An Unthymely Death by Susan Wittig Albert Read Free Book Online

ruefully, “I apologize. But the problem is that cats can’t leave it alone, Vivian. They’re genetically programmed to react to the volatile oils. If you want catnip, you might try raising it from seed.”
    Vivian leaned on her hoe, frowning. “From seed?”
    I nodded. “Ever heard the old saying, ‘If you set it, the cats will get it. If you sow it, they won’t know it’?” When she looked doubtful, I explained. “If you set out transplants, the leaves inevitably get bruised. The oils are released and the cats come running. If you start catnip from seed, the plants may be able to grow to maturity before some passing kitty discovers them.”
    “I guess I could give it a try,” Vivian said. She glanced at me from under the brim of her hat. “You say you’ve lost your cat? That big, beautiful Siamese?” She sighed. “He’s no gentleman where catnip is concerned, but otherwise, he’s a charmer.”
    “I haven’t seen him for two days and I’m really worried,” I said. “Call me if he comes around, will you?”
    “Sure,” she said. “By the way, would you tell Janet I’m looking forward to Friday’s luncheon. I hear she’s serving marinated bocci balls.”
    “Bocconcini,” I said. “Mozzarella cheese balls.”
    “Is that what they are?” Vivian said dubiously. “Well, I’m sure people will like them just the same.” She frowned. “Probably.”
     
     
    By Thursday morning, I knew I had to do something more productive than simply riding my bike around the neighborhood. I scanned a photo of Khat into the computer, ran off several dozen flyers, and began posting them. My first stop was at Cavette’s Grocery, a couple of blocks down Crockett Street.
    Cavette’s is one of those old family markets that have been almost completely obliterated by the Safeways and Krogers of this world—a small shop with wooden bins and wicker baskets of fresh fruit and veggies lined up on the sidewalk. The Cavettes buy organic produce from local growers, newly baked tortillas from Zapata’s Tortilla Factory, and fresh herbs from my garden, in season. It always gives me a lift to see cellophane packages of fresh rosemary and basil and sage, prettied up with a green ribbon and the Thyme and Seasons label.
    “Hello, China,” young Mr. Cavette wheezed, straightening up from a box of fresh Fredericksburg peaches he was putting out. Young Mr. Cavette must be close to seventy and is bald as an onion. His father, old Mr. Cavette, who sits behind the old-fashioned cash register and rings up all the sales, recently celebrated his ninetieth birthday. The youngest Mr. Cavette, whom everybody calls Junior, is middle-aged and makes deliveries on his red motorbike. The three Cavettes, father, son, and grand-son, live next door to the store.
    “Hello, Mr. Cavette,” I said. I held up my flyer. “Have you seen my cat?”
    He took the flyer and held it up to his nose, peering nearsightedly at it. “Well, sure,” he said. “This cat shows up whenever Old Pete brings in a batch of fresh fish. Has a special liking for catfish.” He grinned and handed back the flyer. “Doesn’t care for shrimp, though, or scallops. Just catfish.”
    “Have you seen him lately ?” I persisted. “He’s been lost since Tuesday.”
    “Oh, too bad,” Mr. Cavette said, sounding sincere. “Lost, huh? Good-lookin’ cat like that, somebody prob’ly cat-napped him.” He looked down at the peaches in his hand. “Say, didn’t Janet tell me she wanted me to save her some fresh peaches and melons for that lunch y’all are havin’ on Friday?”
    “I guess,” I said, dispirited. I hated to think that anybody would be nasty enough to steal Khat. But it’s certainly true that customers admire him. When they bend over to pet him, lots of them croon, “Would you like to come home with me and be my very own kitty?” Maybe somebody thought he said, “Yes.” But I couldn’t let that possibility stop me. “Is it okay if I post this flyer in