Better That Way
JOSIE TOOK THE CARAFE FROM THE WARMER and began to make her way around the table. "More coffee, Mrs. Bradshaw?"
"Yes, thank you, Mrs. McCabe and thank you for a lovely dinner."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it," the all-around domestic responded, careful to fill the cup only two-thirds full. It had been a lovely dinner, for the Bradshaws were not only Henry Taylor's guests, they were soon to be her new employers. Escrow would close in less than a month, and the Bradshaws had indicated they would like Josie to stay on. Much care and planning had gone into dinner, to insure they didn't change their minds.
"It was lovely," Ralph Bradshaw echoed, as the brew flowed into his cup. "And really quite fine of you, Henry, to invite the purchasers to dinner."
"Not at all!" Henry rejoined. "You've both been very patient. It's unfortunate escrow has to take this long. I'm sure you're dying to move in."
"Anxious to have room for the kids and get started in the garden," Karen rejoined. With that, her gaze turned toward the French doors leading to the loggia and the illuminated garden beyond. "Oh no," she cried, "it's raining again."
"Karen, daring, we've lived in Portland for four years," her husband comforted. "How could rain surprise you? Where else but Oregon would you find a football team named 'The Ducks'?"Amid mild chuckles, Josie pushed the door to the kitchen open, and a black streak darted past. With one bound, it settled hunched on a vacant chair, wrapped its tail around its paws and stared - or glowered - at the four diners.
"Come away, you bad cat!" Josie cried, as she went over to remove it. But the cat would not be moved. It dug its claws into the needlepoint; if one were going to remove it, he would have to take the chair too. Josie looked at Henry Taylor in desperation. "Mr. Taylor, she's been trying to get in here all evening. I could have sworn I put her outside."
"Let her be, Josie. Let her be," Henry soothed. Inside, a voice raged, "You damned beast! I should've gotten rid of you two years ago!" But the voice made no utterance. Neither did the cat.
"Will you look at the size of that cat!" Ralph exclaimed. "It's huge. How much does it weigh?"
"Oh, about twenty-four pounds," Henry answered nonchalantly. "Not remarkable. Actually cats of thirty pounds, especially those crossed with the Maine Coon cat, aren't rare. The founders of Portland were from Maine, you know."
"Well, I've never seen one that large before. I'd sure hate to be a mouse, or even a dog, up here in the Alameda District with that panther on the loose," Ralph went on. "Where ever did you get it?"
Despite his discomfort, Henry maintained an even composure. "She found us, actually. That is to say she found Barbara my late wife. Not long after her mother died, Barbara was puttering in the garden when the cat just appeared. It was small then, but it grew."
"What's her name?" Karen asked.
"Barbara named her 'Bast'."
"Bast?"
"An ancient Egyptian goddess, who was depicted as a black cat," Henry explained. "How about some Chartreuse through the good offices of Alameda Realty?" (As much to change the subject as to perform his duty as host.) "Very gracious of you, Victor." They were four at dinner: Victor Windgate, the broker, Henry Taylor, the seller; and the Bradshaws, the buyers. The dinner had been Victor's idea, to soothe the feathers of the Bradshaws. Twice the closing of the escrow had been deferred. There was nothing to be done, the terms of Barbara Taylor's will were airtight, and the attorneys inflexible. It was imperative that the Bradshaws not back out. "Victor?"
"No thank you, Henry. I'm driving."
"Some sherry, then?"
"Just a dollop."
"Mrs. Bradshaw sorry, Karen?"
"Too strong for me. I'll have some sherry, please."
"Ralph?"
" ... umm, O.K., thank you." With two cordial glasses of green firewater and two snifters of sherry, Henry returned to the table. "I still can't get over that cat," Ralph went on, "it's eyes are copper colored."
"Not unusual in a black cat," Henry replied between sips. ("Can't this man think of anything but that damn cat?!?")
"It keeps staring at us!"
"Actually, cats have very poor static vision. She's probably staring at the candles. The flickering of the flames would attract her attention. ... Will you miss Lake Oswego?"
"I won't," Karen ventured. "I've had enough macramé to last me. It's got a sort of 'Laguna' mentality with small lots. You're moving to Southern California, aren't you, Henry? Palm Springs?"
"Rancho Mirage. Close, but a very different ambiance."
"Won't it be unbearable come summer?" Ralph asked.
"I'll still have the house near Garibaldi," Henry answered, with great relief that the cat was no longer their focus. That became the Alameda District about which Victor was an acknowledged authority and the history of the house, built by Barbara's grandfather during the 1920s, when lumber had flowed from Oregon. Josie's return to again freshen coffee was unanimously accepted as a signal that dinner was over. Henry escorted his guests while Josie retrieved their coats.
As they stood in the entry way, Ralph gazed at the portrait of the late Barbara Taylor (née Winslow) that hung in the living room. A rather large woman with very dark cupric-auburn hair, dressed in black crèpe de Chine. "She was a very striking woman, Mr. Taylor."
" ... The portrait is very striking. Good night and thank you for coming." Actually, the portrait was a triumph of "socialist realism." Barbara had always been a fleshy woman, zaftig one might say, in her youth anyway. Black was her favorite color, because it minimized her bulk. The painter knew what side of his palette was coated and let shadows reduce it further. The result was an idealized version of how she might have looked, had she been able to keep her weight under control. Lord know she tried, diets, exercise, pills. But the diets left her too weak to do the exercises, and the pills finally killed her. At least that's what everyone says ... and it's better that way.
"Mr. Taylor, everything's in the dishwasher. Charlie will be here any moment to pick me up. I'll put it all away in the morning. If I don't leave now, I'll never get any sleep."
"Of course, Josie."
"Oh yes, Bast didn't eat any of the table scraps I placed in her bowl. Rib eye steak, no less."
"Well, that's cats. They eat when they feel like it, not when you feed them."
"Another thing, I was going to put her out, but I can't find her." (Henry shrugged.) "Are you going to take her to Rancho Mirage?"
"Good grief no, Josie. She's far too large for a condo. Besides, I'll be spending a good part of the year in Garibaldi."
"What are going to do with her, then?"
"What I should have done two years ago. Take her to the vet's tomorrow and have her put to sleep."
"Oh ... "
"Well, I'm not going to drive her off somewhere and just dump her. Who knows what that might lead ... " From outside, there came the rhythmic tap of an auto horn.
"Charlie! To the vet's? Tomorrow? Well, maybe it's better that way." Josie wiped her hands, removed her apron, glanced around the kitchen making sure what remained undone would keep until tomorrow, let her eyes linger for a moment on Bast's untouched food bowl, then garnered coat, purse, and umbrella from the kitchen closet. Again the auto horn. "Got to go, Mr. Taylor."
"Of course."
"Until tomorrow." With that, she was off.
Henry went into the dining room, drained the dregs of the sherry from one of the snifters and half filled it with Chartreuse. "Now, where's that damn cat?"
From the Alameda District to Lake Oswego, one journeys west on the freeway, then south on I-5, hugging the bank of the Willamette River. The Lexus, Victor Windgate at the wheel, had just arrived at I-5 when Karen, in the rear seat, commented, "We really are dying to move in. Well, get started anyway. Why these delays? You know, our escrow is supposed to close next week."
"Yes, it's irksome," Victor replied. "We thought the attorneys would consent to the sale and impound the proceeds until the terms of the will are fulfilled. But they objected to the price, saying it was too low. You are getting one hellova a deal, my friends."
"That's a strange will," Ralph ventured. "I can see a woman leaving her estate to her husband after all, they had no children but why only if he survives her by two years? That's bizarre."
"Bizarre or not, that's what she did." Victor felt at ease talking with the Bradshaws. There was no way they were going to back out of the deal, even if they had to spend a few weeks in a motel. They loved the house and they loved the price: at least 25% below appraised market value.
"And you're sure there'll no more hitches, come the day after tomorrow?" Ralph asked, knowing the answer but needing reassurance.
"Yep, come the twenty-seventh and it's all over."
Karen, however, wasn't satisfied. She now felt free to ask a question that had been gnawing at her, ever since she heard the vague rumors about the Winslow House: "Was it a suicide?"
"Officially, it was ruled an accident," Victor replied, understandably loathe to open a old can of worms - or doubts.
"What do you mean, 'officially,' Victor?" Ralph added to the query.
(Oh, what the hell!) "Well, Barbara was severely depressed, because she couldn't control her weight. It's foolish to fight your genes, but you couldn't tell that to woman like her."
"'A woman like her'? What type of woman was she?" Karen was thoroughly engrossed. The house not only had enormous character, it now also possessed the aura of mystery.
"Well, according to my sister-in-law, who knew Barbara from several clubs, she was proud - arrogant, one might say. Her family on both sides, it seems, were pioneer Oregonians: old New England stock, going back to Cotton Mather and before, that made the trek west on the Oregon trail. Acted as if she was better than everyone else, perhaps to mask a severe inferiority complex. Deep down, she was probably very insecure. She had quite a temper, too. The portrait shows her placid and composed, but I understand she could be a real hellcat. Redheads, even cubby ones, can be like that."
"You still didn't answer: was it a suicide or an accident?" Karen continued.
"No real proof either way, but it was a strange accident."
"What do you mean?" Ralph was now as betaken with the subject as his wife.
"She suffered, it seems, from nausea, so the doctor gave her medication. The diet pills made her jumpy, so she'd taken sleep medication for years. That argues for an accident; however, she died of an overdose of seconals. Her doctor had prescribed Halcion, not seconals. She hadn't taken seconals for ages, yet they were found in the medicine cabinet. Where did they come from? Furthermore, her 'accident' looked like it had been prescribed by Dr. Kerkovian: just the right amount of stomach sedative, just the right amount of seconal. Too much, and sedative or no, she would have vomited it out."
"It could have been murder," Karen almost squealed.
"By whom? If you're thinking of Henry, forget it. The coroner put the time of death at between midnight and two a.m. Henry was having beers at a bar in Garibaldi until closing, two a.m."
"Oh!" is all Karen could muster. She was genuinely disappointed.
"So it was written off as an accident?" Ralph ventured.
"Yes ... probably better that way."
"How'd it go, mom?" Charlie asked, as he backed the Toyota pick-up out of the driveway.
"Just fine, Charlie. They loved the peach cobbler."
"Mom, everyone loves your peach cobbler. So you think it'll work out with the Bradshaws?"
"Oh, yes. She'll need all the help she can get with that house, especially with three kids running around."
"Guess it'll be nice to have a family to take care of, rather than one man, a cat, and too much house. That'd give me the creeps."
"It was livelier when Mrs. Taylor and her mother were there. It's sad. First Mrs. Winslow dies; two years later she dies. Then only Mr. Taylor and Bast. Poor Bast."
"'Poor Bast'? I wish I had it as easy as that cat."
"He's going to have her put to sleep."
"What? Why Mrs. Taylor loved that cat."
"I know, but Mr. Taylor says she's too big for a condo and he's right, I guess. Still, it seems a shame. Ever since Mrs. Taylor found her, she's been part of the family; but, I don't think Mr. Taylor ever liked the cat that much."
"I don't think Mr. Taylor ever liked his wife that much."
"That's not nice, Charlie. They had their differences. What couple doesn't?"
"Come on, mom. You used to tell me how grim those dinners were. How Mrs. Taylor would pick at her salad and then pick on her husband."
"Oh, I think she was insecure. She needed affirmation that he loved her, especially after her mother died."
"Especially after she became a butterball! He didn't love her. You know that. He stayed around for the same reason as the cat: she fed him."
"Charlie! I won't have you going on like that. Mrs. Taylor was plump; so am I. I'm sure in his own way, Mr. Taylor loved his wife very much. Some people show it; others don't. He must have, or he could have never endured her 'moods' - and he's always been considerate of us, you know."
" ... yeah, I know. Still, let's face it: she had the money; she had the houses."
"That's enough, young man! Soon it'll be the Bradshaws' house, so let's leave it there. Let bygones be bygones. It's better that way."
Henry, slightly swaying (Chartreuse has that effect), mounted the stairs, nodding in agreement with his thoughts. "Two more days! Two more fucking days! Then I'm free! Let her god-damned nephew have the portrait. Her god- damned pure New England relatives. Sterile cow! They didn't have to live with the psycho; I did. Her and that bloated crone of a mother. How the two fat-asses would tend their garden! Whadda they call it? Oh yeah, 'invoking the powers of Nature.' Howling at the moon would've been right up their alley. Her 'family' should have settled in Salem. That's where the 'pure New England' coven probably hailed from."
He was prepared to throw himself into bed just as he stood save for one word: plaque. ("You must remember to give oral hygiene your top priority, Mr. Taylor, or I'm afraid even repeated deep-cleanings won't prevent a return of perio disease." That's what the dentist had told him, and that's what he lived by.) He removed his clothing. Clad in his underwear, he went into the bathroom which separated his bedroom from hers."Separate bedrooms, even at the beginning. She got the master suite; I got the nursery. The nursery! Sterile bitch!"
The bathroom was vintage 1920s. The cabinets had been changed, electrical outlets had been added, but it was still pure deco, down to the white and black hexagonal tiles in the floor. He stood before the medicine cabinet and smiled. It had been easy, once he convinced himself there was no other way. Remove the remaining Halcion and mix seconals in with stomach sedative. Call home. ("What, dear, no Halcion? Josie must have forgotten to pick up the prescription. ... Of course I'll go first thing in the morning. How much stomach relaxant do you have? ... Well, that's not much more than you usually take. Just finish it off. It has a sedative effect. ... It may not be Halcion, but it will help you sleep. [Boy, will it!] ... No, of course not; it's barely more than you usually take. ... I can't come back now. The drug store's closed anyway; besides, I've had a few beers. ... No, I'm not drunk! You know drinking and driving don't mix. [Cunt!] ... Yes, I'll leave Garibaldi at dawn. ... As soon as it opens. Now, take the relaxant and get a good night's sleep.") It had been a gamble, and it had worked. Where to hide the bottle? Who knows what chemical tests the police had available. He couldn't bury it; someone might see him. Where could he hide it? Where was a place the police would never think of looking? Then it came to him: the kitty-litter pan! Eight inches deep, full of clay chips and cat shit. He'd stuff it in there and leave a couple of cat-turds on top to discourage a further look. He picked up his Water-Pik and smiled at himself in the mirror.
When he opened the cabinet to get the dentifrice, his expression changed from one of smugness to one of horror. Reflected in the mirror was Bast, glowering at him from his bedroom, its eyes more flame than copper. "Damn cat! Damn fucking familiar!" He seized the rinse-glass, and whirling around, threw it. Before it had even left his hand, however, Bast had bolted. On entering his bedroom, Henry noticed he'd left the door to the hallway open. "Tomorrow, you disgusting animal! I'll take good care of you tomorrow!"
He searched his bedroom from top to bottom. No place in there a cat could hide certainly not one of Bast's size. He made sure the hall door was firmly closed and then returned to the bathroom to finish his oral hygiene. "Tomorrow, you damned cat. Two more fucking days!" then poured himself into bed.
Shortly before eight o'clock, Josie arrived at the house. Noticing the morning paper still on the stoop, she picked it up and brought it with her into the kitchen. "It's Josie, Mr. Taylor. I've got the paper with me," she bellowed through the still house. "Do you want me to make some coffee?"
No answer! No answer as she called from the dining room, the glasses and cigarette ashes still on the table. No answer as she called from the bottom of the stairs. "Mr. Taylor, it's me, Josie. Mr. Taylor?" No answer.
No answer either as she first knocked, then pounded, on the bedroom door. She tried the handle. "Mr. Taylor? Hello, Mr. Taylor?" she muttered as she entered the room. (She still doesn't remember exactly what she saw. ... It's probably better that way.)
The police photographer had recorded his share of ghastly scenes, but nothing quite like this before. "He's got no face left!"
"Nor throat either," the Inspector added. "Well, we'll get identification from the fingerprints. Not much else to go on. "Turning to the sergeant, whose squad was combing the area, he asked, "Find anything?"
"Found this in the shower stall, behind the curtain. Seems to match the specimens found on the deceased," the sergeant reported handing over an envelope. "A rabid animal?"
"Hmm ... no, I don't think so. I've seen a couple attacks by rabid animals, and the victim still had a tongue. Oh, is the lady composed enough to make a statement?"
"Doc says she's badly shook up, but you can talk with her now. Just avoid describing any details."
"Of course, of course," the Inspector muttered as he left the room.
Josie was sitting on the sofa, softly weeping into a handkerchief which had been provided by the police matron. "Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. McCabe; but there are a few items you might be able to clear up. Let's see, you say you arrived shortly before eight."
"Yes," Josie responded composing herself. "Just before."
"And you entered ...?"
"By the kitchen door."
"Was it locked?"
"No, it was closed but not locked."
"Did you close it after you?"
"Oh, I'm sure I must have."
"And no one or no thing could have left without your seeing them?"
"I don't think so. Not through the kitchen anyway."
"I see. And after you discovered the - uh - scene upstairs, what then?"
"I don't know. I only recall standing on the lawn and screaming, while Mrs. Osborne, the neighbor lady, was trying to calm me."
"And the front door, it was open?"
"I don't know. I think so."
"I see. This cat, you say it's black?"
"Oh yes, Bast is coal black. Large, but gentle. I've never seen a more gentle cat. Why do you ask?"
"Well ... We found these upstairs in the bedroom and the bathroom," the Inspector replied, opening the envelope and removing the hairs inside. "They look black, but see, when you hold them up to the light ..." Holding them up to the sunlight pouring into the living room caused the hairs to change from black to a deep copper-brown. Both Mrs. McCabe's and the Inspector's eyes drifted over to the portrait of Barbara Taylor (née Winslow).
"Oh God, oh God," Josie whimpered. "And it was just two years to the day since Mrs. Taylor ... Oh God."
"What? No, according to our records Mrs. Taylor died on the 27th. This is the 26th."
"Yes, Inspector, but last year was a leap year. An extra day was added to February. By the calendar, tomorrow will be the second anniversary of Mrs. Taylor's demise; but by sun time, God's time, it's today rather early this morning."
"Uh, yes. I hadn't thought of that."
"Tell me, Inspector, have you found Bast?"
"No, Mrs. McCabe, we haven't. We'll have crews from the Animal Control Department search the entire district. But you know, we may never find that cat ... and maybe it's better that way."
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