Then, from within, a small furry head emerged. The head turned, surveying the outside surroundings, and settled on me. A gorgeous white cat matched my wide-eyed gaze.
“Hello, there,” I said. I did not move, nor made any effort to approach or touch this new arrival. I knew from experience there might be unwanted results.
“It’s a cat, ma!” cried the boy.
“Hold still,” Penny said. She looked at the cat with apprehension. Frightened, even. An almost universal reaction by most.
“Help,” I said to the cat and pointed toward the little boy.
The cat looked from me and up at Newlin. It blinked several times. Its irises appeared composed of brightly colored rainbows with countless hues. Its thick fur was as white as the first winter snow.
As if finally deciding what to do, the cat hopped out of the bag. It paused, sat back on hind legs, and proceeded to clean a forepaw.
It had been several months since I’d seen a white cat emerge from the bag. I could not tell if this was the same one as that time. There was no way to be certain by quick observation.
But what this cat did would set it apart from any another.
I felt a strong sense of pride looking at it. A different cat with almost every summoning. All the same indefinable breed, but of varying colors. Each unique in their own way. An infinite number of them. And all a welcome sight.
“Is it going to save me now?” Newlin asked, his voice tinged with worry.
“Hush, now, child,” I said. “Give her a moment.”
Once the cat finished cleaning itself, it got down to business. With an almost imperious saunter, it strolled over to the tree and stopped right below the boy. It peered up at him. The distance that separated the two was twenty spans or more. If this did not work then a call to the fire department would be needed.
As we all stood by with bated breath the cat tensed up as if ready to pounce. Its focus never wavered from the boy.
Then, the cat vanished with an audible pop.
Penny gasped, hands to her mouth.
My heart beat quickened, and up I looked.
The cat now sat on the tree branch, next to the little boy. It had somehow travelled the distance from the ground in an instant. Faster than a blink.
The boy craned his neck around to look at the cat with wide-eyed apprehension.
I said, “It’s okay, child. She’s going to help you.”
The cat stood up and brushed against the boy. Even from a distance its purr could be heard.
“Is it going to -,” Newlin said and both he and the cat were suddenly gone.
At that same moment, with another loud pop, both cat and child appeared on the ground, safe.
Penny gasped with relief, but when she rushed over to her child, she froze, uncertain what to do. The cat sat in the boy’s lap rubbing against him.
Newlin giggled and stroked the creature’s fur.
As if deciding its job finished the cat jumped onto the grass and walked away.
Penny joined her child and scooped him into her arms. “Don’t you ever do that again, young man! What would we have done if Miss Beeweather had not been here?”
I doubted any trees would have been climbed without my presence. Yet, with the child safe now, it didn’t matter.
I watched the beautiful white cat trot across the ground straight back to the knitting bag. And, without a glance back at any of us, it leapt into the bag’s opening and was gone in an instant. The opening closed on its own, and the clasp snapped shut. Now, instead of brass, the clasp was of a polished wood.
I exhaled my breath. Astounding. Simply astounding. Anytime I needed to open the bag was a moment an old woman like me looked forward too.
Penny held the boy tight and kissed him. “Thank you so much, Miss Beeweather. I apologize for bothering you.”
With a curt nod I put the knitting bag back into the satchel and walked back to my seat. I hoped my manner indicated a repeat of this child’s escapade would not be tolerated. But noticing how Newlin’s eyes followed the satchel, I suspected he would be in need of aid again.
I returned to the bench and grabbed up my newspaper intent on resuming my morning read.
Movement caught my eye.
A uniformed policeman walked up the path toward me and I instantly recognized him. Constable Fairfax. His bushy walrus mustache could make him identifiable even from a thousand paces. From his somber expression I knew this morning’s distractions would be amplified.
“Good morning, Miss Beeweather,” said Fairfax and tipped his cap as he approached to stand before me, his voice deep and somber.
“Good morning, Constable,” I said. “Did you, by chance, bring me any biscuits?”
“Beg pardon, ma’am?”
“Biscuits? I have a strong craving for them this morning.”
“I’m afraid not,” Fairfax said, looking uncertain. “My apologies.”
“Then I take it this interruption is not a social call?”
“No ma’am, it is not.” The constable cleared his throat. “The Chief Constable is requesting your assistance on a matter.”
“I see,” I said. “What is it this time?” Assisting the Chief Constable had become a more frequent event than helping adventurous little boys. In many ways, they were almost one and the same.
“There has been a murder,” Fairfax said. He delivered this line as if describing the cloudy weather.
I sighed and fingered my neglected newspaper. “I am retired, Constable.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Murder falls well under the purview of Detective Constable Radley Oswall. And he will not be retiring for many years. Am I correct?”
“Yes, ma’am. But – “ Fairfax said before I interrupted him.
I said, “Is Oswall on vacation, perhaps? Or did he fall deep into his cups again?” I felt my annoyance growing. Oswall was a good detective but his vices had become greater than his sense of duty.
Fairfax’s expression rippled with emotion. A rare and unusual event given his perpetual dourness.
This got my attention. “Fairfax,” I said, concerned now. “What is it?”
“That’s the thing ma’am,” Fairfax managed. “It’s Detective Oswall who was murdered.”
CHAPTER TWO
We walked through the park to the spot on the road where Fairfax had parked his buggy. The vehicle was a sad looking contraption with dents and scrapes along its paneling, and little cracks in the windows. I plunked myself into the passenger seat which squeaked and rattled.
“It’s the only vehicle issue available,” Fairfax said by way of apology as he got behind the wheel.
“Has any new ones been issued to the Constabulary since I left?” I asked. The town council, notoriously stingy when it came to budgeting, seemed to make it a point that the Protection and Investigation services always suffered the most when it came to financing.
“No,” Fairfax said, and frowned. The motion caused his thick mustache to bristle like an agitated porcupine. “Nothing.”
I was stunned. “All these years?”
His embarrassed silence was answer enough.
I huffed, but did not prod. The political fighting between the town council and the impoverished police force was now legendary. Even throughout my tenure it never reached a point of resolve.
I shook my head. Why should this matter to me now? I’m retired.
Fairfax tried to start the buggy, but it refused to cooperate. After a few tries, and some grumbling from Fairfax, it sputtered to life. We pulled out into the street and drove toward the edge of town.
Through the passenger window I watched the trees of the park zip past. I did not want to be in this situation. Not again. But Oswall was dead…