The Lucky Cat - A Salem Massachusetts Mini Mystery

The Lucky Cat

I breathed in the scent of rosemary, its pungent aroma bringing me back to my grandmother’s cooking. She had adored rosemary and added it liberally to pretty much everything she made. Even now I could see her mustard-yellow apron tied neatly about her ample waist and the twinkle which perpetually shone in her eye.

I moved to the window of my small office, pushed up the pane, and gazed out at the street. Sofia, my mentor, had been right. It was lovely. Salem, Massachusetts had a mystical quality to it during any season, and with it being October first, we were heading into the most magical time of year. The trees lining the brick sidewalk opposite me were glistening in golden foliage. Behind them, red brick shops were neatly painted and decorated. The first floor held large-pane window storefronts while the second floor sported rows of windows with white shutters just like mine. The third story held dormer windows poking out of the black roof like attentive eyes.

With my window open, the aroma of rosemary bubbled up even more richly from the herbal shop below. I had met the owner there yesterday when I picked up my keys; she was a sweet if a bit absent-minded lady.

I turned from the window and went back to sit at my desk. So this is what it had come down to. My rising star in the Boston police department had come to an abrupt, tumultuous halt. I’d weathered eight years of negotiating the treacherous landscape of being female and black in the bastion of old-school power. All of that work down the drain - and all because, when my supervisor had attempted to fondle my rear for the tenth time in a day, I had slammed my fist into his face, breaking his nose. Oh, I’m sure they would have taken me back, once I attended a month’s worth of anger management courses, but I’d had enough.

That very night, drowning my sorrows in a large glass of sauvignon blanc over at Legal Sea Foods, my mentor had made the offer. She’d been a P.I. here in Salem for almost thirty years and was ready to retire to Florida. She had the perfect house picked out in Sarasota. Her Salem office and apartment were paid for through the end of the year. If nothing else it would give me a place to stay at night, a place to go during the day, and some time to think.

So here I was.

A tentative knock came at my door. I looked through the half-pane window which still proclaimed “Sofia Gonzales – Private Investigator” in gold letters. The woman beyond was in her mid-thirties, scrawny, and huddled beneath a pale blue windbreaker. Her mouse-brown hair was pulled back tight into a ponytail.

I stood and moved around the desk. Did I have my first client already? I waved her in.

Her thin voice matched her features. “Are you … are you Sofia Gonzales?”

I shook my head with a smile. “No, my name is Kathy Taylor. Sofia was a friend of mine and she’s turned the agency over to me. I’m just getting settled in.”

“My name is Paula. Paula Carraway. And I want to hire you.” Her hand moved to press tightly against the black purse at her side.

I waved a hand at the lone chair before the desk. It was solid maple and probably weighed more than I did. “Please, have a seat. How can I help you?”

She tenuously perched on the front edge of the seat, and I moved around to mine. My desk held a pencil holder with three pens, a phone, and nothing else. I hadn’t even taken out my laptop yet – it still sat in its quilted bag behind me.

“I need … it’s just that …” Her eyes drew over my features. “Wow, has anybody ever told you that you look exactly like Halle Berry?”

I held the smile on my lips.

Only perhaps ten thousand times.

“You’re very kind,” I murmured. “You were saying? You needed my help?”