Mystery in the Rain Part One

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law and breaks the law of gravity.
He's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
—T.S. Eliot

You probably think I’m crazy but I’m a writer and my Muse happens to be a very vocal tabby cat.

And right now he’s at my window in the flatiron building staring through rain trails at the somber cityscape below.

It’s a rainy Sunday afternoon and Muse Cat has something on his mind. If I don’t get it right away, he’ll begin the first of a crescendo of moans that will culminate in an all-night torment of throwing himself at my locked bedroom door, or if I let him in, walking on me all night.

Yeah, like I said. Crazy. I could indulge his depravity, but I opt instead to go out for a drink.

It’s after eight when I return and I dread opening the door.

Let the torments begin, I mumble.

I tentatively open the door a crack, but the apartment is very still. I reach in and flick on the light. Nothing. That’s strange.

I enter and let my eyes scan the room. Musey? There’s an ominous silence.

Now, I’m worried. I carefully shut the door and begin making the rounds of his usual haunts, but he’s nowhere to be found.

I check the windows and the French doors to the balcony, but all are securely locked. This makes no sense at all.

I give into my obsessive-compulsive tendencies and repeat the search again—and one more time, for good measure. All for naught.

Maybe I should add, the ability to disappear is in Musey’s bag of tricks.

I convince myself somehow I left the condo door ajar and Musey managed to get out. But where would he go—push the buttons on the elevator and ride it down several floors to the street?

Knowing Musey, that’s not as far-fetched as you may think. There’s nothing to do but don my raincoat, get out the umbrella and walk the streets—which I do for two hours to no avail.

Hell, I even drop by the Thirties Art Deco building where I first found him shivering in a wet cardboard box in an alleyway—a tiny tabby with big ears and huge innocent eyes.

Nothing. I feel totally desolate and hopeless.

I return to the condo, ride the elevator to my apartment, expecting to find him waiting when I open the door, but again—nothing. My grumpy Muse has disappeared.

The phone rings and I pick up to the voice of an elderly woman. “Do you own a male tabby cat?”

A wave of relief washes over me. “I do,” I croak.

“I found him out in the rain pawing at the doors to my garage—he must have wanted to get in and take shelter.”

“Sounds like something he’d do.”

“I phoned the animal hospital listed on his tag and they gave me your number. I think he’s ready to go home—he’s moaning up a storm.”

She gives me the address—I know the stretch of old Victorian houses just north of my condo and so I hail a cab and am there in minutes.

Sure enough, Musey is sitting in her front window and I can tell from his lips moving behind the glass that he’s moaning up a storm.

I ring the doorbell, but as soon as the woman answers, Musey darts out between her legs and heads down the drive to the garage at the rear.

“Oh no!” she cries, but too late. He’s off again.

I assure her all will be well and run off in search of him and find him, just as she did, at the garage, pawing at the creaky old wooden doors. I immediately scoop him up into my arms.

The woman has followed and now is behind me, chuckling at Musey’s antics, which at that moment, I do not find endearing.

“He’s probably after something inside there,” I say lamely.

“Well, all that’s in there is Max—I don’t know what use he’d have for him.”

“Max?” I say dumbly.

“Let me show you,” she says, pulling open the ancient wooden doors.

I’m dumbfounded. Sitting there in the middle of a decaying old garage with a dirt floor is a four-door Maxwell sedan that looks to be from the 1920’s—except it appears to be brand new as if it just came from the factory. The black paint shines like glass.

“It’s—It’s beautiful,” I stammer.

“My husband Roy worked on this car—it was his hobby, but it’s been sitting here for ten years now. I put it up on blocks each winter to save the tires and pay a fellow in the warm weather to take it out for a spin every couple of months. As a matter of fact, he just brought it back earlier today. The car’s a burden to me now. I’d sell it to this fellow but I think he’d just love to turn around and offer it to the highest bidder.”

“I’d never sell a beauty like this—it’s like a living relic of the Jazz Age.”

She opens the car door, and Musey leaps in.

“I guess you’re right,” the old woman laughs, “your cat was after something inside. He sure likes this car, Mister.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “It is beautiful. I have to admit he’s got good taste.”

“Some of my friends suggested I donate it to a museum, but that would break poor Roy’s heart—probably cause him to roll over in his grave. He always said, a car is meant to go—being put on display would seem a waste somehow, even if it is a relic from 1922.”

I nod. “May I sit in it?”

“Of course,” she smiles, “get behind the wheel and see how it feels.”

The moment I slide in behind the wheel I felt transported—there’s an overwhelming sense of being in another era. For a brief moment, I feel what Fitzgerald must have felt when he was out for a drive with Zelda.

The woman’s face is beaming. “I can tell you’re meant for this car—why don’t you take it and drive it for a few hours? Who knows, you might want to buy it.”

I’m mesmerized by the vehicle and readily agree.

I drive Musey back to the condo, and on the way he falls asleep, curled up on the front seat.

God’s in his heaven and all’s well on earth, I smile.

Back in the condo, reality sets in. What do I know about vintage cars, let alone a sedan from the Twenties? Precious little, I assure you.

But I’m intrigued. Obviously, Muse Cat knows something I don’t.

I decide the only way to know for sure if the car is for me, is to drive it—rain or no. As old Roy said, a car was meant to go, and I certainly feel ready for adventure.

I head back down to the parking garage confident that whatever else might befall this evening, there’ll be a story at the end of it.

To be continued...

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved


Photo by @countrygirl