Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

Then, lying there like that, don’t you know, I get thinking about Cat. Thinking about how great it was in bed with her last night. Last night on into the early morning. And there’s no way I can wait until tonight to see her again. Tonight is far too far away. If I turn up at Richard’s très chic gallery and find a conveniently empty back room...

I take a cab. What the heck. I get the driver to drop me two blocks short of the gallery, though, so I can tell Cat I walked over from the interview. An interview that went crackerjack.

I saunter down the street, glancing at shop windows. I pass one of those tarted-up cafes that will spill out onto the sidewalk come summer, and there’s Cat sitting inside at one of the tables. But who’s the guy she’s sitting with? Cat’s all smiles, whoever he is. She touches his forearm, then reaches up and strokes his cheek with the back of one finger. He takes that finger and presses it to his lips. Cat’s smile widens. Who is this guy, this miserable S.O.B.? His other hand is hidden beneath the table, and I bet he’s got it on Cat’s knee, Cat with her skirt hiked up, inviting that hand to reach higher. Cat leans across the table, offering her lips — what’s she doing? — and the creep kisses them.

Then, don’t you know, I’m whistling. Clenching my fists, tapping one foot, and whistling harsh and loud. The cat came back... ’cause she didn’t want to roam... Maybe I’m whistling loud enough to be heard through the glass, because Cat shades her eyes against the sun and looks through the window. She smiles her Cheshire-cat smile — the same one she smiled at that creep a second ago — and she beckons me inside. If I go in, I’ll smash that guy’s teeth right down his throat. Cat’s mine! She belongs to me! I slam the glass with the heel of my hand, set it shivering.

“For Pete’s sake, Mark, why are you so upset? I have a right to my friends.” That’s Cat’s explanation when she comes in that night from work. But I’m hard and cold and silent. A freakin’ iceberg. I flip through TV channels, thumb on the remote, showing my irritation.

“You’ve met Craig. Richard displays his work at the gallery. I went out with him for coffee because he’s been a bit depressed. Besides,” Cat says, throwing her handbag into the armchair, “Craig’s gay!” As if that made everything all right. Craig being gay. Craig kissing Cat’s lips with his filthy mouth. Cat stalks into the kitchen, bangs pots and rattles dishes as she fixes something to eat.

“Maybe we should cool it for a while, Mark,” she says over the clatter. “I mean, if you don’t like my having friends.”

Not what I want to hear. I lay the remote aside and turn to her.

“Listen, Cat, I didn’t know it was Craig, all right? I look through the window and you’re kissing a guy I don’t recognize. Okay, I get angry. What do you expect? I really care for you, and we’ve got a good thing going. I don’t want anyone jeopardizing that.” You belong to me. You’re mine.

“You’ve never gone out for coffee or lunch with me, Cat.” I point this out in an injured voice. “Let’s say we do lunch sometime.” I push myself up from the sofa, go into the kitchen, and encircle Cat with my arms, nuzzle her soft neck. Her body, stiff with anger, relaxes slowly against mine. “Somewhere special for my special lady, all right?” I lay on the charm. Cat rests her head and hand against my chest. “What about tomorrow?”

I feel Cat flinch. “Oh, Mark, I can’t. Not tomorrow. Not Thursday.” I remember, then: Every Thursday Cat has lunch at Luigi’s with Julie. Julie who needs Cat to talk to once a week, as if Julie had anything going for her.

But I keep my mouth shut, and when Cat raises her eyes to me, I attempt an understanding smile. “Okay, Cat. Fine. What about Friday, then?” I brush her forehead with my lips.

“Could we make it a day next week?” She searches my face. “Richard’s invited some of his special clients to the gallery on Friday. He needs my help.”

“Sure, Cat. Anything you say.”

On Thursday, it isn’t just Julie who meets Cat for lunch. Freakin’ pistol-packing Freda turns up, too. And Cat knows how I feel about Freda. I watch the three of them go inside. I wait until they come out again, yacking and laughing, touching and clutching, hugging and kissing. As if they had more right to Cat than I do. As if they were more important to Cat than me! Cat’s mine!

Freda turns her head in my direction, and I slip back into the shadow of the bank’s portico. “Cat,” I whisper as I watch them walk away, “we need to talk.”

Five days now. It’s been five damned days. And I don’t know if I can take it much longer. All the freakin’ phone calls. If it isn’t Richard, it’s Freda or Julie. The whole mad tea party asking for Cat. Richard telephoned first, bright and early Monday morning. “Is Cat there?”

“No, she’s not.” I hadn’t even had a coffee, for Christ’s sake. “I was about to call you. She’s in Seattle.”

“She’s where? Seattle! What’s she doing in Seattle?”