Sherry Chandler » Cat in treehouse
Cat in treehouse
The verdigris-green eyes of Millie Thale’s cat pinned him to the wall. There was a message in them. The message was No.
Alex slowly relaxed. “Hullo, Sorcerer.”
The cat blinked slowly.
Millie had found him five years ago. Or, rather, the cat had found Millie. He had appeared from nowhere, down by Wast Water; she’d seen him through tearful eyes, sitting there as if he’d been expecting someone. Later, she had looked for (with a lack of thoroughness that had made Alex smile) but could not find the cat’s owner.
His name was Sorcerer. She had told Alex this as if the cat had informed her of it.
…
Two days later they had found her at the bottom of the trod, a poor rutted path leading downward, there near the lake, her hands, her face, that same white apron stained with yellow. Millie had pulled up all the daffodils she could find, pulled them up and apart, torn them to shreds. It had been George who had found her.
With that, he’d said, pointing to the black cat. Feral animal, it must be. The cat had rushed at him (he claimed) and then gone to sit silent as a statue beside Millie, who herself sat on a carpet of crushed daffodils.
— Martha Grimes, The Old Contemptibles (Little, Brown, 1991)
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