Chapter 4 #3
Katherine tried to unfurrow her brow as she took the man’s other elbow and called softly to her pets, who were now at the center of a growing circle of more alert and vibrant-looking seniors.
Slowly and in ones and twos, residents were actually rising from their beds and chairs, like the old man had, and were blocking, at least temporarily, the progress of the orderlies.
As one, Katherine’s group shuffled, or trotted, depending on the number of legs, out of the room and into a corridor.
The old man, Katherine realized, was leaning against her as Mrs. Chrysler hauled him bodily forward, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.
She shifted her weight to try to shrug him off.
“What’s our plan now, Imogene?” Katherine whispered as soon as they were back in the hallway. “There’s people after us.”
“Don’t you think we should wait for the others?” the old man asked, looking back over his shoulder toward the common room.
“We don’t have time to orchestrate a group field trip,” said Mrs. Chrysler, tugging him forward more vigorously.
“And we still have to get past that woman at the front desk.”
“Ms. Angela?” The man shuddered.
“Let’s stay close to the wall like we did coming in, Katty. Hope she doesn’t notice us.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“Tell her we’re just taking Uncle Pete for a short walk.”
“Who’s Uncle Pete?”
Katherine gave their new acquaintance a sidelong glance. “You are.”
“But, Caterina—”
“Don’t use that name,” Katherine said, successfully shifting her position so that he could no longer lean against her. “In fact, don’t say anything till we’re outside.”
“Do you think the doors are locked from the inside too?” Mrs. Chrysler said.
“I don’t know. Might be. Maybe I ought to go ahead of you and check them.”
“Aha.” The old man tapped the side of his nose knowingly. “Broke in, eh? Expert lock-picking? Just like you, Caterina. Just like you.”
Mrs. Chrysler and Katherine exchanged looks. Who was this person?
“Hush up,” Mrs. Chrysler said, “like Katty told you, till we’re outside.”
Presently they reached the end of the hallway without meeting anyone, and the reception area was mercifully in sight, but they had definitely taken a different path than their entry, and a massive wooden crate now blocked their path to freedom.
“What in the world is this?” Mrs. Chrysler said.
The crate nearly reached the ceiling and was covered in an array of indecipherable labels, overlapping one another in sticky layers. Katherine eyed the old man, whose wide mouth then suddenly pursed lips suggested he knew, but didn’t want to say.
“Do you know?” Mrs. Chrysler charged him. When he didn’t immediately answer, she poked him in the ribs. “You can talk to answer questions.”
“It’s probably the casket shipment,” he blurted.
“The what?”
“Oh, ye gods,” Mrs. Chrysler said, rolling her eyes.
“Once a month or so, there’s a shipment,” he said. “Last time I saw one, there were twenty in the crate.”
Katherine took a deep breath.
“And… then they go out again, regularly… one by one,” he concluded with a grimace.
How horrid, said Ember, who had been listening closely.
Don’t upset yourself, my dear, Mr. Scruffles said, gently kissing her cheek. Think instead about how happy you were making those people back there, letting them pet you. Some of them were starting to look downright perky.
That room was packed, Tilly said, but I don’t think there are enough people here to fill twenty caskets a month. Unless there are more people in those other small buildings.
Katherine sized up the crate and considered their options for getting around it. “Do you think you could slip between it and the wall, Imogene?”
“Ha, maybe forty years ago, Katty. Not now.”
“I could do it,” said the old man.
“We could fit you through a mail slot,” said Mrs. Chrysler.
“Well, the other side forces us right at Ms. Angela. I suppose we could wait,” Katherine suggested half-heartedly, “until this thing gets moved.”
“Not likely, Katty. Those workers behind us are likely to catch up soon.” Mrs. Chrysler began to click her teeth thoughtfully with a fingernail. “A diversion would be handy. Perhaps I could throw something?”
“Like what?”
“Him?”
Ugh, why are we just hanging around here? Tilly grumbled. This crate smells funny. I don’t like it. She crouched in her mistress’s skirts, teetering on the edge of disappearing.
Ember took in the view beyond the crate, especially its stern-looking sentry—the crisply dressed and tight-faced Ms. Angela. I think we need a diversion, my love, she said to Mr. Scruffles.
A diversion? Yes! Yes. He winked. Leave it to me.
Before anyone could stop him, Mr. Scruffles leapt from their communal hiding place behind the crate and strode boldly across the floor, jangling his bell loudly.
“Well, this might work,” Katherine said.
Mrs. Chrysler struggled for words in her astonishment. “The… cat?” she finally managed.
They all watched in riveted silence, Ember and Tilly from beneath Katherine’s skirt, as said cat sauntered over to the desk and deftly alighted.
Ms. Angela’s angular shoulders were still hunched, now bent over a clipboard beside a neat stack of paperwork, and as he took a seat before her, he swished his puffy tail under her nose in what he probably thought was a debonair way.
I say, my good lady, he began in honeyed tones. A fine day we’re having, wouldn’t you—
The woman’s squinting eyes popped wide and she pushed away from her desk, grabbing her clipboard to take a swing at him. “What is a cat doing in here?”
Mr. Scruffles leapt to the floor, startled and scandalized. Well, I never! he said.
“Whoever let this… thing in here is in for a world of hurt!” Mr. Scruffles’ dive from the desk had sent Ms. Angela’s papers flying, and she hastily collected them as she shouted. “If someone isn’t here to catch this thing in two seconds—”
The pair of uniformed people they’d seen before burst from a nearby room. Even more streamed past the knot of humans in the hallway, shrugging off their heavy overcoats and flexing their biceps, rushing to placate a perturbed Ms. Angela. The reception area erupted into a flurry of activity.
What fun! Mr. Scruffles now hurrahed, popping out his claws for a better grip on the carpet. A chase? Well! Just try it! He darted easily away from the nearest outstretched hands, volleying in and out of dimensions as he sprang about the lobby.
“Where’d he go?” An orderly crashed to the floor in confusion, his hands suddenly grasping at empty air.
“There he is!” Another pointed to Mr. Scruffles’ appearance atop a filing cabinet next to the desk. The cat wagged his bushy tail and disappeared.
“No, over here!”
Mr. Scruffles was now scampering directly away from the front door, alternately fading his head and his tail as he ran. All of the scrambling orderlies turned as one to chase him, several with a bewildered squint.
“Why can’t I see him properly?”
“Now’s our chance,” Katherine whispered.
She and her companions sidled past the far side of the crate, scampered (or shambled, whichever the case may be) across the floor amidst the melee, edged toward the door behind the now deserted desk, and scurried into the entryway.
“Hey!” a voice behind them cried. Katherine did not even turn around. She swiftly picked the locks and snapped off a pick in each one to delay pursuit as she slammed each door behind them. They were soon all through the foyer and out into the smelly sunshine.
Mr. Scruffles poked his head through an outer wall some distance away. All clear? he called.
Yes, my love! You were splendid! Ember said.
Mr. Scruffles puffed with pride. Yes, yes. He disappeared for a moment, then popped back out a few paces further down the wall. They heard a thump of collision on the other side from an unlucky pursuer.
“All right, let’s run for it!” said the old man. He began his getaway in earnest.
“Um, he’s running for it, Katty,” said Mrs. Chrysler.
Katherine put out a hand and caught him easily by the arm. “Not so, er, fast,” she said. His straining muscles relaxed in her grip, but she did not let go. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”
A crash from inside the building suggested the orderlies had broken through the first door.
“Explaining can wait, Katty,” said Mrs. Chrysler. “They’re coming. Time to get out of here.”
“Yes, yes, let’s go!” the old man said, this time trying to pull Katherine away with him, patting her restraining hand eagerly.
“Where are you going to go?” Mrs. Chrysler demanded, sweeping an arm to take in their sparse surroundings. “They’ll have you back inside before you even know what’s happened.”
Katherine linked her elbow in his so that she could have the use of both hands, and dug the knitted map out of her pack. “You from around here?” she asked him.
“Yes, Caterina, but—”
“My name,” she said hotly, “is not”—she quickly mumbled the next seven syllables—“Caterina Hornsboggle… anymore. It is Katherine Winterhaven.”
He eyed her slyly.
Katherine released him and drew the brooch from her vest. “The Gilded Midden. On Low Street.” She nodded at Mrs. Chrysler, who nodded back, and poked a finger at the map. “Is this tavern still here? Do you know?”
The old man scratched the white stubble on his chin and peered at the map. “Is that yarn?”
“Yes,” Katherine said. “Is this building still here?” She prodded her finger deeper into the fabric. “This one. The Gilded Midden?”
“Did you knit that?”
Now the handle of the outer door was shuddering perilously, and Mrs. Chrysler regarded Katherine with a stitched brow. “I’m not hopeful about this line of questioning, Katty.”
“It’s really nice,” the man was continuing, adjusting his spectacles. “I like the colors you used.”
“Yes, but—”
“All right, let’s go,” Mrs. Chrysler declared, her supply of patience obviously having just run out. Katherine placed her brooch over the map, gathered the cats as before, and she and Mrs. Chrysler each took one of the old man’s arms.
“The greens especially,” he was saying. “They really leap off the—”
Poof.