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tonight,” I say. “I know it means a lot to Eugene and all those church folks to have someone like you on the job.”
    Luther’s blush deepens.
    “I’ll be glad to call and see if Carson can come down,” I quickly add. “As a consultant, of course. I know you and the chief could handle this fine if it weren’t for the other things going on.”
    Luther casts a glance at Eugene, who is leaning against his cruiser and texting, and replies in a near whisper, “If the ladies down at the church weren’t going cuckoo, you mean. Something bad happens down there, the chief will be out on his hinny as quick as the church board can get to the mayor.”
    Indeed, Luther has summed the situation up in his usual succinct style. The two most important institutions in town are the bank and the church, both of which have spotless reputations. The slightest hint of scandal and not only would the Rev. Hayslinger be ousted from the parsonage, but the whole choir could find itself singing in someone else’s sanctuary. I managed not to get dragged into the disagreement over the new hymnals last year, but I’ve heard the council president tossed the offending suggested songbook with its bright yellow cover toward the council secretary with a suggestion as to where he could put that “mustard-colored piece of doodoo.”
    In Fortuna, those are fighting words. I suspect poor Dwaine had quite a time that evening, too.
    I pat Luther’s shoulder in a sympathetic gesture and wave goodbye to Eugene, who looks up from his phone long enough to give me a nod. I’ve only gone a few steps when Luther says, “Hold up. You forgot the cat.”
    In deference to Eugene’s youth, I swallow the words I’d so love to let loose. Dang it, I had offered to take care of Miss Priss, which makes me wonder about my own sanity.
    Eugene and I watch as Luther walks into the dry goods store and the lights go on. We exchange glances as a dark shadow bobs and weaves until finally, Luther walks back to us carrying a loudly yowling basket.
    “Here.” He shoves the basket at me, suggesting that I keep one hand on the lid as I drive home. The snarling that replaces the yowls makes me wonder if it’s illegal to transport a domestic cat in the trunk of a twelve-year-old sedan. Or deposit a yowling feline in the night drop of city hall, which is conveniently connected to the police department and good old Dwaine.
    * * * *
    “Eat.” I drop down on all fours and stare a glaring Miss Priss in her rheumy eyes. I’ve sacrificed a can of tuna, the last bit of milk in the house, and now a can of chicken noodle soup in an attempt to get her to accept something as supper.
    The care and feeding of cats is something I have absolutely no experience in. “Pets” in our house during my growing up years were loosely defined as the tropical fish in a tank in Dad’s den and the pair of lovebirds my mother kept for a friend for about six months. My attempts to get a kitten or puppy always resulted in a parental reminder that I couldn’t even grow a Chia pet, so maybe I ought to consider donating to the ASPCA instead.
    Precious wasn’t too hard to care for since Bobby, my ghost in residence last year, knew all about what she did and didn’t like. After all, Precious had been his mother’s dog for years before he became ectoplasm, and I figure he hung around his mom’s place before they both came to stay with me.
    Alas, translators who speak both English and feline are in short supply in Fortuna. My understanding was that cats are low-maintenance. Give ‘em a litter box, toss some kitty chow in a bowl, and the job was done. I’d stopped at the farm and feed store and bought both litter and chow, neither of which suited the finicky feline. Hence, the succession of items from the cupboard, which were way far from doing the trick.
    “Fine then, starve to death.” I stand on two legs, like the superior being I am, and vow to ignore Miss Priss until Miz Waddy comes back or hell