn’t quite formed my questions yet, but I knew she held the answers. Answers I needed if I were going to be a good friend to Simon. Answers I needed for myself.

  A cloud passed in front of the sun, plunging the lush countryside into a monotone gloom. I glanced at the sky; it was darker than it had been mere minutes before. A storm was on its way.

  I shivered, but it had nothing to do with the weather.

  Chapter 12

  It is important to teach your cat that the hand is not a toy. As cute as it may be having a kitten wrapped around your fist like a fuzzy glove, once kitty is old enough to draw blood, the cuteness factor quickly fades. When kitty begins the attack, swap out your hand for a catnip body pillow; that way, both of you can continue the play without pain.

  For a day that had begun in the wee hours of the morning, the time had fled by. That I’d only managed to attend one of the art sessions irritated me. I was determined not to miss any more. Though the bout of cattery cleaning was gratifying as well as unexpectedly enlightening, I could clean cat boxes anytime; the retreat was an unprecedented opportunity, and I’d be crazy not to take full advantage of it.

  Unfortunately, the mountain hike was the final event of the afternoon. I suppose they figured people would be tired after trekking up the steep and rocky hillsides.

  With a jolt of adrenaline, I realized this could be the perfect time to tackle Crystal Holt. She might not have had a chance to start her evening binge yet, and I could ask her...

  But ask her what? I wasn’t clear on that part. I suppose I could always begin with “How are you feeling?” and hope something would come to me after that. “Why on Earth did you attack me last night?” seemed appropriate. Or I could jump right to the point and grill her on her relationship with Simon Bird. Hastily I shrugged on a tan fleece cardigan and was on my way before I could talk myself out of it.

  As I ran down the steps into the grassy courtyard, I saw the flaw in my plan—‌I had no idea where Crystal was staying. I gazed around the ring of cabins, hoping for a sign, but aside from a pair of manly boots on the front stoop of Cabin Three, they all looked alike. I considered my options. I could go around peering in people’s windows until I saw her, but what if she was out and there wasn’t anything obvious, such as a half-dead vodka soldier on the kitchen table, to identify the place as hers? Or worse, what if she caught me snooping? Then she really would have a reason to push me off a path.

  I could probably get the information from one of the other students, but I didn’t want to draw attention to my plan in case I chickened out. I could ring the front desk, but unless I wanted to call the emergency line, no one would be answering until tomorrow. I supposed if I stood there for long enough, she would eventually come or go, and I could find out that way.

  The point became moot when I saw Mrs. Fox come out of Cabin Fourteen. She was wearing a peach silk jumpsuit with a matching quilted jacket. Turning, she locked her door and started down the steps. When she saw me, she waved a hand in greeting.

  “Ho, Lynley,” she called as she approached across the grass. “How are you feeling, dear? Everything better now?”

  In all my concern over Crystal, I had never considered how I wanted to handle Mrs. Fox and her pack of lies.

  “Yes, all back to normal,” I told her. “No thanks to your friend, I might add.”

  She stopped and looked me up and down, taking in my work jeans and casual sweater. “I’m on my way to dinner. Are you going too? Because if you are, don’t you think you should change your clothes first? I don’t mean to tell you what to do—‌if you’re comfortable being sloppy at dinnertime that’s your business, of course—‌but I think it’s rather up to us, ladies of our age, to show the younger ones what etiquette is all about.”

  “No, I’m not going quite yet.” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “I have a few things to do first. I’ll probably change before I go.” If I darn well feel like it.

  “Ah, good,” she said, relieved. “Well, I’ll see you there.”

  “Mrs. Fox? Adrianna?” I said. “May I call you Adrianna?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. What is it, Lynley?”

  “Well, to be honest, you’ve been passing around the story that I fell off the path last night and that I was by myself when I did it. You and I both know that isn’t true.”

  She glanced down at her apricot sandals.

  “It’s not the way it happened,” I pressed. “Why would you make something up like that?”

  She sighed, a great heaving in her large breast. “It’s Crystal. You see, she doesn’t remember. I’m doing everything I can for her, to make her well again. I figured knowing she had bodily injured someone might exacerbate her stress.” Her body sagged. “I’m sorry, Lynley. It sort of got out of hand. But she’s doing so much better today. She hasn’t had a drink...”

  That you know of, I said in my head.

  “...and she went on the hike with us. She’s in a much improved frame of mind. Please don’t spoil it for her.”

  “But she needs to know! She needs to face what she’s done so she can put it right, make amends.”

  Adrianna Fox scoffed. “Oh, don’t go all twelve-step on me, dearie. Granted that works for some people, but what Crystal needs right now is a new start and a little help. She’s having a hard time. Show some empathy, why don’t you?”

  I knew better than to argue about the right and wrong way to face alcoholism; it was nearly impossible to change people’s minds when they think they’ve got it down. “Okay, I’ll give her a break. But I do want to talk to her at some point. I us
ed to be a drinker myself,” I revealed. “Maybe I’d be able to give her some of that help you were just talking about.”

  Adrianna Fox looked doubtful.

  “I’ll be gentle. You never know what’s going to click with someone who is trying to get sober.”

  “Alright, but mind that you take care. She’s very fragile right now.”

  Fragile, my patootie! I thought to myself. I’d seen lions more fragile than Crystal Holt.

  “What cabin is she in?”

  “Nine, but she’s not there now. She’s already gone to the hall and I’m supposed to meet her so I’d really best be going.”

  “Okay, and thanks, Adrianna.”

  The woman turned. As she strode away, she snapped over her shoulder, “Please call me Mrs. Fox.”

  * * *

  I hadn’t realized how apprehensive I’d been until I breathed a huge sigh of relief when the Fox told me Crystal wasn’t home. The confrontation would be postponed. Maybe forever.

  I returned to my cabin and changed for dinner, though it had nothing to do with Fox’s dressing-down, if you’ll excuse the pun. Nor did I have any wish to teach young people an etiquette that was in some ways outmoded, even for me. It was purely and simply my own desire to get into something cleaner and more comfortable for the evening meal. So there!

  Emilio was in a particularly active mood, leaping from floor to bed to desk and back again. When he started nosing against the door and me-rrowing, I felt it was time to intervene. I picked him up and set him on the comforter. With pets and loves, I explained that cats didn’t go outside. I told him about the dangers of cars and wild animals, about the lack of fresh water and regular meals, about getting lost and causing themselves and their people all sorts of grief. He nuzzled my hand, gave another me-rrow, and went right back to the door.

  With a final shrug, I eased outside amid catly protests. Emilio jumped to the counter and glared at me through the window. I decided now might be a good time to lock up so no one, including myself, would inadvertently let the boy out. I thought I might check with the Cats staff to see if this sudden angst was his normal behavior or if he should be checked out by the vet.

  On the way to Wolf Hall, I caught up with Sympathy Donnell and Marissa Peabody-Jones. The women were discussing the merits of colon-cleanses, raw beet juice versus a naturopathic product I’d never heard of. Sympathy was getting the better of Marissa, being more assertive by nature. Marissa’s accepting shrug made it clear she was willing to surrender to avoid a fight.

  I hadn’t paid Marissa much mind in class, but now I realized that may have been her intention. She was one of those plain women who so often desperately wanted to go unnoticed. This seemed especially true around other females, in particular those blessed with beauty. She would probably get over it as she aged but sadly by that time, youth, the most beautiful attribute of all, would be lost.

  Wolf Hall was full to bursting. Meditation was over so everyone was there and hungry after the day’s work. I calculated at least sixty volunteers, employees, and art retreat students, plus a handful of overnight visitors. Sympathy, Marissa, and I found seats at a table with Nancy, Jane, and three strangers who turned out to be holidaying at the sanctuary from Minnesota.

  “Coming here has been a lifelong dream!” exclaimed the woman. The man, most likely her husband, nodded vigorously in agreement. The girl—‌their daughter?—‌looked as if she would rather be on Mars than on an island stuck between her parents.

  We talked awhile about the Minnesota weather and conversely the Portland weather which was much the same as on Clover Island. I kept an eye out for the Fox and Crystal, but in spite of Fox’s statement that she was meeting the other lady for dinner, they both seemed to be no-shows. I’m not sure when I had begun to think of Adrianna Fox in the noun, but it was probably right about the same time she rescinded the use of her given name. That was her prerogative but the affront rankled, and frankly, I didn’t quite get it.

  I also looked around for Simon, finally catching a glimpse of him at a crowded table on the other side of the room. Tulsa Thorpe was planted beside him, and the group seemed immersed in conversation.

  Dinner was a gastronomic delight: baked kale, chickpea nuggets, and Greek salad, with a dessert choice of home-made coconut ice cream or vegan coffee frappe. As people finished eating, the dishes were cleared, and a volunteer came around with small pottery cups of strong genmaicha, a Japanese green tea mixed with roasted rice. The two tables by the fireplace were moved and a plush carpet laid out. Three more tables were vacated and pushed to the side.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “Someone’s going to play music,” said Jane. “A mandolin and a guitar, I think.”

  “I never heard about it,” Sympathy commented.

  “That’s ’cuz it isn’t one of the art retreat functions,” Nancy explained. “We saw the notice on the bulletin board at the Visitor Center. I like to keep an eye on those sort of things.”

  “Good idea,” Sympathy agreed. “But don’t we have something else to do tonight? A night painting session?”

  “That isn’t until later. I think they planned it so we could do both.”

  “The night is young,” I commented, though I wasn’t sure if I were still young enough to take full advantage.

  * * *

  There is something about live music that takes the soul on a little personal journey. Even if it isn’t one’s favorite style, just the fact that real people are producing it without the aid of recording devices and synthesizers makes it significant. And I did like the tunes the boys were playing, a mix of classical and classic country with a few Hawaiian melodies thrown in. Some I recognized from when I was a kid; most I didn’t, but my toes tapped to the rousing rhythm just the same.

  Several folks took to the cleared area and danced, with a partner or by themselves. There was quite a diversity, and some dancers were better than others, but everyone was having a good time.

  I was watching a couple sway across the floor in perfect harmony when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Looking up, I saw Nathan Shore staring down at me with a sheepish grin.

  “Want to dance, Lynley?” he asked, then nodded toward the dance floor in case my dumbfounded look meant I hadn’t understood what he’d said.

  In fact, I had; I just didn’t believe it. It had been a long time since a young man had asked me to dance.

  I loved to dance, though growing up in the hippie era, I’d never accomplished any particular style. Hippies danced in darkened rooms punctuated by strobe lights and psychedelic projections. Often they danced alone, doing their own flowing or gyrating or jumping-up-and-down thing. I envied the couples who could touch and twirl without getting tangled up in each other’s feet.

  I was about to accept Nathan’s offer when a piercing scream ripped through the well-being of the room. The scream repeated and the music faltered, then died out in a prickle of plinks and plunks. Heads turned and from my seat I could see a figure writhing in the shadows of the adjoining room. A shaft of light hit the familiar face and I groaned. Crystal Holt. I should have known.

  There was a third screech. This time it was accompanied by yowl, and recognizing the cry of an angry feline, I was up out of my chair in a heartbeat. After her comment about using cats as speed bumps, I didn’t trust Crystal as far as I could throw her. Without even knowing the circumstances, I was wholly on the side of the cat.

  Someone flipped on a light, and there she stood, eyes wild, red hair flying. In her hand, a small kitty dangled by its scruff. For a moment, she just stared, then she began to wail.

  “It tried to kill me!” she squealed. Then she saw me and zeroed in. “Here, Lynley. You like these monsters. Get it away from me before I wring its scrawny neck.”

  With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the cat in my direction. He landed feet first on my chest, scuttled over my shoulder and leapt to the floor. I knew better than to try to hold him; he was mad and scared and just wanted to h
ide from the nasty loud woman. I knew how he felt.

  “Get the doors,” I commanded but a volunteer had beat me to it. Kitty, seeing his predicament, zipped under a built-in sideboard and was not seen again. No such luck with Crystal.

  The half-dozen people who had followed the disturbance gaped at the woman.

  “What?” she demanded.

  I sucked in a breath. “What happened, Crystal?”

  “Yeah,” said the volunteer. “What were you doing to that cat? Are you crazy?”

  “Me?” she sputtered. “I’ll have you know that animal attacked me. Look!” She pointed to the tiniest of pink marks on her calf. “It jumped right out from who-knows-where and scratched me. For no reason!”

  A young man with a small carrier slipped in from the hallway. “Yo, Joel. Where’s Oreo?” he asked his friend John.

  The other youth nodded at the built-in. “Yo. He’s hiding. Under there.”

  The boy with the carrier went to take a look, crouching low but not too close, careful not to seem threatening. “Hello, sweetie,” he crooned into the dark space, then produced a small aerosol can from his apron pocket, a pheromone product known to help calm an anxious cat. He spritzed a fine mist onto a cloth and set it on the carpet near where the cat had disappeared. Then he waited. This guy knew what he was doing.

  “Hey!” called Crystal. “Hey, doesn’t anybody care what that cat did to me? What if it’s sick? You make sure to have it tested. I’ll sue the pants off you people if I end up with rabies.”

  “Did he bite you?” John asked evenly, looking up at the unhappy lady.

  “Well, no. It didn’t actually bite.”