Six Cats A Slayin'

I found the dregs of my composure and responded to Ms. Albritton after Diesel’s appeal. “I am Charlie Harris, Ms. Albritton, and yes, this is Diesel.” I thrust the basket of pastries toward her. “We wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

She accepted the basket with another coy smile. Her hand brushed mine. “Aren’t you two the sweetest things?” Her Mississippi drawl drew the words out a few extra beats. “Y’all come on in. I’m afraid the house is still a wreck, but I know you’ll overlook it. A poor woman on her own moving into this wonderful neighborhood. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am this house came up for sale. All the time I was growing up here I wanted to live in this neighborhood, and when I moved back recently I couldn’t believe a house on this street was up for sale.” She turned and walked away.

At that point in our brief acquaintance, the last thing I wanted to do was enter this house, but I couldn’t be rude and simply walk away—or rather, run away, if I had my druthers. I didn’t feel up to fending off a lonesome widow this morning. I intended to tell Ms. Albritton that Diesel and I couldn’t stay, that we were expected somewhere even though it was my one day off during the week and I had nothing planned.

I followed her into the living room and discovered to my distaste that the furniture and decor consisted of what I privately called industrial horror. For a moment I thought I had wandered onto the set of a futuristic movie. Everything I saw was either stark white or deep black, except for dashes of color from photographs placed around the room and on the walls. There was not a book in sight—to me, always the sign of a person with whom I probably had little in common. Most of the rooms in my house had shelves full of books.

Gerry Albritton motioned me toward a leather sofa with tubular black legs. I took one corner, and Diesel huddled by my legs. I could tell that he found the atmosphere of the room as sterile and off-putting as I did. Our hostess set the gift basket on the coffee table, the top of which appeared to be made of some kind of white synthetic substance. Then, to my alarm, she seated herself so close to me that her knee brushed against mine.

My deeply ingrained manners precluded my being rude to her. But I decided to make an exception. I got to my feet quickly, before Gerry Albritton had a chance to speak.

“I do apologize,” I said, trying hard to sound sincere, “but I just this second remembered that my daughter is coming by any minute to drop off my grandson. It’s my day to babysit. I’m sure you’ll excuse me.”

“Now that’s just too bad.” My hostess sounded put out with me and wasn’t bothering to hide it. “I was really hoping for a chance to get to know you better.” Then she smiled, and her tone became friendly again. “But of course children and grandchildren come first.” She rose from the sofa. “It must be so nice to have family like that. I’m all on my own.” Her expression had suddenly turned forlorn.

“That’s too bad,” I murmured. Diesel and I followed her to the front door.

“You’ll have to come back when you can stay longer.” Gerry Albritton laid a hand on my arm and squeezed it. “I know we’re going to be good friends.”

“How kind,” I said. “We hope you’ll be happy here.” Diesel and I scooted out the door and headed home. I was never so glad to get away from someone in my life.

I suppressed another shudder as I tried to push the memory of that encounter away yet again. Since that time I had done my best to avoid Gerry Albritton and had been mostly successful. Diesel and I ran into her twice on walks, but on both occasions I got us away from her as quickly as I could. The woman made me uneasy. It was more than her aggressive friendliness, simply something I couldn’t define, that made me wary of her.

I still hadn’t told Helen Louise about Gerry’s blatant flirting with me. I wasn’t sure why I hesitated to share it with Helen Louise. Perhaps it was because I suspected so strongly that Gerry had an underhanded purpose in behaving like that. The more I was exposed to it, the more I began to think the flirtatiousness had a forced quality to it. Until I could figure out what lay behind it, I planned to keep it to myself.

Compounding the situation was the mystery surrounding Gerry Albritton herself. Right after that first meeting, I questioned Melba Gilley, my friend since childhood and my coworker at the Athena College Library, to discover what I could about my new neighbor.

Gerry claimed to have lived in Athena when the subject arose during my first encounter with her—yet Melba didn’t know Gerry Albritton, and Melba knew everyone who had lived in Athena over the decades.

“Only Albrittons I know don’t have a single Geraldine in the family,” Melba said, obviously puzzled. “I could be wrong, of course, but none of the Albritton boys our age married a Geraldine, either.”

“That’s the name she claims now,” I said. “Maybe she used to go by a name besides Geraldine.”