Chapter 4 #3
“I wanted them to think I was cool, so I told them all about this unique rose Pappy was debuting at that year’s flower show – he named it the Bianca rose, after Mammy.
He already had several orders at over ￡200 for each cut flower, with cuttings ￡5000 each.
The guys seemed interested. They asked so many questions, and I was an idiot and only too happy to brag about the rose I ‘helped’ create and how much money we were going to make. ”
“I came home from work one day, and some bastards had trampled through the garden and taken every last specimen. Pappy was devastated. He had to cancel his spot in the flower show. All that money my parents were counting on…gone. They wanted to send my sister to a fancy music school – she was a talented pianist, much more than me. But they couldn’t afford it now.
Pappy had no idea who did it. But I did, and I knew it was my fault. ”
“That’s terrible.”
Rafe nods. “I figured they’d be hiding the flowers in one of the greenhouses out the back of the plant centre.
I snuck over the fence one night and found one greenhouse that was hidden between two of the large ones.
It had this intense security system, but I’m good with computers, so I cracked it in no time.
Inside were Pappy’s roses and all these other plants besides.
I loaded all of them into my Mini and took them home.
“Pappy cried when I gave him back the Bianca roses. He didn’t ask where I got them from, or why I’d filled his greenhouse with a bunch of rare orchids.
I started putting them up online, in the plant forums Pappy loved, and I made so much money that summer, I brought myself a pair of Maison Margiela fusion sneakers.
” He laughs. “They were so ugly. I loved those shoes. I cried when I grew out of them.”
“What did those guys do when they found out their greenhouse had been emptied?”
“It didn’t take the crew of illegal plant dealers long to figure out I was the one who stole their stock, especially since I had my details on the plants I was selling online.
They cornered me when I left work one day.
I thought for sure I was a dead man, but they didn’t want to do me over.
They wanted me to work for them. They were impressed that I’d broken in, and that I’d figured out the plant business on my own, but they said I couldn’t just stick up orchids on the internet, that the National Wildlife Crime Unit were probably already looking at me, and the only reason I hadn’t been arrested yet was that the local coppers were busy dealing with a poaching ring.
They had a proposal for me. I’d take down my listings, give them back their plants, they wouldn’t disintegrate my kneecaps, and we could go into business together.
The arrangement was simple – I’d do the thieving to order, and they would do the selling. I’m fond of my kneecaps, so I agreed.”
I realise that my roller has been hovering in the air for several moments while I’ve been fixated on his swishing tail.
“And that’s how I became a cat burglar. I’ve been living it up ever since.
The last couple of years, I worked for a new guy who took over the business.
He’s intense in a scary way, but he pays a lot better.
I’d been thinking about retiring from my life of crime, that maybe I’d write and record an album with my sister.
This job for the Widow Hardcastle was going to give me the funds I needed to keep me in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed for a year while I gave the music thing a serious shot.
And then this happened.” He grabs his tail and shakes it furiously.
“Was it scary? Breaking into places?”
He shrugs. “Sure, but that’s why it’s fun.
It’s a thrill. And stealing plants is less hassle than jewels and artwork.
People don’t put the same care into their plant security systems as they do with their homes.
I’ve had a few close calls and one unfortunate dog bite.
Honestly, I’ve had more close calls being a cat.
I estimate I’ve lost at least three of my lives – one to Mrs Ellis’ walker, and two to altercations with Mr Muffins. ”
He falls silent. The only sound is the steady schwub-schwub-schwub of my roller and the voice of naughty Autumn in my head, demanding that I ask him more questions about his tail.
“Did you do a lot of painting in your old life?” I ask, trying to get Rafe to talk again. I like the way his voice fills in all the spaces where my fear lives. “You’re good at this.”
“Not really. I painted a wall in my apartment once. I learned from a YouTube video, like you.” He frowns. “I miss that apartment. It had nice soft, scratchable carpet.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For helping.”
“I’m contractually obliged to help.”
“I offered a fair bargain, and you accepted it. But you’re actually doing a good job. If you were my husband, you’d be sloshing paint everywhere and saying that you didn’t know how to do it, and so I’d get frustrated and do it myself.”
“And let me guess,” Rafe says. “He’d go off and do things that he knew how to do, aka whatever he enjoyed?”
“I…I guess so.”
“Sounds like peak dog behaviour.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Cats,” Rafe explains, “are always brutally honest. If you ask a cat what it thinks, they’re going to tell you, whether you want the truth or not.
Cats have no problem saying, ‘I could not knock over the Christmas tree. That’s absolutely a choice I could make.
But it’s covered in shiny toys, and I desire to see it destroyed, and so I shall.
’ Dogs, on the other hand, want you to believe that they’re these poor dumb schmucks and if anything is wrong with their choices, it’s your fault for not teaching them properly.
They know what you want them to do, but if they don’t feel like it, they will make it so that you feel guilty for asking them.
They love to tie you in knots. That sounds like your husband.
If you were my wife, you wouldn’t be lifting a finger to paint the walls.
Not when you could be in my bed, writhing beneath me. ”
Did he just…
Did he really say…
My cheeks burn. I’m blushing so hard that the heat creeps across my forehead and down my neck. It doesn’t help that I’ve spent all morning trying not to look at his tail and imagining all the things it could do, and failing.
Rafe straightens. One of my bees tangles in the tufts of flame-coloured hair that stick up like cat ears. He cocks his head to the side as he watches the redness creep over my face. “You’re fun to tease, sweet little honey witch.”
I whirl away, furiously rubbing my roller in the paint tray. “Warrick wasn’t all bad. And he’s missing at the moment, and I’m very worried.”
It’s true. I am worried.
“Sure. When my partner disappears, I flagrantly ignore their arguably dumb wishes and open a meadery,” Rafe says.
“That’s not fair. If I didn’t have this shop distracting me, I’d be sitting at home looking at all the places where he isn’t and calling the police ten times a day for an update. And you don’t have a partner. You’ve probably never had a partner because you don’t care about anyone but yourself!”
“Meow?”
I whirl around, splattering an arc of paint across the ceiling. “Don’t you turn into a cat just to win an argument—oh,” I notice the figures approaching the doorway. “Good morning, Inspector Hayes, Sergeant Wilson. Do you have news? Have you found Warrick?”
Rafe, now a loquacious Siamese, kicks his clothes off the counter and flattens himself, hissing at the cops like he’s their top suspect.
“You rented Old Widow Hardcastle’s shop?” Wilson eyes my painted walls with suspicion while several of my bees flit around her head.
Don’t let them take me, Rafe howls inside my skull. I’m too pretty to go inside.
“It was, er, a spur-of-the-moment decision.” I’m trying not to react to Rafe’s insanity, so I focus on Hayes’ slightly friendlier face.
“I’ve always wanted to run a meadery – mead is a kind of honey wine, very popular in the medieval period – and with Warrick missing, I needed a distraction, or I would sit at home all day fretting and bothering you both when you’re trying to get on with things. ”
I rush out the explanation, trying to calm my rocketing pulse. I sit down on my stepladder so they can’t see my legs trembling.
Tell Celeste I’ll pay her back for all the cheese I ate.
And that window was an accident and no one can prove otherwise.
You have to get me out of this, Autumn. It’s in your best interest to keep me around.
Remember how good I am at painting? I’m good at many other things, too.
I’ll die in prison. I’ll absolutely die.
“Opening a shop isn’t a crime, Ms Abernathy.” Hayes holds up a brown file folder. “We’ve made some progress in the case. Are you free to talk?”
Oh, phew. They’re here for you.
Rafe suddenly appears at my side, all smiles. He trots over to Hayes and sniffs his trouser leg.
I’ll get rid of the coppers for you, my Magnificent Mead Witch…hmmm, I think Hayes had a sausage roll for breakfast. I wonder if he has any leftovers…
“Rrrrrwww,” he demands, butting his head against Inspector Hayes’ shin.
“If he does have sausage roll in his pocket, he’s not sharing,” I snap. I clamp my hand over my mouth. Why did I say that out loud?
“What did you say?” Wilson asks.
“Oh, nothing. I’m, uh, craving a sausage roll.
I’m such a mess these days, I’ve been forgetting to eat, and when your shop is next door to Celeste’s bakery, and there are all these delicious smells, that’s dangerous.
” My hands tremble as I unscrew the lid of a drink bottle and take a swig.
At least they can see you’re frazzled. “So you have news about Warrick?”