CHAPTER FIVE
Amelia
I’m smiling as I pull up to a small house about ten miles outside of town. I’m not exactly sure why I’m smiling. Maybe because Harper gave me a big hug this morning and told me she loves me. Maybe because I got a great night’s sleep.
I have to admit it was nice to talk to a man who might be romantically interested in me. Were we flirting? It felt like flirting. It made me laugh. I’m looking forward to talking to him again.
Maybe Ellery was right. Maybe this is exactly what I need.
I get out of my truck, and a cool breeze blows, bringing with it the scent of dry leaves and wild onions. The scent of fall. My favorite time of year.
“What took you so long?” An man in his eighties, Mr. Herring according to the report of the call, says as he hurries toward my truck. He’s tall and thin, his skin papery and nearly as white as his hair. “I’ve been waiting all morning.”
I manage not to say that it’s only nine thirty, so there’s no way he’s been waiting all morning. “Good morning. Amelia Burns. Where did you see the animal?”
He squints at me. “A woman? I asked them to send a man. There’s a lion cub in my backyard. A woman can’t handle this.”
I bite my lip so damn hard I taste blood. Silently, I cycle through all the things I will not say.
Sorry, sir. Request the gender of your government worker day was last week.
Or
We offered the job to all the male animal control officers, but they were too chickenshit to do it. Everyone knows women are braver than men.
Or
There is no way in hell what you saw was a lion, because we live in North America, and there are no zoos or animal parks with lions within a hundred miles of here.
That last one isn’t entirely fair, because he might mean a mountain lion. There are no known cases of mountain lions in the mountains of southwestern Virginia, but many people mistake bobcats for them.
Which I could explain to him, but won’t because judging by the way he’s glaring at me, being schooled by a woman will only infuriate him.
If I weren’t on my best behavior, that might be fun. Really fun. Unfortunately, the only fun I’m allowed right now is after-hours messaging with Handsyguy37.
“Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you stupid? Get back in your truck and tell them to send a man.”
Wow. “Sir, you are being verbally abusive. If you don’t stop. I will leave.”
“Good. Leave and send a man out here.”
“I can leave, but there’s no man on duty today.” There is a man on duty today, but he’s on the other side of the county, and I’ll be damned if I give Mr. Herring what he wants. “Can you tell me where you saw the big cat?”
I use the term big cat, so that when we discover the animal isn’t a lion cub, Mr. Herring won’t feel embarrassed. He can say big cat like I just did and never have to be wrong.
And if it is a lion cub or a bobcat, I’m calling a wildlife expert in because wild animals are not my department.
He glares at me for several long moments. “The lion cub is in my backyard next to my wife’s herb garden.”
I grab my catch pole from the back of the truck and gesture for Mr. Herring to go ahead of me. “Please lead the way, sir.”
He scowls. “I’m not going back there. The thing could have rabies. Lions are dangerous, even cubs. That’s why I live in America and not Africa. I want nothing to do with anything that can eat me.”
I don’t tell him how easily a large dog could kill and eat him, given the inclination. Not to mention black bears, coyotes, and alligators. And pigs. Pigs will eat people. Rare, but possible.
Luckily, I’m self-aware enough to understand that explaining that to him would come across as me being smug and annoying.
Even if I really do think we’re all safer if we’re aware of the threats around us.
And if we don’t discriminate against an entire continent because of one animal that is actually quite fascinating.
Or maybe I’m just annoying. I can live with that.
“I’ll go get the animal,” I say instead.
“Don’t you want to call for backup?” he asks.
“Was the animal acting aggressively?” I ask. “Did it sway when it walked?”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s just rolling around in the herb garden, killing the herbs most like.”
I nod and head toward the backyard, catch pole in one hand, cat carrier in the other. It’s probably best if I don’t say anything else to Mr. Herring.
I find a regular old house cat in his backyard. It’s an adult orange cat who’s stretched out across several plants, basking in the November sunlight.
It is large, but it looks nothing like a lion. I’d guess Mr. Herring doesn’t have the best eyesight.
I don’t even have to use the catch pole. I kneel next to the cat, and it comes right to me, mewing and rubbing against me. Not a feral cat, but not wearing a collar either.
It’s entirely possible, even likely, that this cat belongs to a nearby neighbor and will go home all on its own, but I don’t feel comfortable leaving it here. I don’t know how far Mr. Herring might go to get the cat out of his yard.
“Want to go for a ride with me?” I ask the sweet cat.
He doesn’t fight me when I pick him up and put him in the carrier.
“Did you get the lion cub?” Mr. Herring asks as soon as I come around the side of the house.
I’m torn. My only shot at keeping this man even moderately happy is to let him think I’ve captured a lion cub in his backyard, but that feels irresponsible.
“I’ve apprehended the large orange cat.” I hurry past him and load the cat into my truck.
“It was a lion,” he says. “I told Doris it was a lion cub. She didn’t believe me.”
Standing right next to my driver’s side door, I say the only reasonable thing I can. “It’s not a lion cub, Mr. Herring. It’s a large house cat.”
“That’s not possible.” He shakes his head as he glares at me. “You better have an experienced, trained professional look at that animal. What are you going to do with it?”
I open the door and climb inside. “I’m going to try to find its owner.”
I shut the door and start the engine, drowning out his words.
Somehow, I’ve survived this encounter without saying anything that will get me in trouble. I’m vibrating with annoyance, but at least I didn’t say anything. Ellery’s plan seems to be working.
I drive to the next street over and park in a small cul-de-sac. There, I scan the cat for a chip. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have one. On a busy day, I’d probably take this cat to the animal shelter in case the owner calls in. Right now, though, the shelter is full and my day isn’t busy.
“Want to go knock on some doors, sweetie?” I ask,
The cat mews in agreement.
Unfortunately, most people are at work. And we don’t have any luck with the ones who are home, though a few have seen the cat around in the past.
We head to the next street over, where there are fewer houses and they are farther apart.
We knock on a few more doors with no luck and I’m just about to give up when a harried father, with a baby on his hip and a little girl with red eyes and wet cheeks hiding behind his leg, answers the door of the last house on the street.
“Oh, wow,” I say. “This is definitely a bad time.”
He gives me a wry smile. “This is normal life for a stay-at-home dad with a newborn and a toddler. What can I do for you?”
I lift the cat carrier so they can see the orange cat inside. He’s very friendly and pushes his face against the grating like he wants to get free for a cuddle. “Do you know this cat?”
“Marmalade,” the little girl shouts, smiling as she comes out from behind her father’s leg. “Where have you been?”
“Is this your cat?” I ask, ready to hand the animal over and head out. I can feel my phone vibrating against my hip, likely with another job.
“No,” the man says. “The cat belonged to Mrs. Peabody.”
“She died,” the little girl says. “That means she went to heaven and is dancing with the angels. At least, that’s what Mommy says, but Mrs. Peabody couldn’t even walk, so I don’t know how she can dance.”
Darn it. “Did she have family who might be willing to take Marmalade in?”
“She’s only got one son, and he lives on the other side of the country. I told him about the cat, but he said he can’t have pets at his apartment. We’ve been leaving food out for Marmalade, but we haven’t seen him since shortly after Mrs. Peabody passed.” He smiles. “Not until today, anyway.”
“He was probably sad,” the little girl says.
“Any chance…?” I’m not going to say it aloud in front of his kids, but I swing the carrier in his direction meaningfully.
He shakes his head. “Not a chance. I’m allergic, and I’ve got enough to keep me more than busy here.”
As if to emphasize the point, the baby in his arms scrunches their little face and lets out a whimper that, in my experience, is probably leading to a big cry.”
“Not again,” the little girl says, likely having the same thought. “All he ever does is cry.”
I thank them and carry Marmalade back to my truck, weighing my options.
Which are, sadly, not many. The shortage of space at the local animal shelter is an ongoing problem and one that is in the process of being rectified.
Work has already started on a massive expansion of the facility.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t help me right now.
The other option is to take Marmalade to the Weston Farm, where he’ll probably be very happy for as long as they can keep him. Ultimately, he’ll end up at a shelter either here in town or in a nearby town. And there’s no telling how long it might be before he’s adopted.
He stares at me through the bars of his carrier, staring at me and… Is he actually? Yes, the sweet guy is purring like I’m his new favorite person.
Harper’s been asking for a pet for a while now and, to be honest, I’ve wanted a pet since I was her age. It just never seemed like the right time.
But cats are pretty easy.
Marmalade reaches out a paw and brushes my hand, claws retracted. It’s like he’s asking me to keep him.
How can I say no?