Elaine Faber

The old woman, Broomtilda, took me in when I was a wee kitten and named me Tinkleberry. Her idea, not mine…Over the years, it became increasingly difficult for her to provide us with bread and cheese. Were it not for the old cow in the byre, we would have no milk for our breakfast.

One night, Broomtilda tucked her shoes under her bed and pulled the covers up to her nose. Come dawn, being too weak to rise, she called me to her side. “I have provided all your needs until today, Tinkleberry. Now, you must go, my friend, kill a small beast and bring me meat, for I can no longer work to feed us.”

That she should ask me to kill a living creature went against my very soul, for unlike my feline brothers, I have long been a conscientious objector. “You know I would do anything for you, dear Broomtilda, but I cannot kill even the smallest living creature. Please do not ask me to pay such a price for your kindness.”

“How can you answer thus, when I am ill and hungry?” she replied. “Have I not always provided for you?” Her tears wrenched my heart, and yet I trembled at the thought of killing the smallest vole.

“Isn’t there another way to meet our needs?”

She wept. “Only one, but I fear it’s far too dangerous.”

I bowed my head, my fur bristling in dread. “I will do as you command.”

“You must make your way to yonder mountain. High on the top beside a river, is the cave of a wicked leprechaun,” she said. “Perhaps you can trick him into revealing where he hides his gold. Even one small coin would feed us for many weeks. Go, now, Tinkleberry. My life is in your paws, small friend.” My mistress fell back upon her pillow, her voice a bare whisper. “If you fail to bring back a piece of gold, I shall perish.”

I set out to do what must be done in hopes I could match wits with the evil leprechaun and live to tell the tale.

The mountain trail was steep. With each step nearer the cave, I had no clear plan for how to trick the leprechaun out of his gold.

As I stepped on the log that spanned the river, shrill words chilled my heart. The wicked leprechaun! “Halt. Who goes there? Answer, Cat, or I’ll turn you to stone.”

Panic seized my heart. “Hold! A thought popped into my furry head. “I’m just a harmless pussy cat out for a stroll in the woods. My, what a lovely river you have here, Sir Leprechaun. I love what you’ve done with the place.” I sashayed across the log, humming an Irish ditty, and bowed low. “My name is Tinkleberry. Her idea, not mine. What might I call you, kind sir?”

The leprechaun stepped from his cave, his demeanor softened. “My name is Merichandrick. What do you seek?”

“A spot of tea would be lovely. I’m weary from my travels.” I looked wistfully toward the creature, an attempt to convey abject vulnerability and candor. To my great surprise, he agreed.

“Come on in, then, and I’ll light the fire.” I followed him into the grotto, suspicious of his intent. Once inside, did he plan to toss me into the stew pot? My nerves tingled, prepared for the worst.

“Sit over there.” The little man shuffled toward the fire.

Fearing treachery, I kept a wary eye on my host as I gazed around. A green-and-red parrot squawked in a cage hanging from a golden hook. “Oh, what a lovely bird,” I said, sidling closer to the cage. Where was that blasted pot of gold? Near the back of the cave, something bulged beneath a red blanket.

The little man turned. “Will you be after spending the night?” says he, with a wicked glint in his eye.

“If I’m so invited,” says I with a yawn, patting a paw against my mouth. He likely plans to kill me as I sleep. “Let us drink our tea, and I’ll curl up on yon lovely red blanket for the night.”

He shook his mop of green curls. “Not there,” says he. His wicked eyes glittered. “Best you should sleep closer to the fire.”

“A perspicacious idea!” says I. Oho! The gold is under the blanket. Once the little man sleeps, I’ll snatch a coin and be on my way.

My host set out two mugs, shoving one toward me. Expecting a trick, I sneezed, and as he reached for a Kleenex, I switched the mugs. Indeed, the mug was drugged, for the evil leprechaun drank and soon fell into a stupor. As I snatched a gold coin from the pot beneath the blanket, the parrot began spewing vile curses. Murderous rage filled my heart as I became a conscientious objector no more. I leaped and knocked the cage from its golden hook. The now repentant parrot squawked and flapped on the ground. One swift snap of my jaws, and the bird would curse no more.

Broomtilda traded the gold coin for six chickens and a second cow. That gives us enough milk to trade for bread and vegetables. Since I’m a recovering conscientious objector, only occasionally do I venture into the woods, highjack an unsuspecting rabbit, and fetch it home for the stewpot. If our fortune changes or the old cow dies, the wicked leprechaun still has a pot full of gold coins, and I know where he lives.

****

See my humorous 'cat stories anthology', All Things Cat at Amazon. (e-book is $2.99) http://tinyurl.com/y9p9htak

I heard on the news that the Japanese Ambassador is visiting Washington this week and has gifted the US with 250 more Japanese Cherry trees. This reminded me of an article I wrote some years ago. Reprinted here today.

Folks often schedule visits to Washington, DC in the springtime to coincide with the blooming of the famous Cherry trees. Here is the history of the Washington Cherry Trees and their goodwill mission.

In January 1910, Japan sent 3000 Cherry trees to Washington as a goodwill gesture. Sadly, when the trees arrived, they were found to be diseased and infested with insects.

To protect American growers, President William H. Taft ordered the trees to be burned. Letters from the Secretary of State to the Japanese Ambassador expressed deep regret to all concerned. Goodwill was maintained, and in 1912, Japan again sent Washington, D.C., more than 3000 additional Cherry trees from 12 different varieties. Two thousand of the trees were planted on the White House grounds, and the remainder were planted around the city and along the Potomac River from the site of the Lincoln Memorial south toward Potomac Park. They grew and blossomed each spring and delighted thousands of Washington residents and visitors.

Shortly after the Pearl Harbor attack in December 1941, in protest, vandals cut down four cherry trees. Letters poured into the National Parks Commission, calling for “cutting all the Japanese trees down and replacing them with an American variety.” Throughout the rest of the war, in hopes of preventing future damage and ill will, the trees were no longer called Japanese Cherry trees, but referred to as ‘oriental flowering Cherry trees.’

The National Cherry Blossom Festival, an annual springtime event since 1935, was suspended and did not return until 1947, when a Cherry Blossom princess and a queen were crowned. In 1957, a wealthy Japanese businesswoman donated a crown for the festival queen, containing more than two pounds of gold and 1,585 pearls. The queen wears the famous crown for just a few moments when she is crowned. It is then replaced with a miniature crown of gold with a pearl topping each point. The queen wears this crown for the remainder of the evening, and she keeps it as a memento of the event.

In 1965, the Japanese government generously donated another 3,800 trees to Lady Bird Johnson. Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Ryuji Takeuchi, wife of Japan’s ambassador, reenacted the original planting ceremony of 1912.

In 1980, when the course of a river destroyed many of Japan's ancient Cherry trees, and on several occasions since, cuttings from our original 1912 cherry trees were returned to Japan.

Private funds were donated between 1986 and 1988 to replant another 676 trees to restore the number of Washington trees to the original 3000. Between 1997 and 2011, cuttings from the surviving 1912 cherry trees were propagated to ensure preservation of the 1912 trees’ genetic lineage and will be used in subsequent replacement plantings both in Washington and in Japan. Thus, the original 1912 gift have come full circle and will ensure a cycle of giving between Japan and the United States.

DO OTHER RELIGIONS BELIEVE IN ANGELS? Angels are part of many religions, including Christianity, Islam, and Buddhism, and are mentioned in the Bible as well as in the Qur'an and Hadith. All religions agree that angels are divine spiritual beings sent by God as messengers to comfort or to protect in times of great need.

ANGELS IN THE BIBLE: The Bible includes many interactions and conversations between angels and humans. The most remembered− the Archangel Gabriel visited the Virgin Mary to foretell the birth of Jesus Christ. Angels directed the shepherds to the stable where Jesus was born.** Following the Resurrection of Jesus, an angel rolled back the stone and spoke to Mary Magdalene.

DO WE STILL BELIEVE IN ANGELS? In the US, a 2008 survey polled 1,700 respondents and found that fifty-five percent of Americans, including one in five who say they are not religious, believe that a guardian angel has been with them at some time in their life. Thousands of personal accounts have reported interactions with angels.

BALAAM’S DONKEY: One interesting story from the Bible describes the prophet Balaam, who was instructed by God to deliver a specific message. Three times, Balaam beats his donkey when it stops in the middle of the road. Finally, the donkey turns and speaks aloud, “I can’t move forward? Can’t you see that Angel with a sword, standing right in front of us, blocking the road? Why are you beating me?”
Balaam answers, “Because you won’t obey. If I had a sword, I’d kill you!”  Finally, he sees the angel who delivers God’s message, and Balaam obeys. (Loose translation.)##The amazing thing is that Balaam wasn’t the least bit amazed when his donkey spoke aloud to him. Instead, he argues and curses the donkey. Something to think about…But we’ll deal with talking animals another day.

FINAL THOUGHTS: The angels in the Bible are usually described as masculine. In the Middle Ages, art and mythology depicted angels as female, and artists added wings. Nowadays, angels could look like anyone of us. The prophet in Hebrews admonished us to be kind, even to strangers, as they may be angels in disguise.

Whatever success you’ve achieved r is due to many people who mentored and helped you learn your craft:  Now you can be someone’s angel by mentoring, helping, and encouraging others in your field of expertise. Be honest, but remember, a kind word goes a long way to ease a difficult moment or mistake.

Donkeys can be stubborn and contrary. Sometimes they hold back when they should move forward. Angels lend a helping hand in times of need. Who knows? The person you meet on any particular day may need an angel. Or…he may BE an angel. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. Hebrews 13:2***

CREATING A SELF-PUBLISHED NOVEL

I just published my latest Black Cat cozy mystery/adventure, Black Cat and the Immigrant Child. In this novel, Grandmother has passed away, and Black Cat and his family return to Texas to settle her affairs. On the first day there, the body of a young immigrant, likely carrying drugs, is found murdered on the prairie. A little girl is found beside him. The family takes in the child and cooperates with the Border Patrol in an effort to locate her family. Of course, Black Cat overhears a stable hand confess to the murder with the intent to harm the child who may be able to identify him. Black Cat, Angel, and the huge Maine Coon barn cat, Murphy, join forces to protect the child and bring the killer to justice.

So, what went on behind the curtain, before the books were published?

I spent hundreds of hours writing and editing the final manuscript. With the help of 3-4 beta readers, an intensive editing process is done to identify typos, punctuation issues, storyline snags, expand certain scenes, and generally look for anything that needs to be changed.

(Other types of editors are available to the author at this point who can suggest changes or give advice.)

As I self-publish, further steps toward publication all become my responsibility. I’ll envision a general cover concept, and as I prefer photographs, I'll search Shutterstock, Fotolia, and other online photo sites for one or two photos to be used on the front cover. Once I’ve selected and purchased the rights to the images, they are sent to my mentor/editor/cover design genius to create an approved design.

Acknowledgments, back cover blurb, character description, and dedications are assembled. The manuscript is returned to my editor/mentor, who formats the manuscript for publication. She returns a printed copy to me, where, after reading it through again, often 40-50 further corrections or changes are made. My local publisher acquires an ISBN. Finally, the completed manuscript is sent to Amazon to be printed into a paperback.

A correctly formatted e-book version is sent to Amazon. where, if the moon and stars are in the correct alignment, they upload it correctly so folks can purchase the e-book for $3.99.

So, small wonder that a paperback novel costs $16. After many hours before publication, you now know what a self-published author must do to complete the process and provide a wonderful reading experience. I hope you'll enjoy all my books and look forward to presenting this latest novel filled with intrigue, a touch of romance, and plenty of laughs from Black Cat as he engages with the horses, the barn cats, and a rat named Cedric.

If this sounds intriguing, go to Amazon and plug in the title. You'll be glad you did.

I grew up in Sebastopol, CA, in the 1950s, the last remaining town in Northern California with a working railroad train going down Main Street.

With a lack of shopping establishments, we had to drive 7 miles to Santa Rosa to shop.

It's interesting how our perception of distance has evolved. What used to be a half-hour drive over bumpy country roads at 30 miles an hour in a stick shift Buick is now accomplished in 7 minutes on a blazing freeway in our air-conditioned hybrid Lexus.

We only went to town to shop for school clothes, Christmas presents, or Easter dresses and shoes. Finding a dress for Grandma often took most of the afternoon, going from shop to shop, trying on numerous dresses, and checking prices.

My favorite thing about shopping day was Penny’s Department Store. Penny’s had a modern pneumatic tube system used for payment.

The saleslady would ring up our merchandise at a cash register, but she had no cash drawer. She would write a receipt and place our money into a container, then put it into a pneumatic tube system. With a “shoosh,” the container would be sucked through the clear plastic tube system, and I could watch it move across the ceiling to a cashier with a cash drawer sitting behind a glass office on the second floor. She had a separate tube for each cash register below. She would take the money from the container, place our change and a copy of our receipt back into the tube, and send it whooshing back through the tube system. It would make its way back across the ceiling and “plunk” into the tray behind our saleslady. She would open the tube and return our change and receipt. This process took about 5 minutes to reach the cash office, to be processed, and returned to the customer.

No one had thought up a shopping mall yet, so the stores we wished to patronize were often a block or two apart. At noon, after walking from store to store, carrying our packages, we stopped at the Kress’s fountain for “a bite to eat,’ which usually meant hot turkey sandwiches. Finally, mid-afternoon, exhausted, each of us hauling big shopping bags filled with our day's purchases, we would hike back to the car.

Daddy would come in from a hard day’s work of building houses all day. His red-checked shirt, tan coveralls, and boots were usually covered with sawdust. I know how much he must have hated Mama’s inevitable words that followed. “We stopped at Kress’s today for a ‘bite to eat’, so we’re just going to have a light supper tonight!”

Daddy was a meat-and-potatoes man, but on shopping days, when we stopped for a ‘bite to eat’ at Kress’s, it meant Mama wouldn’t be fixing a big dinner. Daddy had to contend with soup and a sandwich. I don’t suppose he ever went to bed hungry, but he didn’t always get his meat and potatoes, especially on shopping days with Grandma.

In recent years, fixing a “light supper” because I stopped for a “bite to eat” at the mall is a memory I share with family. They have come to know the phrase from my all-day shopping adventures with Grandma and Mama; memories of long ago that I will never forget.

The days grew shorter, the air crisper, the nights longer, and the whisper of leaves falling on the roof began to awaken each Christmas bird.  Something sang to them, calling them, until they wiggled with joy, crinkling their crepe paper walls. Soon, the Christmas ornaments would be lifted from their crepe paper beds where they had slept since last Christmas.

As the special Day grew nearer, the Christmas tree birds felt a thrill in their springy wire clips and gold porcelain bodies and their bright, feathered tails.

The youngest Christmas tree bird lay warm and snug beneath Gold Bird. Soon he would be on the Christmas tree with his Christmas bird friends and the others. Some of the round ornaments had beautiful paint, but weren’t as beautiful as the Christmas tree birds with their springy wires and pinchy clips. He closed his little red eyes and dreamed about Christmas Eve. He would look down from the Christmas tree at the family gathered by the fireplace, singing Christmas carols. Being part of the Christmas Eve celebration made him feel alive.

Perhaps today was the day. He imagined being taken from his box and hung on the tree. It would become a thing of beauty. “I’ve been thinking that I am the most beautiful Christmas bird,” he whispered to Gold Bird, his voice trembling, filled with self-admiration.

Gold Bird’s tail feathers quivered. “Oh, really. What makes you think so? Blue glass bird is made of exquisite hand-blown glass, and it has a fine blue feather tail. The antique bird is missing some of its tail feathers, but its glass is so fragile, you can see through it. For that matter, most of us are more beautiful than you.” He fairly shook as he scolded the young bird, lying in the tissue below him.

“Well, I don’t care what you say. The Christmas tree would not be nearly as beautiful if I weren’t right near the top.”

Gold Bird, being older and wiser, turned his head away.  “You conceited fellow, it would serve you right if you got left behind this year. You obviously don’t know the true meaning of Christmas. You don’t deserve to be included in the holiday events.”

The young Christmas bird trembled. Thinking he might be left behind scared him a bit, but not enough to change his opinion of himself. With a slight tremble, he added, “You don’t think that could happen, do you? I don’t mean to sound conceited. It’s not that I think you aren’t very handsome, but my tail feathers are longer and softer and fluffier than yours, and…my paint is much shinier...”

“Tut tut,” replied Gold Bird. “I won’t listen to hear another word.”

For several uncomfortable days, the young bird lay in his soft cocoon of crinkly wrapping paper. Gold Bird’s words haunted him. “You conceited fellow, it would serve you right …” Not to be part of the Christmas Eve celebration?  He could not bear the thought.

The days grew shorter and the nights longer. A soft sprinkle of snow blanketed the roof. The wind whistled through the trees, their bare branches just visible through the tiny window at the end of the attic. The long dark days of November edged into December.

Footsteps on the attic steps awakened the Christmas birds early one morning. They held their breath as their box was carried down the stairs. “It’s time! It’s finally Christmas! Soon we’ll be on the Christmas tree!” the Christmas bird whispered. The young Christmas bird lay in the box under Gold Bird, wrapped in soft white tissue paper. His friends were lifted, one by one, from beside him. He heard them squeal as they were hung on the tree. He could faintly hear the music. He could hear the children laughing; he could even smell the cookies! “It’s nearly time,” he whispered to Gold Bird.  “It’s nearly my turn.” Gold Bird’s fluffy tail no longer tickled his nose. His box was tossed into the corner; empty except for the little Christmas bird. He was alone.

His comfortable bed was now a prison, his beautiful body lay swaddled in crinkly tissue paper. Muffled Christmas sounds reached his ears. A tiny plastic tear formed in his little red eye. “I’ve been conceited and proud, and now I’ve been left behind.”

He lay alone and forlorn through December. The Christmas season was nearly over, and he had missed everything. On Christmas Eve, the family gathered to celebrate the birth of Jesus. The Christmas tree bird lay in his box in the corner, imagining the tree with his Christmas bird friends hanging on its branches, along with the round ones he had scorned. “They may not be as beautiful,” he thought,” but they are on the tree, and I’ve been left behind.”

The little girl read the Christmas story. “They wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid Him in a manger.”

Christmas bird thought, “I’m wrapped in swaddling clothes, like the baby Jesus,” and he imagined the tiny baby, sung and warm, lying in a manger. He heard the daddy telling how Jesus came to earth as a tiny baby, and if we loved and trusted Him, He would take us to heaven and we would not be left behind. The Christmas bird sniffed, “I know what it’s like to be left behind. How much worse if I should be left behind in Heaven.”

He felt his box jiggle, the crinkling tissue paper lifted away, and he felt the warmth from the fireplace. “Look, Mommy! It’s another Christmas birdie. He has a tear in his eye. Can we hang him on the Christmas tree?”

Daddy helped her hang the little bird near Gold Bird.  Looking down, the joyous Christmas bird saw the family gathered around the tree. He felt the love in the room. Finally, he was where he needed to be. Gold Bird gave him a loving glance. “Welcome to Christmas. Did you learn anything?”

The tear in his eye had turned to gold, glinting in the firelight as he swung toward Gold Bird. “I understand,” he whispered. “Christmas is not about who is most beautiful, who is round, or who has a springy tail. The true meaning of Christmas is God’s gift to everyone; the birth of Jesus. When we accept His Gift, we will never be left behind.”

President Trump's recent stop in Japan resulted in trade deals and the gift of more Japanese Cherry trees. This reminded me of an article I posted up some years ago. Reprinted here today.

Folks often schedule visits to Washington, DC in the springtime to coincide with the blooming of the famous Cherry trees. Here is the history of the Washington Cherry Trees and their goodwill mission.

In January 1910, Japan sent 3000 Cherry trees to Washington as a goodwill gesture. Sadly, when the trees arrived, they were found to be diseased and infested with insects.

To protect American growers, President William H. Taft ordered the trees to be burned. Letters from the Secretary of State to the Japanese Ambassador expressed deep regret to all concerned. Goodwill was maintained, and in 1912, Japan again sent Washington, D.C., more than 3000 additional Cherry trees from 12 different varieties. Two thousand of the trees were planted on the White House grounds, and the remainder were planted around the city and along the Potomac River from the site of the Lincoln Memorial south toward Potomac Park. They grew and blossomed each spring and delighted thousands of Washington residents and visitors.

Shortly after the Pearl Harbor attack in December 1941, in protest, vandals cut down four cherry trees. Letters poured into the National Parks Commission, calling for “cutting all the Japanese trees down and replacing them with an American variety.” Throughout the rest of the war, in hopes of preventing future damage and ill will, the trees were no longer called Japanese Cherry trees, but referred to as those ‘oriental flowering Cherry trees.’

The National Cherry Blossom Festival, an annual springtime event since 1935, was suspended and did not return until 1947, when a Cherry Blossom princess and a queen were crowned. In 1957, a wealthy Japanese businesswoman donated a crown for the festival queen, containing more than two pounds of gold and 1,585 pearls. The queen wears the famous crown for just a few moments when she is crowned. It is then replaced with a miniature crown of gold with a pearl topping each point. The queen wears this crown for the remainder of the evening, and she keeps it as a memento of the event.

In 1965, the Japanese government generously donated another 3,800 trees to Lady Bird Johnson. Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Ryuji Takeuchi, wife of Japan’s ambassador, reenacted the original planting ceremony of 1912.

In 198, when the course of a river destroyed many of Japan's ancient Cherry trees, and on several occasions since, cuttings from our original 1912 cherry trees were returned to Japan.

Private funds were donated between 1986 and 1988 to replant another 676 trees to restore the number of Washington trees to the original 3000. Between 1997 and 2011, cuttings from the surviving 1912 cherry trees were propagated to ensure preservation of the 1912 trees’ genetic lineage and will be used in subsequent replacement plantings both in Washington and in Japan. Thus, the original 1912 gift have come full circle and will ensure a cycle of giving between Japan and the United States.

An edited scene from Black Cat and the Lethal Lawyer

Wilbur parked his Jeep about a quarter mile from the barn behind a pile of boulders. He stuffed a pair of black gloves and a lady’s stocking into his jacket pocket. He crept along the desert, moving from one clump of shrubs to the next until he heard music coming from the barn where the dance was already in full swing. The aroma of spicy barbecued chicken drifting through the air made his mouth water.

Wilbur swallowed and licked his lips. It had been a long time since lunch. His stomach growled. Waves of nausea spread through him, partly from hunger and partly from nervousness, thinking of what he was about to do.

The shrubs and garden structures concealed his movements as he circled the yard and approached Mrs. Milton’s house. Wilbur opened the screen door and tiptoed through the kitchen. He paused to listen. No sound except for the faint music drifting from the barn. He crept up the back stairs, knowing Mrs. Martin hadn’t attended the barn dance due to a sprained ankle.

The hallway was in semi-darkness except for a small scented candle burning on the hall table. Wilbur removed the stocking from his pocket and pulled it over his head. He tightened his fingers around a heavy metal flashlight as he approached Mrs. Martin’s room, where a thin stream of light shone beneath her bedroom door. The sweat felt sticky inside his gloves as he reached for the doorknob. He paused, hearing voices inside the bedroom. She was awake, and someone was in there with her.  

Wilbur hurried across the hall into the bathroom, left the door slightly ajar, and peered through the crack in the door, willing the person to leave so he could get on with his task.

He stood in the dark, thinking about what he must do. It was a shame he had to kill her. He actually liked the old woman, but now she was talking about leaving her fortune to one of her grandchildren and he had to act before she changed her will.

It seemed like hours until the housekeeper came out the door, carrying a dinner tray with the little marmalade cat winding around her feet.

“Alright, little one. Come with me to the kitchen and I’ll get you a treat,” he heard her say. The cat turned and looked back. Wilbur froze. Had she heard something? Would she come back and give away his hiding place? Wilbur closed his eyes. Within a few seconds, he heard the kitchen door click. He let out his breath with a gasp and realized he’d been holding it.

The hallway was quiet. Mrs. Lassiter’s light went out. He stood in the dark, counting to 1000, waiting for her to go to sleep, going over every detail; how he would kill her with the flashlight, then run down the back stairs to his Jeep, rush back to the motel, and pretend great shock and disbelief tomorrow when he heard of her most unfortunate demise.

When he felt enough time had elapsed, he gripped the flashlight, held his breath, slowly turned the doorknob, and pushed open Mrs. Lassiter’s bedroom door.

****

The big black and white cat lay snuggled close to her side, drifting between wakefulness and sleep, comfortable and warm, listening to the music drifting through the window. The sound of the doorknob turning brought him fully awake. His ears pricked forward. He jumped silently from the bed onto the floor and then eased to the top of the dresser by the door. He crouched, his gaze riveted on the doorknob as it gradually turned. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His muscles tensed.

He waited.

The door inched open.

The next moment, the door flung open and a dark figure rushed across the room to Mrs. Martin’s bed. The intruder swung the flashlight, striking the sleeping woman’s temple. Blood flowed from the wound, and she lay still as blood seeped into the pillow beneath her head. Thumper shrieked and leaped from the dresser onto the killer’s back, digging his claws into the man’s shoulders.

Wilbur screamed and dropped the flashlight. He jerked from side to side, trying to dislodge his attacker. Thumper’s fangs sank deep into the flesh of his neck. Wilbur grabbed the squirming cat around the throat, yanked him loose, and flung him across the room. He screamed again as the cat’s teeth left a gaping hole where his teeth had been embedded in the flesh. Blood poured from the bite, dripped down his back, and spattered across the bed. Thumper’s body whacked into the dresser, and he lay still on the floor. Wilbur rushed from the room and down the back stairs. His heart pounded as if it would explode through his chest.  The scratches around his ears stung, and the bite in the back of his neck throbbed. From time to time, he reached up and touched the wound in his neck, cursing the beast.

All his plans were in ruins. His alibi was in shambles. His blood and DNA were at the crime scene, thanks to the cat. It wouldn’t take the police long to connect the dots, and his alibi wouldn’t hold water. He had planned that by the time the body was found, he would be safely out of town.

Now the cat was literally out of the bag, and the house was in an uproar, and he was nowhere near his motel and an alibi.

Wilber clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, furious that a cat had foiled his plan. He hoped the damn thing broke its neck when it hit the dresser. He smiled at the thought and stumbled on through the darkness. He felt a sense of relief when the shadow of his jeep loomed in the distance.

Now he had to decide what to do. Should he go back to the motel and tough it out? No, they would be able to test the blood in the bedroom and prove he was the attacker. There wasn’t any choice. He had to leave the country.

He smiled at the sight of his 1945 Jeep. A smile flitted across his face and quickly disappeared when another stab of pain surged through the back of his neck.

He grabbed the steering wheel and flung himself through the open door into the driver’s seat. He turned the key and pressed the starter on the floor. There was a click as the solenoid tried to engage the starter motor, but it didn’t have enough power to turn over the engine. He pressed it again. There was a click and then silence as the battery went completely dead. Vintage cars were always temperamental.

Wilbur slammed the steering wheel with the butt of his hand. Now what? The Mexican border was only four miles away. And how would that work? They’d be watching for his car at the border. Oh, look there. Here comes the only 1945 restored Jeep in the state of Texas. Do you think it's Wilbur Breckinridge, the guy with no alibi, a chomp out of the back of his neck, and blood all over his clothes? Do you think?

Forget the border. Wilbur scooted down in the seat to sleep, stifling a yawn. He’d make a better plan in the morning.

He awoke with a start. For a moment, he wondered what he was doing, sitting in his jeep in the middle of the desert. He shuddered at the memory of Mrs. Martin’s blood-soaked head. My God, I did it. I killed her. 

Pain pulsed through the back of his neck. He touched the cat bite, and his hand came away with tinges of blood on his fingers. He wiped his hand on his pants and cursed.

Wilbur’s heart leaped with the thought that maybe the Jeep would start this morning. He turned the key, hit the starter, and crossed his fingers. Click. Click. Nothing.

He stepped out of the Jeep and pulled his rifle from its vintage scabbard by the front fender. He slammed the bolt back and then forward, chambering a round, and set the safety. With the sharp metallic clank, all the desert sounds went silent. Wilbur ran his hand lovingly over the front fender, bidding his beloved vehicle farewell forever, and started walking toward the canyon and the destiny that awaited him.

***

You can purchase the novel, Black Cat and the Lethal Lawyer at Amazon (e-book for $3.99) at..   http://tinyurl.com/q3qrgyu

A fantasy story based on facts about 911 and a Halloween full moon.

Even six weeks after the World Trade Center attack on September 11, 2001, the nation continued to mourn the loss of over 3000 innocent victims when two airplanes crashed into the towers.

Several days ago, the editor of the Sacramento Daily Sun burst into my office. “Clive,” he said. “Pack your bags. You’re going to Salem, Massachusetts, to cover their Halloween celebration. Let’s give the subscribers something to think about besides the 9/11 tragedy.”

He had me at, ‘pack your bags!’ With yet another gut-wrenching editorial on my computer about the 341 firemen lost in the Towers, I was up for anything to get away from the twenty-four-seven news cycle.

October 31 is big news in Salem. Every year, 250,000 visitors swarm the city to experience haunted houses, costume balls, live music, dances, and holiday parades. This year, due to a full moon scheduled on October 31, the first full moon on that date since 1974, Salem planned even more spectacular events. Apparently, the occurrence of a Halloween full moon happens only four or five times each century! The next one isn’t expected for another twenty years, October 31, 2020!

Entering Salem, I was impressed by the witches and goblins, pumpkins and ghouls decorating houses and businesses, much like we decorate for Christmas back home. Witches are big in Salem all year long, due to the history of the Salem witch trials, but this year, even more so, what with the full moon phenomenon. Apparently, Salem’s city fathers thought the citizenry had grieved the 911 tragedy long enough and should get their minds back onto business as usual. Let the nation grieve if it must. Salem would strike while the moon was full!

Cornstalks lined the streets. Jack-o-lanterns hung from each lamp post. Shopkeepers dressed as witches and warlocks, ghosts and vampires. Every shop window displayed witches and cauldrons, spirits and ghouls. Tourists clamored through the town atop horse-drawn hay wagons and carts.

I ate lunch at a little diner and delighted in the attentions of a charming waitress with long black hair, sparkling gold eyes, and fluttering lashes. With a glance, Jenny churned up feelings I hardly remembered, being a widower well past middle-age, and an almost regular church goer.

Imagine my surprise when she handed me a napkin with a message inside. Meet me outside tonight. 11:25 P.M. Come alone. I must see you.

I left my lunch half-eaten and stumbled outside to ponder the situation. With her charms, she had the pick of any young man; what could she possibly want with me? I interviewed shopkeepers and snapped photos of the holiday events that day and well into the evening. Even knowing it was a fool’s errand, at 11:15 P.M, I was drawn back to the diner like a moth to a flame.

****

At 11:20 P.M. Jenny wiped down the last table, flipped over the CLOSED sign and locked the café door. She had nearly given up hope of the middle-aged man with silver-white hair and mustache arriving at the last possible moment to change her destiny?

Jenny wrapped her cape around her shoulders and stepped out the front door. There Clive stood, a puzzled expression on his face. She was blessed with a sixth sense, knowing when the phone would ring or a visitor was at her door. An oppressive spirit had even settled on her the morning of September 11, feeling something evil on the horizon. She had powers over men, but on this night of night, with the full moon overhead on this auspicious date, her fate lay in the hands of a stranger. Without his cooperation, she could not escape the family curse.

“Hello. Thanks so much for coming.” Jenny placed her hand on Clive’s arm, in an effort to bend his will to her own needs. “You’re the only one who can help me.”

“I’m happy to oblige. But why ask a stranger? Don’t you have family or friends who could help you?”

Jenny lowered her head, brushing her lashes against her pale face. Her lips trembled as a tear trickled down her cheek. A curl of white hair tumbled onto her forehead, seemingly out of place among her mass of black curls.

“Here, here, now. None of that.” Clive brushed Jenny’s hair back into place. “I’ll help you if I can, my dear. Don’t cry.” He tipped up her chin and dried her tears with his handkerchief. “Now, give me a smile and tell me all about it.”

“I fear you’ll think me crazy, sir, but I swear I speak the truth.” Jenny sat on a bench and began an inexplicable tale.

“I am a descendent of the judge who unjustly hanged Sarah Good as a witch in 1692, right here in Salem. Since Sarah Good’s death, the judge’s descendants have suffered a terrible curse. Upon the rare occasion, only about four or five times each century, when the full moon is overhead on All-Hollow’s Eve, any of the judge's female descendants between the age of 18 and 21 is in grave danger.

“As the full moon is upon us this night for the first time in 27 years, and to avoid the curse, I must find a middle-aged man with long silver-white hair, who resembles the judge who sentenced my poor ancestor, Sarah, to death. Before midnight, a drop of this man’s blood must be placed on a particular stone that stands at the edge of town.” Jenny’s dark lashes fluttered.

“Would you shed a drop of your blood on Sarah’s commemorative stone to save me from the curse?”

“What kind of curse, my dear?” Clive raised perplexed eyebrows.

“It is so terrible, I dare not speak it aloud.” Whispering these words, Jenny clung to Clive’s shoulder and wept piteously. Would it be enough to convince him to go with her to the stone? And, once there, could she muster the courage to do what she must do to stave off the curse?

****

Clive was speechless. Never had he encountered such a stunning creature that so captivated his heart within minutes of meeting. Never has such a ridiculous tale so captured his imagination. He was inclined to leap from the bench, take her by the hand, and race to the stone in question. Only with great difficulty did he pummel his rash impulses into submission and sit back on the bench, staring into the starry sky.

The full moon hung blood-red over the city, casting an orange glow across the sidewalks, still churning with costumed tourists, jostling and laughing, their joyous songs of nonsense carried into the black sky on the night wind.

The young woman stirred in his arms, her sobs finally ceased. She dashed tears from her cheeks and looked up at him. “You will help me, won’t you? I’m so desperate. We only need a teeny-weeny drop of blood, really. I’d be ever so grateful.”

If she truly believed her outrageous tale, considering the unusual request, even a gentleman couldn’t help wondering, how grateful? On the other hand, just exactly how much was a teeny-weeny drop of blood and just how crazy was this charming girl? Clive shivered.  A thin cloud crept across the center of the moon, seeming to cut it in half.

Clive glanced at his watch. 11:40 P.M. “Well, let’s get on with it. Can we walk to the stone?” He would humor her and see where all this would lead. His hand rested around a small penknife in his pocket. If a tiny drop of blood is all it takes to satisfy her fantasy and win her gratitude, I can do that.

The wind whistled overhead as the cemetery loomed into view. Groups of tourists ambled amongst the gravestones. Raucous laughter burst from the direction of Bridget Bishop and Martha Corey’s graves, also victims of the 1692 Salem witch trials. From the sound of merriment coming from the shadows, one would think it was an amusement park rather than a cemetery.

Jenny squealed as a man dressed as a vampire loomed from the bushes. Clive put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. She was really a dear little thing, and his heart stirred. He wanted so to calm her fears. Perhaps he’d bring her coffee in bed tomorrow morning…

Sarah Good’s commemorative stone gleamed in the moonlight.

Jenny ran her fingers over the grooves in the stone forming the letters– Sarah Good 1653 – 1692 “Poor thing. I’m so sorry, Sarah. Please forgive my ancestor.” Jenny glanced at her watch. “Are you ready?” She drew a huge serrated bread knife from her purse. “We don’t have much time. I only have two more minutes. Clive?” Jenny’s beautiful smile, only moments ago holding so much promise, faded, replaced by a fiendish leer. Only his blood splashed across the accursed stone would make her smile now.

At the sight of Jenny’s wild eyes gleaming gold in the moonlight, Clive stepped back. The thrill of the lovely lady and moonlight adventure faded and common sense prevailed. Jenny would not settle for a pricked finger and a drop of blood. With the knife in her hand, she crept closer and closer with murder in her eyes.

“Hold on, there, young lady.” Clive backed away, glancing left and right. Where had all the costumed tourists gone? The witches and ghosts and had disappeared at the first sight of Jenny’s knife.

In the distance, Clive heard the town clock begin to strike. Twelve o’clock…the witching hour. Bong…bong…bong. The hour that a real witch, if there was such a thing, might easily murder a stranger to thwart her twisted notion of an imaginary family curse.

Bong… bong… bong. Clive’s dull evenings suddenly held more appeal. He wished he was back in New York, playing solitaire, and had never heard of Salem. Bong… bong… bong.

Bong… bong… Jenny shrieked and rushed at him, the knife raised...

Paralyzed with fear, Clive put up his hands, closed his eyes and held his breath, waiting for the death blow. Bong! Midnight!

Seconds ticked by. Clive opened his eyes, ran his hands up and down his chest. “I’m still alive?”

Jenny’s cape and the bread knife lay on the ground. She had waited seconds too long past the stroke of midnight but… Where was Jenny?

Sarah Good’s gravestone gleamed in the moonlight where a small black cat huddled on the stone, her tail whipping around her black toes. A white blaze crept over her nose, across one golden eye, ending beside her ear. She stared up at Clive, terror in those golden eyes, enough to soften the hardest heart.

“Jenny?” Clive whispered, stepping closer to the stone. He’d never believed tales about witches turning into black cats, but... He stroked the little cat and peered into her eyes. He gasped. Jenny’s golden eyes stared back. The curse!  “Only my blood could have protected her from the curse. She needed me... She still needs me.”

He would write his 2000-word newspaper story about Salem, about the haunted houses and the costume ball and the decorations and the Halloween parades. The story would be colorful and for a few minutes the Sacramento Daily Sun readers could forget the tragedy that took almost 3000 lives on September 11.

He would write about tonight being the first full moon on October 31 for the last twenty-seven years, but he would not write about a 300-year-old curse that turned a Salem witch into a little black cat. Who would believe it?

Clive cradled Jenny in his arms. “Don’t worry, Jenny. You don’t have to worry ever again. I promised to help you, and I won’t abandon you now."

.....

If you enjoyed this story, check out my 13 mystery novels at Amazon. Black cats are my favorite!!

‘Found cat’ advertisements were posted, and a lady responded, claiming Angel was her lost cat, Miss Boopkins. She is coming to claim her, and Black Cat is distraught that he will lose his ladylove and their babies. (Written by Black Cat.)

All too soon, the crunch of tires in the driveway announced the arrival of Angel’s lady. Daddy met her in the yard.

Mrs. Stubblefield had a gray bun on top of her head and wore a pink T-shirt with Miss Boop-kins scrawled across the front. She was carrying a pink cat carrier with lace around the door and a big red bow tied on top. “Miss Boopkins” was emblazoned on the side. Cynthia pulled Angel and all the babies into her lap.

I sat beside her and growled, fighting the urge to fight for my family until the breath left my body… but I knew I couldn’t. I had to put up a front for Angel and Cynthia’s sake. A bloody cat-fight to the death wouldn’t make Angel’s leaving any easier on either of them.

The door squeaked open. I froze, facing the moment I had so long dreaded. Daddy came in, followed by Mrs. Stubblefield. She set down the huge cat carrier, her face wreathed in smiles. She leaned over the blanket in Cynthia’s lap. Angel looked up, and their eyes met, and Mrs. Stubblefield burst into tears.

Tears of joy, I guess. It was too much. I had tried so hard to be brave, but I couldn’t hold it together. I’m not proud of myself, but I ran straight out the door and over to the woodpile. Waves of suicidal thoughts one minute and homicidal thoughts the next, raged within my breast, and I didn’t know who I should kill first; myself or Mrs. Stubblefield.

I heard Cynthia shriek and looked up. I guess she was throwing a fit after all, despite her promise to be good and let Angel go back to her home.

She was on the porch, calling. “Black Cat. Here, kitty, kitty. Come back. I have something to tell you.”

Yeah, right. As if I needed a lecture on civility while Mrs. Stubblefield popped Angel into the ridiculous whore wagon she called a cat carrier. I started to run away through the vineyard. I stopped.

I owe Angel a decent goodbye.

A broken, defeated soul, I slunk so low across the yard, the pine needles stuck to my belly fur dropped to the floor as I crossed the porch.

Inside, Mrs. Stubblefield sat on the rug with Cynthia, cooing over the yet-to-be-named cream colored kitten. Daddy sat on the couch, all smiles.

What’s going on here? How dare he smile? Cynthia looked up, “Oh, there you are, Black Cat. Come and meet Mrs. Stubblefield. Angel isn’t her cat after all, but she wants to take the little cream kitten home with her. Isn’t that wonderful?”

At that moment, a beam of sunshine from the window cast its light across Angel and Mrs. Stubblefield’s faces. If I didn’t know better, I swear I heard a chorus of angels.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

Mrs. Stubblefield stroked the cream baby across her cheek. “I think I’ll call you…Miss Bubblekins…Yes, that’s what I’ll call you.”

I shuddered. That my daughter should go through life named Miss Bubblekins! But the kitten wound her toes in and out and mouthed an appreciative silent mew. I guess any lady who would wear a T-shirt with her cat’s name spread across her boobs can’t be all bad. Miss Bubblekins… would be going to a good home with a satisfactorily besotted owner, which, after all, is the goal of any mother and father cat.

Conversation was underway. Was the baby old enough to leave her mother, or did she need to stay several more weeks? There were two schools of thought. On the one hand, Miss Bubblekins had only started to drink milk from a bowl the day before. On the other hand, there was no doubt Mrs. Stubblefield would move heaven and earth to see that Miss Bubblekins got enough to eat, even if it meant getting up every two hours throughout the night to feed her with a baby bottle. Because of the distance Mrs. Stubblefield had driven, Daddy relented and agreed she could take the kitten home with her. We all kissed the baby goodbye and wished her good luck.

That afternoon, Angel and I snuggled on the blanket with the remaining two kittens, Rambo and Mittens.

“I know she’s going to a good home,” Angel said, “but I’m sad to see her go so young. I thought I’d have more time to get her on the right track.”

“Yes, but that’s the way things ought to be. You give them life, teach them right from wrong, set them toward a good home, kiss them good-bye, and wish them luck. That’s what a mother cat does. You don’t have any regrets, do you?”

Angel sighed. “I guess not. Though I do regret that she was named Miss Bubblekins.” Her mouth twitched.

I rolled over and showed off my magnificent white tummy, put my feet in the air, and laughed. “And I do regret calling her cat carrier a whore wagon.”

Angel glared at me. “You didn’t!”

“I did, but I have to admit, when they put her into that pink monstrosity with the lace around the door and the red ribbon, she did look kind of cute, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but she looked awfully little in there.”

“I’m betting she was in Mrs. Stubblefield’s lap before they hit Nevada City.”

“Yes, I’ll bet you’re right.” Then Angel put her paws around the other two kittens and dragged them a little closer to her heart. If you looked really hard, I think she had a little tear in her eye. Or could it be that I was looking through my own tears? It’s hard to say.

****

Amazon:  Black Cat and the Accidental Angel:   http://tinyurl.com/y4eohe5n