Gift Horse

Chapter 3

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His name was Jupiter and he was sitting on my face. Hard to tell what time it was since I was immersed in inky darkness. The more pressing concern, however, involved the difficulty of breathing with a 16-pound cat blocking my air intake in order to make a point. It took me a minute to orientate myself. Okay, I was in my temporary quarters in my parents’ basement sleeping off the delightful experience of the previous day: exploring Wildwood Stables. The remnants of my headache lingered along with tingling cold in my extremities. In all the excitement—if finding a decomposing body is considered exciting—I think I had forgotten to feed Jupiter, an intolerable transgression.

Dad and I had hung around Wildwood until the remains of the unknown dead person were removed (a job that ranks below everything, including waitressing and p**********n) and the potential crime scene was processed. Since the “victim”—who upon initial examination was identified as female— had been not of this world for a very long time, likely months, collecting physical evidence had challenges. While clearly decomposing as evidenced by the stench, the “remains” had been somewhat preserved during its feed bin slumber due to the well-below-freezing temps of the U.P. winter months.

And, to their credit, the crime scene investigators did due diligence with photos, lifting fingerprints (likely Dad’s and mine), inspecting tire tracks, recording footprints in the mud, searching all the buildings, the mobile home, decrepit truck and horse trailer, weeds, corrals, and moldy hay bales. They took into custody a large number of empty beer cans (assorted), used condoms, hypodermic needles, and miscellaneous trash. Actually, this was good and saved me the trouble later on when we started the massive cleanup of the place.

Sheriff Olsen had sighed dramatically when I told him about the squatter’s campsite but agreed to ask the staties to include it in their investigation. The consensus was that it was likely unrelated to the body in the feed bin, but no stone would go unturned. Unfortunately, the resident of the campsite did not return during the police canvassing of the area, so one of them put his card in a plastic storage bag and attached it to the tent zipper with a note to call or come to headquarters. Everyone knew that wasn’t going to happen. It was recommended we post no trespassing signs and eventually tear down the camp ourselves.

Another thing: the police found no hoofprints indicating that a horse had been wandering through the woods. This earned me a few furtive glances and shoulder shrugs. “Lots of deer tracks, though,” one officer had said. “The cold can play tricks.” Yeah? Since when does the cold transform a deer into a horse? They all thought I was a bit off tilt. After all, I was living a life of shame in my parents’ basement.

I none too gently removed Jupiter from my face and plunked him (also none too gently) on the floor and swiped at the cat hairs stuck to my face. Jupiter vocalized his opinion of my rudeness and strutted toward the stairs. When he got a few steps up, he looked over his shoulder and let out a banshee-like scream that made the roots of my hair levitate.

“Okay, okay! Fancy Feast for his highness coming up!”

Jupiter had been a stray that Mom took in on a cold morning in January during a nasty polar vortex weather event. I had been assigned as his caretaker to help earn my keep during my temporary return to the parental nest. For all the perks he enjoyed, (neutering notwithstanding) Jupiter never showed one iota of gratitude. His surly attitude might explain his homeless situation to begin with. Jupiter was mostly black with a white paw, a white tip on one ear, and about half of the other ear completely missing. One can only imagine what the “other guy” looked like. He had spooky yellow eyes and, most notably, his tail was like a giant bottle brush weirdly marked with spiraling silver rings flowing from beginning to end in a kind of Fibonacci sequence. The silver rings were why he was named Jupiter because Mom thought Jupiter was the planet with the rings. When I told her it was actually Saturn with the mysterious rings, she shrugged and said that he just didn’t seem like a Saturn, so we stuck with Jupiter, spiral tail rings and all. My opinion, the rings indicated he was part racoon or ocelot, or maybe space alien, which explained his despicable personality.

“Kat!” Mother bleated from the top of the stairs. “I’m headed to (sound of cat yowling)—oh for heaven’s sake, Jupiter, she’ll feed you in a minute—anyway, I’m headed to— (sound of cat yowling)—and I’ll pick up—(yowling). Good Lord, Kathryn, will you please feed this cat?”

With that, Mom clacked away in her heels and slammed the door. It was Sunday morning, so I suspected she was headed to church—a place whose doors I hadn’t darkened since Christmas Eve. I’d managed to avoid the Lenten and Easter services earlier in the month due to various conflicts, real and fabricated. I’d settle up with God later for my transgressions.

I trudged up the steps with Jupiter trying to entangle himself around my ankles, perhaps warning me that he could cause an unfortunate accident resulting in an unscheduled trip down the stairway. I snapped open a can of savory salmon “With Real Flakes!” and plopped it in Jupiter’s food dish, then changed his water. He casually sauntered over to the food and gave it a critical sniff. Apparently, it passed inspection and he dove in, making annoying humming noises as he ate. After I scooped out his litter box, I considered my feline duties complete. Ironic that my nickname “Kat” was a play on words for the creature that I was mandated to serve.

I opened the fridge to look for dinner options. We always ate dinner at lunchtime on Sundays, then snacked on junk in the evening. It was a Wilde tradition, except for Mom, who limited her snacking to unbuttered popcorn and perhaps some fruit. And while I could cook—Mom had seen to that—I was limited to culinary basics. My go-to standby was meatloaf featuring my secret ingredients: salsa and Worcestershire sauce. These added zip to the mundane basic ingredients of seasoned breadcrumbs, an egg, onion, ketchup, and salt and pepper. Sides generally included mashed potatoes (pre-made available little tubs at the store), gravy (from a jar), and green beans (from a can). Sometimes I’d add dinner rolls (from the bakery) or a pie (also from the bakery). However, I had to have the materials and very few were inhouse. While I had given up my cozy little apartment, I still had my aging Subaru with over 200K on it. I grabbed the keys and headed to Manninen’s Market, which everyone called Manny’s, since Manninen had an overload of “n’s” to deal with.

I made a mad dash through Manny’s and the express self-checkout, which took my bank account balance dangerously close to overdraft status. However, this week was payday at Wilde Accounting, so if I could make it until Friday when my paltry three-day-a week income would auto-deposit into my bank account, I would remain solvent. Of course tomorrow was only Monday, and I needed gas and really needed to see my stylist. But no rent was due for my basement abode at the Wilde homestead, nor utilities, so there was that.

When I got home, Mom still had not returned and Dad was apparently at the office, even though it was Sunday. Being less than a week from the dreaded April 15 tax filing deadline, things were furiously busy at the office. Sunday was also Dad’s gym workout day (no crowds) and I think Sheriff Olsen said something about meeting up there.

I got the meatloaf thrown together and molded into a pan then popped it in the oven. I put the pre-made potatoes in a bowl ready to nuke and the gravy heating in a saucepan. I plopped the green beans in a serving dish, blobbed on some butter and salt and pepper and readied it for the microwave. I put the rolls in a basket and the pie displayed on the counter. Cherry, Dad’s favorite. Mom likely would pass on the pie, always being mindful of her waistline.

Jupiter, apparently attracted by the smell of cooking, emerged, and positioned himself next to his empty food dish.

“You just ate!” I said as I set the table. “The vet says you are too fat,” I added.

This revelation did not seem to alter Jupiter’s position on things. After all, if humans were eating, so should the cat. He drove the point home by blocking my path wherever I went and became more aggressive in his position by jumping on the table and sniffing the butter.

“Get down!” I yelled.

He blinked at me then sat on one of the plates. When a car pulled up, which I swear he recognized as Mom’s Buick, Jupiter jumped down and vanished, leaving a deposit of cat hair on the vacated plate.

“Hello Kat!” Mom chirped as she stepped into the kitchen. “Oh. You’re cooking,” she said with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. “I brought home some take-out, but I see we have a breakdown of communication. I think the cat was yowling when I was talking.”

“We can stick the stuff you got in the fridge—”

“Well, it’s Chinese and I’m not sure how…oh, no matter. Of course, we will very much more enjoy your meatloaf. Again,” she said, stuffing sacks in the fridge and shedding her coat. She eyed the table. “The fork goes on the left, dear—with the napkin, and the knife and spoon on the right, with the sharp edge of the knife pointing toward the plate.” She busied herself rearranging my table settings then picked up one of the plates. “Oh my, cat hair. And why has the butter got this strange indentation in the middle?”

Dad saved the day. He parked his truck in the driveway then hustled into the kitchen. “Wow!” he said. “Smells great in here. I never get tired of your meatloaf. I’m starved!”

That was more like it.

Jupiter reappeared and sat by his dish. He liked my meatloaf.

One big happy family.

* * *

“We are cordially invited to appear at the police station tomorrow to give our statements,” Dad said, as he buttered a roll. He scowled at it for a moment and picked off a couple of Jupiter hairs. “Ollie and I checked out the Silver River to see if the steelhead had started—which they haven’t—and anyway, he wants us in tomorrow. I figure we can take a long lunch from the office, do our sworn statements, and grab a burger.” He paused and picked off another cat hair. “My treat, of course,” he added.

Typically, Dad tries very hard not to show favoritism to me in the office setting, and that generally included my chipping in for the office coffee, lunchtime pizza and so on. Being the boss’s daughter had challenges, with people being afraid that I’d blab about workplace goings-on to him. More than once I walked into a room and had everyone abruptly stop talking. It was a bit unsettling.

“Ollie’s boy, Nikko, came along too—to the Silver,” Dad said. “He’s a good kid. I think he’s up for a promotion with the state—specifically the Department of Natural Resources, or DNR as he calls it.”

“You could do worse, Kathryn,” Mom said. Apparently, Mom had downgraded her son-in-law expectation from wealthy surgeon to woods cop. After all, I was in the middle arc of my 20s.

“Whaaa?” I said, dropping my fork with a clank. “Nikko is a jock who never gave me a second look.”

“Well, he asked about you,” Dad said. “Anyway, he’s hoping to get some kind of supervisory job and spend less time slogging through the marsh. I invited him over to watch the game later today. Also, he’s real interested in the horse camp.”

“He is?” I said.

“Yup,” Dad said with a smile.

It seemed that my parents were so desperate to be rid of their deadbeat tenant (yours truly) that they are trying to fix me up with a guy who has never given me a second look—or even a first look. Plus, excuse me, but I could find my own dates. If I wanted to.