Six Cats A Slayin'

The voice of Azalea Berry, my housekeeper, broke into my thoughts. I looked up to see her, hands on hips, staring at the large cat playing soccer across the room.

“An invitation,” I said.

“Who’s inviting the cat somewhere?”

Azalea’s deadpan expression at first had me thinking she was serious. Then I saw the twinkle in her eyes.

“I wish it was for Diesel.” I couldn’t quite keep the sour note out of my voice. “It’s addressed to me, unfortunately.”

Spatula in hand, Azalea turned back to the stove. “Eggs’ll be ready in a minute. Who’s it from?”

“The new neighbor,” I replied. “The one who bought old Mr. Hardy’s house.”

“Oh, her.” Azalea’s tone indicated that she didn’t care for Geraldine Albritton any more than I did. “What kind of invite is it?”

“She’s having a Christmas party. According to the invitation, it’s a Neighborhood Meet-and-Greet. And it’s next week.”

“She’s not giving people much notice. What if they all made other plans for that night?” Azalea set a plate of scrambled eggs, country ham, and biscuits in front of me. Diesel saw that I now had food, and he left off batting his new toy around. He came up to my chair, placed a large paw atop my thigh, and emitted a sad chirp. Starvation was imminent.

“More than likely she’s thinking the curiosity value will bring them. I don’t know how many neighbors have dropped by to welcome her to the neighborhood so far, but you can bet there will be more than a few people who haven’t who’ll be wanting to see the inside of that house.”

Azalea snorted. “People are always wanting to find out about their neighbors.”

“True.” I put my attention to the food on my plate and let my mind contemplate the looming situation. Azalea refilled my coffee cup before she left the kitchen for the laundry room.

I believed I knew my neighbors well enough to predict that most of them would not react kindly to the overtures of a pushy newcomer. Based on my limited acquaintance with Geraldine—call me Gerry—Albritton, I felt pretty sure that, unless she toned herself down, many of my neighbors wouldn’t want to have much to do with her. Southerners have always prided themselves on their hospitality, but by the same turn, they weren’t always ready to welcome strangers to the inner circle. Gerry Albritton might not find people in this neighborhood as ready to embrace her as she probably expected.

Though I desperately wanted to forget every second of our first meeting, I couldn’t suppress it. The memory of it hung around, refusing to be banished. I recalled it as I ate my breakfast.

Gerry Albritton had moved in a month earlier, and a week later, I decided to do the neighborly thing. Armed with a small basket of baked goods—some provided by Azalea and others from Helen Louise Brady’s French bistro—I walked across the street that morning to introduce myself. I told Diesel we were going to meet the new neighbor, and he chirped happily in response. He was always ready for fresh conquests. He soaked up admiration like a hairy, chirping sponge.

I rang the doorbell. Perhaps twenty seconds later the door opened, and I beheld Ms. Albritton for the first time. Until then I’d caught only brief glimpses of her out the front windows as she went in and out of the house. Up close she was shorter than I had reckoned, probably only about five four and petite with it. I felt far too large as I loomed over her.

Dressed as if she was heading out to a formal dinner party—high heels, pearls, diamond rings, and the ever-fashionable little black dress—Ms. Albritton had an air of sophistication about her. She smiled widely at the sight of me, and I smiled back a bit uncertainly. I wasn’t sure whether she actually noticed Diesel, as she appeared to be so focused on me.

Before I could introduce myself, Ms. Albritton spoke. “You have to be Charlie Harris, the handsome widower of Oak Drive.” She batted her eyelashes at me, tilted her head, and offered a coy smile. “Come right on in, I’ve been just about dying to meet you. You’re even better-looking close up.” She laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “I’ve only been able to peek at you from a distance before now. I just know we’re going to be friends, so you just call me Gerry and I’ll call you Charlie, okay?”

Rattled by her flirtatious manner and thoroughly taken aback, I stared at her and made no attempt to respond. She didn’t appear to notice, though. Her gaze shifted down from my face, over my chest and farther south. I resisted the urge to squirm.

Then she seemed to realize that Diesel was with me.

“And this is the famous Diesel. Oh, you are such a handsome boy. Like father like kitty, and both of you so tall and strong-looking.”

I glanced down at the cat. Diesel stared at Ms. Albritton as if mesmerized. Thus far he hadn’t made a sound, unusual for him. He looked up at me and offered what sounded like an interrogatory trill. He hadn’t met anyone quite like her before, not with that coquettish manner and tone, at least.