Kidnapped and Catnipped
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Chapter One
Sherlock lay in a sphinx pose in front of the only window in our small studio apartment, gazing down at the street three stories below. Though all cats are curious, my brown tabby was exceptionally so. He spent most of his time at the glass—between naps, of course—carefully watching the comings and goings of our neighbors and the many tourists who strolled by to admire the houses. Even though Savannah’s historic Victorian District tended to be calm and peaceful, he took his duties quite seriously.
While Sherlock performed his surveillance, I sat at the small wooden table in our tiny converted attic space, cramming for an upcoming exam. I’m a Preservation Design major at Savannah College of Art and Design, SCAD for short. I love old houses, especially the Victorians like the one my cat and I currently lived in. It was probably a pipe dream, but I hoped to live in a sprawling Victorian of my own someday. But even if I’d never own one myself, I’d be spending lots of time in such houses once I graduated. My studies in Preservation Design would enable me to restore old buildings to their former glory. Ironically, the class I was studying for today was called “Modern Architecture Before 1900.” Could anything built before 1900 really be called modern? I supposed it could have been so-called at the time.
At 1:45, the alarm on my cell phone went off, reminding me it was time to head next door. I closed my book, gathered up my purse, and clipped Sherlock’s lightweight leash onto his harness. I’d harness trained him as a kitten, so he could be trusted to behave himself outdoors and not try to run off. He looked up at me, his head cocked in question.
I informed him of our plans. “We’re going to see Silly.”
Hearing the name of his favorite furry friend was all it took for him to drag me to the door. With the force nearly pulling my shoulder from the socket, you’d think he was an eighty-pound mastiff, not an eight-pound kitty-cat. He pawed eagerly at the edge of the door and looked up at me, chirping, his whiskers twisting with impatience.
A grin claimed my lips. “I’m going as fast as I can, boy.”
I opened the door, we stepped out into the hall, and I turned to lock the door behind us. With Sherlock trotting ahead of me, I made my way down the narrow staircase that led from our attic space to the second floor of the house. This floor had been converted into two one-bedroom apartments, both leased by women in their fifties. From the second-floor landing, Sherlock led me down the wide, curving staircase to the foyer on the first floor. The first-floor unit was much larger, a two-bedroom model that served as home for a professional couple in their mid-thirties who worked long hours and were rarely home to enjoy their beautiful space.
Sherlock and I exited onto the porch. It was a sunny late-spring day, the trees and flowers in fresh bloom. We flounced down the steps and circled through the opening in the white picket fence. While our home was painted a cheery robin’s egg blue with white trim, the house next door was decidedly more feminine. Ballet-slipper pink paint coated the exterior, with the railings and shutters painted a darker dusty rose, the perfect color scheme for its current inhabitant.
Sherlock and I walked past the white SUV in the driveway. A decal adhered to each side read HOUSE CALLS HOME HEALTH SERVICE in red lettering. The vehicle was here every weekday afternoon around this same time, so I paid it little mind. An older model silver minivan sat in front of the house, too. The van had seen better days. One of the hubcaps was missing, and a rounded dent in the back bumper evidenced the driver having backed into something, probably a pole. The van had rolled off the assembly line long before backup cameras came standard. My neighbor’s lean, lanky housekeeper stood next to the open sliding side door of the van. She wore sneakers, a pair of stretchy black yoga pants, and an oversized T-shirt, clothing that would allow her the freedom of movement she’d need to perform her duties. Her brown hair was pulled up into a high ponytail to keep it out of the way while she cleaned. She wrangled her fancy Dyson vacuum of the van. Though many of her clients probably owned a less expensive plug-in style vacuum, the lightweight cordless model she’d brought with her was likely easier and quicker for her to use. Plus, it came with an assortment of useful attachments and brushes for crevices, curtains, and whatnot, which she carried in a tall, freestanding bag. I could use a nice vac like that to suck up Sherlock’s furry dust bunnies, but I’d have to make do with a broom for now. My starving student’s budget didn’t allow for any luxuries.
Sherlock trotted up the front steps to the porch, his tail swishing in anticipation. I followed him up to the porch. Like many Victorians, this house featured scalloped shingles and decorative gingerbread trim, as well as elegant double doors. A transom filled with a decorated stained-glass panel of pink roses added yet more color and interest over the wide doorframe. The housekeeper came up the steps behind me as I raised a hand and rapped. Knock-knock. “It’s me!” I called.
Eleanor’s voice came from inside. “Come on in, Austen!”
You can probably guess which famous writer I’m named after. My mother is a librarian and rare book dealer who adores the classics, especially those penned by witty and perceptive female writers. Like me, she was fond of things from yesteryear.
I opened the door and held it to allow the housekeeper to carry her vacuum and cleaning supplies inside. Once she’d cleared the threshold, Sherlock and I stepped inside the expansive foyer. A marble floor graced the entry, recently refinished courtesy of yours truly, and a wide staircase curved up from the first floor to the second. Eleanor sprawled on her velvet-covered fainting couch in the parlor to my right, her cane resting across her ribcage. My neighbor had walked the earth for ninety-four years and, though she’d slowed down some, seemed determined to stride the globe for at least another decade. She wore an oversized Gladys Knight concert T-shirt over lightweight denim pants with an elastic waistband, easy-on easy-off clothing she could manage with her arthritis, but a nod to the fun girl she’d once been—and still was. Her pewter hair hung to her shoulders in a sassy shag. She smiled as Sherlock and I walked into the room.
Eleanor’s nurse, Bonnie, stood at the open antique rolltop desk, digging around in her black medical bag. Eleanor had suffered a minor stroke three months earlier, and her son had hired a nurse to come by the house to check on his mother Monday through Friday. On the weekends, he came to the house himself to make sure his mother was feeling all right. Finding both the house and its owner to be charming, I spent a lot of time at Eleanor’s and had met Bonnie before. She was a seasoned R.N. Her blue scrubs hung loosely over her round body. Her bleached, bobbed hair curved around her face just like the deep laugh lines curved around her mouth. She looked up and nodded in greeting.
I returned Eleanor’s smile and Bonnie’s nod, and bent down to unclip Sherlock from his leash. The instant he was freed, Eleanor cupped a gnarled hand around her thin lips. “Silly!” she called in a singsong voice. “Your boyfriend is here!”
A stampede sounded on the stairs and Silly—formally Princess Priscilla the Chinchilla Persian—came running down from the upper floor. She careened around the banister, momentum carrying her in a sideways slide across the smooth, freshly polished floor of the foyer. She scrambled for a few seconds, trying to gain purchase. The cat was as beautiful as she was spirited. Hints of silver underlay her snowy white fur, and her gray-blue eyes appeared to be outlined with thick black eyeliner. Despite her purebred pedigree, she behaved with little civility or decorum. She was as wild as an alley cat, especially if she’d gotten into Eleanor’s stash of catnip. After finally gaining traction, Silly rushed Sherlock and tackled him to the rug which, like her, was Persian. Though both cats were around five years in age, they behaved like kittens around each other, enjoying rough-and-tumble play.