Chapter 7 #3
“You want to feel something sharp, Mr. Hoode?” Katherine drew one of the needles out of her friend’s hair and, in an instant, arced her long arm to plant it against the man’s upper thigh. His upper, upper thigh. He grunted. Ruben knit his own knees instinctively.
“Now you listen to me, you puckered sphincter,” Katherine said, a hair’s breadth from his suddenly very petrified face.
“You are going to give me what I want, or you’re going to find yourself struggling to remember what it felt like to walk in a straight line.
” She applied a bit more pressure with the needle.
Tucker released his grip on her, and his eyes darted to the cupboard under the stairs.
“Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“I-I won’t give you the key!”
“Who says I need one? Imogene, take over.”
“With pleasure.”
Mrs. Chrysler took custody of the knitting needle with one hand, sheathed the scissors with her other, then drew out the second needle and planted it beside the first. Tucker let out a small groan.
“Ruben,” Katherine called, beckoning to him as she began making her way to the staircase.
“You are a wonder, Caterina,” he said, beaming.
“Thank you.”
The pair stumped over to the cupboard, and Katherine began fiddling with her bracelets.
Ember took the opportunity to wander up to Mouser, and Mr. Scruffles followed, keeping a more cautious distance. Tilly quickly materialized and joined them.
Are you all right, dear? Ember asked.
My whiskers, lad, what has happened to you? Mr. Scruffles peeked over Ember’s shoulder. Is it catching?
The cat called Mouser drew back under a table and puffed his tail. Or at least tried to. There wasn’t much to puff.
It’s all right, Ember soothed him.
Looks like stress to me, Tilly said. I should know a thing or two about that.
The threadbare cat smoothed his remaining hackles and sank to the floor.
Hello, he finally murmured. His oversized whiskers twitched slightly.
Mouser? Is that your name, dear? asked Ember.
Might as well be, he replied softly. I’ve had worse.
Would you like to come out?
The old cat hesitated. His eyes darted to the farmer’s boots, which weren’t far away.
We won’t let him hurt you, Tilly assured him. The big bully, she added darkly. As a huffing purple tail she marched over to Tucker, who was still being guarded by Mrs. Chrysler, and sank her teeth into his leg.
“Oww! Ooo—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t move too much, if I were you,” Mrs. Chrysler said, nodding approvingly at the little purple cat, who was sauntering away now with her tail in the air. “These needles are sharp, lad.”
Mouser watched Tilly return with awe, his pupils wide, his long whiskers poofed, and his remaining ear cocked forward. He shuffled slightly out of the table’s shadow.
That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me, he said.
Well. Tilly tossed her head and began washing her face. I don’t like bullies.
Neither do I! Mr. Scruffles added, but Ember stopped him from following Tilly’s lead.
Now, now, she said, guiding him back to their spot by the table, I think we’ve bitten the man enough for now. Mouser, tell me, dear, this is your home?
Used to live in the barn, till all the mice got to be too much for me. There’s just too many of them, too fast and too many. But the big man doesn’t like me around in the house, and lets me know it too.
Hmmm.
You’ve got nowhere else to go? Mr. Scruffles asked him.
Mouser’s eyes fell and he set his chin down on his paws.
Our mistress has a houseful, Ember said. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind one more.
Mouser lifted his head again, his whiskers twitching with hope. Her finger smelled nice. She seems like a nice lady.
She is, Tilly said.
And she’s with the old man. He was always nice to me.
You know him? Tilly asked.
Yes. Haven’t seen him in a long time. He lived here for a little bit. But one day he was gone. From what little I could pick up—he indicated his missing ear—it sounded like he was sent away.
Put away, more like, Mr. Scruffles said.
“Aha!” Katherine’s cry of delight caught their attention.
The cupboard door under the stairs was swinging creakily open now, revealing piles of blankets and old lanterns, candlesticks and clutter, plus a large wooden chest on the floor.
“That’s it! That’s my trunk!”
“All right, then. Let’s open it.”
Overcome with curiosity, Tilly, Ember, and Mr. Scruffles wandered over. Mouser slunk tentatively from his hiding place to follow, but reconsidered and ducked back under the table.
“My walking stick!” Ruben was crying now.
He pulled a slender telescoping pole out of the trunk, capped at one end by a metal plate and topped at the other by the unmistakable curve of a crowbar.
“My Uncle Robin gave this to me,” he said, brandishing it at his nephew, “and you had no right to keep it!” He put his weight upon it as he continued rummaging through the deep trunk.
There were linens and pillows that he tossed out and cast aside, mumbling, “Well, this ain’t mine.
And this, neither…” Then, “My poncho! Here, would you hold this for me, please?”
Katherine took the proffered item, a tattered flowing cotton mass with a hardened leather vest at its center. She tapped on it with a knuckle and fiddled with the lacing. “Was this professionally tailored, Ruben?” she asked, already suspecting the answer.
“Um, it was cheaply tailored.”
Katherine nodded with pursed lips and folded up the moth-eaten garment, tucking it under an arm.
By now, Ruben was elbow deep in the trunk, and the bottom was within sight. “But, where…” He trailed off and was looking frantically around, shifting through anything and everything on the surrounding shelves.
Katherine picked up where he had failed to finish. “I don’t see any paperwork, Ruben,” she said.
The old man’s cheeks flushed and he shuffled quickly over to his nephew, making good use of his recovered cane.
“All my books? My papers? My folios?” he charged.
“Burned ’em,” Tucker declared proudly. “Not all of us are delighted to have outlaws in the family, Uncle. Paperwork is sacred. You know that. The papers of a forger are a disgrace.”
“You burned all of Ruben’s papers?” Mrs. Chrysler asked, digging the knitting needles a bit deeper.
“Ouch! Yes. Yes, I burned them.”
“Everything?” Katherine asked, wanting to be absolutely sure.
“Everything! Every one of his books, his files, letters, notes—any bit of paper the old forger brought here when he moved in. Food for the fire.”
“When?” Ruben demanded with a stomp of his cane. “When did you do this?”
“The day after I left you at Eagle Heights.”
The old man seethed quietly, grinding his cane against the floorboards and flicking his eyes this way and that as if trying to find something to say.
“Did he tell you how he lost all his money?” his nephew went on, newly emboldened by his revelation and turning his attention to Mrs. Chrysler and Katherine. “Did he tell you why I put him in Eagle Heights? Did you?” he asked the old man.
“Well, no, it didn’t come up…”
“He lost everything! He can’t be trusted to make his own decisions. He can’t take care of himself.”
Ruben blustered wordlessly.
“Careful now,” Mrs. Chrysler cautioned, giving Tucker a poke with one of the needles.
“It was a scam artist. He lost all his money to a scam artist!” Tucker said hysterically. “Him! A career counterfeiter! Got taken in by a scam.”
“I-I got confused,” Ruben protested. “He said he was with the government.”
“Government people don’t send messenger pigeons with threatening messages addressed to ‘Current Resident,’ Uncle Ruben. They come to your home, they knock on your door.”
“The pigeon had a little hat on,” Ruben said. “Looked so official.”
“Ugh!”
Mistress doesn’t get scam pigeons, Mr. Scruffles boasted, sharpening his nails on the doorframe of the cupboard. A moth popped out of the woodwork and corkscrewed up to the ceiling, catching his attention.
Doesn’t get regular pigeons either, Ember scolded.
They mostly carry junk anyway, Tilly said. Everyone knows that.
Not everyone, apparently, Ember replied.
“For someone who tricked people all their life, Uncle Ruben, you sure are gullible.”
“There is a difference, boy, between creating forgeries and playing tricks.”
“Whatever you say, Uncle,” Tucker replied wearily, “but I had to find out from Mr. Simmons down at the market that you were in his shop pawning heirlooms.” He jerked his chin over his shoulder.
“That is low. That is desperate. That is despicable! You had no right to do that. You should have come to me first.”
“Is it any wonder now why I didn’t?!”
Katherine’s eyes followed Tucker Hoode’s careless chin-jerk to the mantelpiece behind him, and scanned the trinkets lined there.
The shelf was crowded with ostensibly charming but ultimately grotesque potato figurines, each wearing dollish outfits, grinning mawkishly, and posed amidst various activities, like pulling a pie out of an oven or driving a wagon drawn by potato-shaped ponies.
She grimaced—and then squinted. Next to the clock was an item under glass that was definitely not a potato person.
“I don’t have the time to watch you,” Tucker was continuing.
Mr. Scruffles drew closer as he stalked his moth, which was now swirling around the lamp above the man’s head.
“Who knows what you’d do next. For instance, these two women you’re with—do you even have any idea who they are?
Did they think you had money here? Valuables?
I sold everything you hadn’t sold already! ”
“Don’t you dare besmirch these two!” Ruben said, poking him in the shins with the cane. “They are my heroes, my… friends!”
“Well, acquaintances anyway,” said Mrs. Chrysler.
“And they’ve been helping me!”
“Then why in the world are they so violent, Uncle Ruben? Ouch! And why do they travel with so many cats?!” He cast a disgusted glance at the approaching, fixated, Mr. Scruffles. “Can’t you recognize witches when you see them?!”
“We are not witches,” Katherine told him icily, eyeing the handkerchief that dangled from his pocket.
“We’re thieves!” She whipped the handkerchief from his trousers with such rapidity and flourish that he jumped in astonishment, and she pushed him into a chair while he was still off balance.
Ruben menacingly pinned him down with the butt of his cane, and Mr. Scruffles was suddenly in Tucker’s lap, swatting with wild-eyed glee at the moth, which had chosen this inopportune moment to abandon the lamp and alight on the man’s face.
“Aargh! Get your familiar off of me!”
“Good boy,” Katherine told Mr. Scruffles and ducked behind the chair.
Quickly, she lifted the bell jar housing the heirloom of which Tucker Hoode was apparently so very proud and pocketed it.
Then she rooted among the potato people to find one near enough in size and shape to stand in its place.
The winner was a goofy potato fisherman—pole, straw hat, overalls, and all—and she swapped it under the glass, its face to the wall.
Katherine rounded on the back of Tucker’s oblivious, cat-assaulted head, meeting Mrs. Chrysler’s twinkling eyes and approving smile, and hustled back to other side of the chair.
“All right, Mr. Scruffles, stop that,” Katherine said.
Mr. Scruffles whapped Tucker’s nose once more and bounded heavily to the floor.
Mouser zipped out from under the nearby table and hid behind Tilly.
Mrs. Chrysler tossed her hair back up, pounded the needles through her bun, and swung her yarn bag aggressively onto her shoulder.
“Yes, we’re thieves,” Mrs. Chrysler said, nodding sharply. “And, because we’re thieves, we’re stealing Ruben, his cane, and his… whatever this is.” She indicated the mashed cloth bundle under Katherine’s arm.
“Battle poncho,” Ruben supplied.
“Battle poncho… and leaving. He is no longer your concern. Don’t”—she underscored the word with a stern look—“follow us.”
She turned on her heel, dragging Ruben along by the elbow, and Katherine backed away slowly, keeping an eye on the dumbfounded Tucker in his chair.
“I had to put him in that home,” Tucker protested after a moment. “He’s gullible, he’s forgetful, he’s broke! And they took him for a song, no questions asked.”
Time to go! Mr. Scruffles announced and bounded away after his mistress, zipping through her legs like smoke and emerging on the other side. Come along, ladies!
Are you coming with us? Tilly asked the downcast cat cowering behind her. He nodded, wide-eyed, and lifted his bottom from the carpet. Wisps of fur lingered after him.
Ember brought up the rear as the purple and brown pair trotted smartly past Katherine and made for the doorway. Tucker Hoode watched the procession with incredulity, his gaze following Mouser and the miserable creature’s newfound friends out into the evening air.
“You’re taking the cat, too?” he finally said, agape.
“I can’t help who follows me home.” Katherine sneered unpleasantly, threw the balled handkerchief at him, and slammed the door behind her.
Outside, she turned her attention to the knot of agitated souls in front of her.
“Hello, darling,” she said, in quite a different tone, to Mouser.
“I’m glad you decided to join us.” He couldn’t help dancing his little back paws and lifting his tail at her voice, which then went down a register to talk to her human companions: “Let’s get out of here.
” Then back up again: “Tilly, dear, show him what to do.”
“Ugh, gods, Katty. I told you not to collect any more cats on this trip!”
Without another word, Katherine shuffled a few paces from the door, draped her scarf on the well-swept ground, and gathered everyone quickly around her. The brooch was on its third turn when the farmhouse door burst open, engulfing them in a harsh shout.
“Now, where do you get off—”
Poof.