Scarborough Fair and Other Stories by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough Read Free Book Online Page B

and only but I gotta tell you, the other side, over here where us ghosts are, it’s not what you think it’s going to be. I miss you and the kid too...”
    There was a huff of air as she sank to her chest onto the floor and she said grudgingly, “Yeah, I miss that terrified look on your yellow face when I chased you, and watching you stand on your hind feet to stretch. How in the world did you
do
that anyway?”
    He didn’t answer but just said, “I’ll be back. Just take care of the kid, you hear me? Remember too that she’s going to be a strong young adult by the time Susan brings in the next strays and you may need someone to protect
you
. It’s never too late, old girl.”
    â€œShove it, Mud Turd,” she growled, but softly, regretfully. “It’s dull around here without you. You’re coming back, you say?”
    â€œAt least for a little bit. I have to figure this out. The kid thinks Steinway and Merlin might have seen something.”
    â€œI’m sorry I can’t tell you more about Blackie. One minute I see him out rolling around like an idiot on the picnic table, the next thing I know the big galoot can hardly talk for the sores in his mouth...”
    That was how it started with Mustard, he realized, though he hadn’t known what was happening to him at the time. He tried to remember just when he had begun to feel uncomfortable but the whole experience was blurred by the fact that he had slept through as much of it as he could manage. He left the old girl to ruminate and sauntered next door to see Merlin and Steinway of course, who barked his few brains out when he saw Mustard.
    â€œCat Ghost at two o’clock!” he yelled. “Cat ghost! Cat ghost!”
    Mustard put his face right up to the fence and spat his nastiest at the bouncing, barking black lab, who backed off, hunkered down and whined.
    â€œNice dog,” Mustard said. “Hi, Steinway. Good to see you again. Can we talk?”
    The dog whimpered and a black cat as sleek as Blackie, though not as well formed, suddenly appeared, followed closely by a gray and white spotted longhair prancing officiously behind. “Hey, there, you. That’s
our
dog. If he needs spitting at, we’ll do it,” the black one said.
    â€œMerlin!” Mustard said. “Just the guy I wanted to see.”
    â€œSo, rumors of your demise were highly exaggerated, eh?” Merlin asked. For a musicians’ cat, he had a pretentious penchant for literary misquotes.
    â€œNo, I think I pretty well bought it, okay. I’m sort of—between lives at the moment, I guess. Can’t seem to get on with number two until I figure out how I snuffed number one. Boston Blackie apparently died the same way.”
    â€œNot Blackie?” Merlin asked with genuine regret. “That is one fine specimen of my particular color. Poor guy. And he was so happy yesterday, just rolling on the picnic table, purring. I think he’d just had a visitor.”
    â€œAny idea who?” Mustard asked, looking from first one cat to the other and then to the dog, who covered his nose with his paws and whined. “Anybody unusual around?”
    Steinway whined again. “You know how it is in your yard. Your mistress lets everyone walk through to get to the houses in back. Much too sloppy to keep proper surveillance on, though I try. A lot of thanks I get though. “Shut up, Steinway,” people say, and uppity neighbor cats, who ought to be dead, hissing at me.”
    â€œYou’re breaking my heart,” Mustard said. “You should know most of the people who go through the yard by now. Anyone you didn’t know?”
    â€œNope. Just the usual residents and the usual guests. Of course, I think someone may have been through as I was chowing down—even I take a break once in awhile. Because right after I got back was when I saw old Blackie rolling on his back on the picnic