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

“If you’ll shut up, Richard, I’ll tell you, okay?” I heard Richard bluster and fume, imagined him shaking with fury. Looks damned good on ya, Richard.

“She’s got this friend in Seattle who’s really sick or something. Just like Cat, she had to go. Never said goodbye to me or anything.” I let the irritation seep into my voice. “She telephoned last night from out West and asked me to contact you.”

“When did she leave?”

“Saturday or Sunday, I guess. I was out of town, chasing a job.”

“Can I reach her?”

Jeez, Richard, why can’t you bloody well back off. “The friend’s dying, Richard, and Cat’s staying at the hospital. I don’t have any idea which hospital. At a time like this, she doesn’t want to be bothered, anyway.” I hung up the phone on the insensitive bastard.

Julie phoned next. “We always have lunch together on Thursdays,” she whined, wanting her piece of Cat. “She didn’t tell me—”

“The friend’s dying, Julie! How could she know?” Now I’m genuinely pissed off at these so-called supportive friends of Cat.

“Have you any idea when she’ll be back?”

“No!” I dropped the phone on her ear, too.

I should stay. I have to stay. A few more days at least. With Cat out of sight, I need to remain in full view. Otherwise, what kinds of conclusions are those good friends of Cat going to jump to? Stay and make sure they’ve got the story on Cat straight. Then head West myself. I wonder what Cat’s friends will make of that? Might screw them up big time.

But those friends of Cat won’t let up. And they’re driving me crazy!

That bitch Freda’s the worst. She calls every damned day. “Is Cat back yet?” “Have you heard from Cat?” I think of telling Freda the friend died and Cat’s staying for the funeral, to get her off my back. Except Freda would probably ask for the name of the funeral home so she could send a sympathy card. “And by the way, Mark,” she said this morning, “I haven’t heard you whistling lately. You know, ‘The Cat Came Back.’ Got some doubt in your mind there, Mark, about Cat returning?” That freakin’ Freda, noticing every little thing.

“Cat’s using the sick friend as an excuse, that’s it, isn’t it, Mark? She’s had enough of you and your shadowing her all the time — I’ve seen you following her. She’s not coming back until you’re out of her life, isn’t that right?”

I don’t damn well care for the sarcasm in Freda’s voice.

“Now wouldn’t that make you happy. You’ve always set Cat against me. You’ve sunk your poisonous barbs in every chance you got.” I’m so pissed at Freda. Righteous indignation, isn’t that what it’s called? I give her a full blast of that. “It might be she needs a break from you and the rest of that mob pestering her all the time. That ever cross your mind?” Chew on that one, Freda.

This time it was Freda who slammed down the phone on me.

Five days of this is long enough.

I spend the rest of the day getting my gear together, money from a couple of ATMs, buying tickets from here to there. As long as I’m away from the phone, away from Cat’s friends, it’s not so bad. I drop my packed duffel bag on the bedroom floor of Cat’s apartment and roll, fully-clothed, into Cat’s soft bed. First thing tomorrow, I’m out of here.

Doesn’t the damn phone ring again! If it’s Freda, to hell with her. But the number on the display screen isn’t one I recognize. The phone keeps ringing. I think about pulling the jack from the wall, but what if it’s another one of Cat’s friends needing to be told.

I snatch up the receiver. “This better be important. I was in the shower.”

“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry,” a male voice apologizes. Terrific! Just who I’d love to chat with. That freakin’ Craig who paints those crappy abstracts that Richard flogs as art. “I was wondering if I could speak to Cat.”

“Cat’s not here! She’s in Seattle! Richard must’ve told you!”

“Well... ah... it’s...”

My hand tightens on the receiver the way I’d like to tighten it around Craig’s eggshell head. Spit it out, you jerk.

“If Cat was away, she’s back. She wanted to set up an appointment to look at my latest paintings.”

What’s he talking about? The receiver emits a crack under the strain of my grip.

“I assumed she went home, you know, after work. That she was at the apartment with... you.”

It’s like a blade between my ribs, collapsing my lungs. I drop to the bed.

What’s he babbling about?

“Hello? Are you there?”

“Yeah,” I snarl. I’m talking with a freakin’ maniac.

“Is everything okay between you and Cat? Freda’s been saying—”

“So Cat called. She called you. Where was she calling from, if she called you?”

“I assumed she called from the gallery.”

“The gallery. She was at the gallery. With Richard?”

“I guess.”

“Richard saw her?”

“I would think so.”

“You’re crazy!” I yank out the damn phone this time and smash it against the wall. Cat can’t be there! Not at the gallery. She’s not here, and she’s not there! I tear the covers from Cat’s bed and fling them onto the floor, sweep the bedroom lamp from the night table, break the framed picture of Cat over my knee.