Dr. Horatio vs. the Six-Toed Cat (5 page)

Pressing the drum to her side, he glanced at his watch and counted. Two forty, which wasn't bad considering she was still in labor. Respiratory rate of thirty. On the high side, but perfectly normal under the circumstances. With gentle fingers he probed her abdomen, counting five unborn fetuses before Rosie protested.

He pulled the stethoscope from his ears and looked up at Pauline. “She looks fine. Healthy and strong. What made you think she was having problems?”

“Not her. Them.” Pauline's hands clutched at her arms, her fingers pressing into the skin. She dipped her head toward the kittens. “Look at them.”

He looked. Three perfectly normal-looking newborn kittens. Ugly and alien-like, of course, as they all were until their fur had a chance to fluff up a bit. But nothing—

Then he remembered.

He picked up a kitten and cupped it in the palm of his hand. Rosie stood to stretch her neck and keep an eye on her baby, which sent the other two tumbling.

“It's okay, Momma. I'm not going to hurt your little one.”

With a gentle finger he extended a tiny paw and peered closely. Yep. As he suspected. Six toes.

A quick examination of the other two revealed one with only five toes, a completely white kitten that looked like a typical Siamese newborn. The two polydactyl kitties had orangish-yellow fur and hints of the telltale black lines of a common tabby.

“What's wrong with them, Doc?” Tears choked Pauline's voice. “Rosie's never had deformed kittens before.”

“There's nothing wrong with them.” Doc stood and looked down at the occupants of the cat bed. “They're polydactyl, which simply means they have six toes. They'll probably be perfectly healthy, normal cats.”

“Normal?” Disbelief colored her features. “Look at them. They're not normal. They're not even Siamese.”

“One is,” he pointed out. “My guess is multiple males fathered this litter.”

“Impossible.” She shook her head. “I supervised the breeding myself. I always do. And the male's bloodlines are clean. He's fathered all of our litters and we've never seen a hint of…” She swallowed. “This.”

“Does Rosie ever go outside?”

“Never. She's a pampered indoor cat. The only time she leaves this house is when we bring her to your clinic, and then she's in a crate. She's never even set a paw in the grass.”

The scuff of a slipper against linoleum alerted them to a hesitant approach. “Mommy?”

They turned to find one of the girls, dark hair tousled and eyes wide, standing in the doorway.

“Lindy, I told you to go to bed. Don't make me give you a consequence.”

“But Mommy, Rosie did go outside.”

Pauline's arms unfolded and fell limply to her sides. “What? When?”

Tears flooded the little girl's eyes. “A while ago. It was right after the fourth of July, and you were at work and Daddy was asleep and
I went to play with Melissa and I must not have closed the door all the way.” Her confession flowed as freely as the rivers of tears that cascaded down her cheeks.

Pauline crossed the floor and put her arms around her daughter. “It's okay, honey. I'm not angry. Just tell me what happened.”

“When I came home and saw the screen door open and Rosie gone, I looked all over. I called and called but she never came.” The child's chest heaved. “I thought she ran away and we'd never see her again. But then she came home.” She buried her face in her mother's side. “I didn't tell you because I didn't want a consequence.”

While Pauline comforted her child, Doc folded his stethoscope and returned it to his medical bag. One mystery solved. But the bigger question still remained unanswered. Where had this prolific polydactyl cat come from? Even more importantly, how was Doc going to find him? If he didn't put a stop to this cat's romantic escapades, the residents of Goose Creek would soon be up to their eyeballs in six-toed kittens.

Chapter Three

B
efore Millie opened her eyes in the morning, she felt Albert's glare. As expected, they'd both spent a restless night. Her mind refused to release the gazillion worries that Alison's startling announcement produced. Sleep had finally won out sometime after four o'clock.

Albert, on the other hand, had carried his worries into his dreams. All night long he'd tossed and jerked and mumbled, to the point she almost wished she had forced him to take a dose of nighttime cold medicine before bed. Then at least he might have rested. Now both of them would be groggy-eyed today.

She opened her eyes and, sure enough, found herself the object of her husband's intense stare.

“What if he's a drug dealer?” Albert asked without preamble.

Of all the thoughts that had plagued her throughout the night, that was a new one.

“Don't be silly.” She rolled over onto her side to face him, her head sinking into the fluffy pillow. “He's in the army.”

“Yes, but
which
army?” Suspicion colored his tone. “Colombia is full of drug cartels and terrorists. They send people to the United States to infiltrate and learn all our secrets. And what was this boy doing in Florida, anyway?”

“Vacationing? Just like Alison?”

“Or setting up drug deals. Do you know what comes out of Colombia, Millie?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Cocaine. His bosses
probably sent him up here to scout out new customers. In fact, those cousins and uncles Alison mentioned? They're probably all involved.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” She rolled away from him and got out of bed. “If you're concerned, ask Alison. I'm sure she'll tell you all anything you want to know. She certainly loves talking about Nicholas.”

“I think you should ask her.”

She belted her housecoat around her waist. “Why me?”

“Because every time I opened my mouth all evening she got defensive.” He plucked at the blanket, expression downcast. “She used to ask my opinion about everything. But since she returned from college she's someone I don't know.”

“Our little girl's growing up,” she said softly. “It happens.”

“I know. I just thought it would be…different.” He looked so forlorn her heart hurt for him. “That's why you should talk to her. If she really goes through with this ridiculous plan, I don't want her last memory of me before she leaves to be negative.”

Millie knew exactly what he meant. The Alison of last night, full of chatter and excitement about her young man and their plans, wasn't the same young woman they'd packed off to Purdue. She wasn't even the same person who'd left with her friends a week after graduation to go to Florida. This Alison felt like a stranger. A determined, stubborn stranger that Millie didn't want to make cross. Maybe it was a desire to hold on to her baby, or maybe it was Millie's deep need to avoid conflict in the family, but she found herself wanting to sidestep any conversation that may potentially destroy the fragile peace they had finally achieved at the end of supper. A peace that had come only when she and Albert stopped asking questions and kept their mouths shut.

And yet, an uncomfortable question had circled in her restless thoughts all night to return over and over to the forefront. She rounded the bed and perched on the edge of the mattress beside Albert.

“But isn't it our job as parents to stop our children from making mistakes that could destroy their lives?”

“Is it?” He scooted closer to her side and picked up her hand to entwine his fingers with hers. “Or is our job to train them to make their own decisions and live with the results?”

She leaned her head sideways to rest on his shoulder. “Sometimes this parenting stuff is for the birds.”

A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “If only it was that easy. Feed 'em a few worms, shove them out of the nest, and watch them fly away.”

They sat for a long moment, drawing strength from one another. Of all the things in the world Millie was thankful for, this man was at the top of her list. He could be a grouch at times, and when it came to money he was tighter than bark on a tree. But he was steady, and constant, and he loved her in a way that made her feel like the most special woman on earth.

Maybe Nicholas would turn out to be Alison's Albert.

“I don't think we should say anything else until we meet him.” She lifted her head and peered sideways at him. “Who knows? He might be a very nice young man.”

His scowl deepened. “Or he might be a terrorist.”

“Oh, come on.” She shoved his shoulder with hers. “Do you really think Alison would fall for someone like that? She's never brought home a boy we didn't like. We've no reason to think he'll be the first.”

Albert looked skeptical. “We have several reasons. He's from Colombia, cocaine capital of the world. He is taking our daughter to a place where Americans aren't safe. I can't stand him already.” His shoulders sagged. “But you're right. We should wait until he gets here and then we'll have a better idea of what we're up against.”

She rubbed his arm with her free hand. “It's only a week.”

“And then we'll have two weeks after that,” he said glumly.

At his words, an uneasy tickle erupted in her stomach. Two weeks to either plan a wedding or talk their headstrong daughter out of the biggest mistake of her life.

Doc sauntered down the sidewalk and nodded a distracted greeting to Mrs. Emerson on the opposite side of the railroad tracks that ran down the middle of Main Street. Goose Creek had been built in the mid-1800s, one of the many towns that had sprouted along the rail lines around that time. Trains still ran through town a couple of times a week, though nowadays they were operated by regional and shortline railroads, the transcontinental ones apparently not interested in an out-of-the-way place like Goose Creek, Kentucky.

The sounds of industry echoed down the street, hammers pounding and Jacob Pulliam's voice calling out for someone to bring him a saw. At the south end of the street, a platform was being erected in front of the water tower where, in just under a week, a series of bands would perform during the town's fall festival. Everywhere he looked Mother's hand was evident. Flowerpots overflowed with orange and yellow blossoms. Orange paint lines on the asphalt marked the boundaries of the tents and booths that would line each side of the road. The windows in the buildings he passed sparkled in the morning sunlight, and a few of the crumbling facades even bore signs of fresh paint. Though nothing short of a complete renovation could spruce up some of these structures. Vintage, Lizzie liked to call them. A woman's term for old.

Speaking of renovations. He arrived at the entrance of Cardwell Drugstore. Originally a boardinghouse, this building had housed a series of failed businesses in recent decades until Leonard and Lucy Cardwell bought it and poured their savings into fixing it up. And a fine job they'd done, too. Leonard, a druggist, ran the pharmacy counter in the back, and Lucy presided over a real, old-fashioned soda fountain up front. The residents of Goose Creek rewarded their efforts, and the place soon became a favorite hangout. Everyone in town agreed that the burgers and ice cream sodas at Cardwell's were the best in the state.

Most mornings found at least a half dozen of the town's retired men—Creekers, they called themselves—with their elbows propped
on the counter, slurping down coffee and munching whatever delectable treat Lucy had in the pastry case that day.

He pushed open the door, his entry proclaimed by a door hanger with sleigh bells. The handful of Creekers seated at the counter glanced his way.

“Howdy, Doc.” Norman Pilkington, a sixty-something Creeker whose face was nearly as rumpled as the shirt beneath his overalls, thumped the empty stool beside him. “Set yerself down right'cheer. Got somewhat to ask ye 'bout.”

Lucy placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of Doc, and he smiled his thanks as he slid into place. A moment later she set a plate with a huge iced cinnamon roll beside the mug.

He groaned. “I've already had a healthy breakfast of oatmeal and wheat toast. You're killing me, you know that?”

“Death by cinnamon roll.” She presented him with a fork. “You know you can't resist, Doc.”