Chapter 4 #2
“And,” the sharpness of Ben’s tone drew me up short, making my face heat with something close to embarrassment.
“And who knows what Tubbs’ plans were for the evening.
Maybe he met someone. Maybe he got out the glasses and vodka for the two of you, hoping to butter you up.
Maybe it was from earlier and he’s just a slob.
” Ben shrugged, getting to his feet. “Damien, this isn’t a duck. ”
I bit my tongue—metaphorically of course—until he sighed and turned to leave.
“It’s late,” he said softly. “Don’t torture yourself all night.
Try to get some rest.” He snapped his fingers once and Tony got to his feet, rising from the little cushion near the back door where he spent most of his napping hours.
The pair of them disappeared upstairs, leaving me and Muffin alone to stew.
Well. Just me. Muffin took Tony’s pillow and gave me his back before Ben even closed his bedroom door.
#
“NO REST FOR THE WICKED,” Ben announced, knocking on my door at half past oh god in the morning.
I’d barely managed to get myself to bed, smoking a little bit of my stash I still had from California (legal, thank you very much, and though it lacked the of punch good old-fashioned dad weed, it did the job).
Even then, sleep was a slippery thing that brought reminders of Tubbs’ wide, sightless eyes and lifeless hand along for the ride.
Muffin was not best pleased with my tossing and turning, huffing at me every time the bedsprings squeaked.
I was momentarily relieved when Ben rapped on the door, welcoming the excuse to get up and away from the impending nightmares.
Then reality set in the moment my feet touched the cold wooden floor just past the thick rose and ring patterned rug.
Hissing in annoyance, I tiptoe-danced over to the door and flung it wide.
Ben was unfairly well put together for— “What time is it?”
“Half past five,” he announced, smiling just a tiny bit. “The a.m. one.”
“I understand they’re running two a day through Kansas City now,” I muttered, scrubbing my fingers through my hair and pushing it back out of my face.
Glaring blearily at Ben, already dressed in joggers and a loose plaid flannel over a Lester Cove High School (home of the fightin’ lobsters) t-shirt that was absolutely screaming for mercy and shower-damp hair shining in the hall light, I grunted “Is something wrong?”
Ben opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap. “I’m not going to answer that yet.” He paused then, cheeks darkening, motioned to my clothes or lack thereof. I’d gone to bed in my underwear and an oversized t-shirt and was decidedly underdressed for our conversation.
“I’ll go get some pants on,” I muttered, turning to head to the armoire across the room.
“Meet me in the kitchen,” he said, voice weirdly gruff. Maybe he wasn’t as much of a morning person as I thought?
***
IT TOOK ME LONGER THAN it probably should have to get dressed and feel alive for the morning.
Or at least for the next few minutes. I’d replaced my t-shirt with a sweatshirt I’d found at a resale shop somewhere in the Midwest proclaiming my reign as Bingo Queen of Saint Paul, MN.
It was floppy and comfy and no matter how many times I washed it still smelled a tiny bit like menthols and Coty Airspun.
It wasn’t super cold out but I knew Ben hadn’t started the heaters yet so I grabbed my buffalo checked flannel joggers and a pair of fuzzy pink socks Max had sent me from Paris that declared Paris is for (foot) Lovers.
Partway down the stairs, I caught the low murmur of voices from the kitchen and froze.
Am I being arrested? Oh my god, it’s because I forgot to tell Cherry what the neighbors said.
Oh my god am I going to jail in this outfit?
I stared at the socks and silently cursed Max’s sense of humor before I turned to hurry back up the stairs and grab another outfit.
Too late. Ben caught me. “I made your gunpowder tea,” he said from the kitchen doorway. “Drink it before it gets cold.”
Heath was sitting at the kitchen table, dark circles under his eyes so deep they looked bruised.
“I want to preface this with the fact we really did try every option available to us at this time, and we’re gonna keep trying but in the meantime.
..” He sighed heavily, reaching under the table to produce a leopard-print duffle bag.
It was weirdly structured, like it had boning in the ends to give it height but mesh panels along the sides made it sag in the middle.
It seemed heavy, too, judging by the little grunt Heath let out as he set it on the table beside him.
“Last night, while we were clearing the scene for the guys from the morgue,” he was kind enough to pretend not to notice my wince, “we found something. Tubbs wasn’t by himself. ”
“I knew it,” I hissed, slapping my hands on the table, a tiny ew sound erupting from between us. “Do you know who did it? Oh my god, was it the person being all aggro the neighbors heard? Did they come back to the scene of the crime? Did—”
“Breathe,” Ben ordered, a little amused and a lot kind. “Heath’s being dramatic.”
“Heath’s exhausted,” Heath muttered. “It’s still an accident, Damien. No one is questioning that. But Tubbs...”
In the heavy pause, that ew sound chimed out.
“Excuse me?” I muttered, my brow wrinkling in concern. “Are you... are you okay, Heath?”
“This is Charlemagne,” Heath sighed, turning the bag so one of the mesh panels faced me.
Two glittering eyes peeked through the dark fabric, wide and curious.
“We checked with every rescue in a fifty-mile radius. Either there was no answer or they’re absolutely full-up.
We reached out to a few fosters that do emergency placements but the nearest one is about a hundred miles from here and they’re not willing to travel for pick up and we’re not able to take him ourselves.
And,” he added before I could interject, “we’re still holding out for next of kin or maybe just one of Tubbs’ friends to take him in. ”
Ben, dry as Los Angeles on the Fourth of July, said, “Heath figured you could keep an eye on the cat for a few days since you did so well with Muffin.”
Muffin, who was sitting beside me and eagerly sniffing the air, practically quivering in curiosity, huffed in agreement.
“Muffin was—” I paused, covering Muffin’s ears with my hands. “Muffin was an accident. I didn’t mean to become his person.” I wasn’t mad about it, though, and we all knew it.
“And you’re not going to become Charlemagne’s person,” Heath assured me, though Ben looked doubtful.
“Cherry’s got a list of folks to call, starting with those Ladies Who Lunch actresses traveling with him.
We checked in with the Moons and Carmel said they’d gone to Augusta last night for an appearance at a fan convention early today and should be back late this afternoon.
We just need somewhere for the cat to be until then,” he added with false cheer.
Ben nudged my cup of gunpowder tea closer to my hand. “They were able to get a lot of cat supplies from the boat,” he offered. “Food, toys—”
“He’s apparently toilet trained,” Heath added wryly. “There’s a little potty seat for him and everything.”
“Are you freaking serious?” I muttered, lowering my head to peer in at the cat again. I couldn’t make out his coloring, just that he had a pale nose pressed to the mesh and his eyes were huge. A few white whiskers poked through the holes in the fabric as he sniffed back at Muffin.
“He’s got a wardrobe, too.”
I glared at Heath. “You say that like it should be the dealmaker.” Okay it was kind of cute, honestly. I’d always thought those little pet outfits were adorable and had even tried to get a t-shirt on Muffin back in August but he’d been so disappointed in me that I never tried again.
Ben scooped up Tony, who’d woken with a snort and grunt, and set him on his lap.
“If it’s for a few days, it should be fine.
I won’t mind—I’ll be in Boston starting tomorrow night anyway.
Tony’s never had a problem with cats.” He paused and we all looked at Muffin.
He was so excited, he was dancing in place making little happy snuffle noises.
“And I think Muffin might be okay with him...”
“But is he okay with Muffin?” I muttered, gingerly pressing my fingers against the mesh.
The cat—Charlemagne, I remembered—sniffed my finger and made that little ew sound again.
Heath’s radio fizzed and beeped, and Ben raised an expectant brow at me.
Finally, I sighed and nodded. “Fine. A few days. We’ll set him up in the bathroom or something. How the hell is a cat potty trained?”
***
THE FIRST PROBLEM CAME right after Heath left. “Ben, there’s something wrong with this cat. It’s naked.”
“Hence the sweaters.”
Charlemagne was a tuxedo-colored little goblin, all wrinkles and bare skin in a black and white pattern that just screamed for fluffy fur and a swishy tail.
Instead, he sat in his open carrier and stared at me, waiting for.
.. something, Probably Tubbs. The bag Heath had brought from the boat included an open container of very bougie cat kibble (any dry cat food that came in a metal cannister was automatically bougie) and several tins of wet food with names like Prawn Mousse with Lobster Consommé and Chicken Heart Reduction with Giblet Filets.
Honestly... that could also be on the menu at a few very chichi places in New York and LA.
Which had me questioning some of the people I knew back in LA.
The worst part was the potty seat. Ben googled the thing while I gingerly held it with dish glove-clad hands and Charlemagne sat on the bathroom floor, staring into my soul.
Sorted and with both of us questioning how our various life choices had led us to this moment, we left Charlemagne to his morning needs.
“He’s just here for a day or two,” I said, even though I suspected that was a lie. “Don’t go getting googly eyes over him, okay?”
Ben rustled through the plastic bag, producing several half-chewed cloth mice, a sparkly, new-looking catnip lobster, and a mostly used up tube of something called Sally’s Slippy.
“It’s a lotion,” he said, internet skills in peak form while I squinted at the back of the tube, trying to read the ingredients.
“Small business in Oregon, makes all-natural lotions, creams, and salves for pets and people. That one is for dry skin, named after the business owner’s Sphynx cat.
” He muttered, reading the rest of the ad copy.
“Sounds like a bunch of hogwash but it’s mostly neutral oils, it looks like.
There’s also a bottle of soap and a spray cleaner in the bag. ”
“I thought cats were self-cleaning.”
“Technically, they just cover themselves in cat spit. I don’t think that’s the same.”
“Oh, ew...”
Ben snorted softly. “What do you think dogs do?”
“Sure as hell don’t cover themselves in cat spit,” I shot back smartly, both of us pretending not to smile.
After making sure the cat had food and water tucked in the little space under the sink, I shut him in the bathroom for the time being.
Muffin whimpered. “Dude. You just met him. Have some self-respect.”
The big doofus just shot me a baleful glare and settled in front of the door, peering under the gap in the hopes of seeing his new bestie.
Ben, chuckling, retreated to his office and I went to find somewhere to stow the cat supplies ‘temporarily.’
I know how my luck runs. I’d just gotten a cat.
Shoving the empty plastic bag into the little cloth tube thingy Ben kept on the pantry door, I started to chuck the handful of crumpled receipts into the trash but paused.
Yeah, it was an accident but... Well. I’m nosy, okay? It’s one of my best (cough) traits.
And all my nosiness earned was the knowledge Tubbs ate a lot of fast food on the trip from New York, and his car was due for an oil change.
A few no-name type receipts, just the amount, date, and a line denoting it was a customer copy, were left, and a scrap of paper that looked like it’d been torn off a menu for a place called something or someone’s Vegan Shack of Love and Fries.
“He wasn’t a vegetarian,” I muttered over Muffin’s whines at the bathroom door. “He ate lobster rolls at the cocktail party...”
I mean, sure, some people just didn’t eat beef, or even liked veggie burgers, but most of those fast-food receipts had been for the standard issue fast food joints—all burgers, fries, and sometimes fried chicken, light on the veggies unless it was a wilted, weirdly warm salad with wet tomatoes and suspiciously tough carrot shavings.
The back of the bit of paper had a phone number in what looked like eyeliner pencil, most of it smudged but the area code and the last two digits were clear and sharp.
I stared at the little pile of paper bits and the mostly used up tube of cat lotion, hesitant to sweep it into the trash.
Ben’s office door opened and I made my decision.
“Hey, I looked up that lotion and it looks like that ritzy pet place in Malm’s Corner carries it. Want me to pick some up for you later?”
“Oh. Um. No... I can get it,” I said, shrugging. The papers in my pocket crinkled but, after a silent, curious gaze, Ben just shrugged back and returned to his office.