Fool's Moon Read online

  Copyright Information

  Fool’s Moon: A Tarot Cats Mystery © 2018 by Diane A.S. Stuckart.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2018

  E-book ISBN: 9780738757919

  Book format by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Cover illustration by Bill Bruning / Deborah Wolfe Ltd.

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Stuckart, Diane A. S., author.

  Title: Fool’s moon / Diane A.S. Stuckart.

  Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2018] |

  Series: A tarot cats mystery #1.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018028550 (print) | LCCN 2018029601 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738757919 (ebook) | ISBN 9780738757087 (alk. paper)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3619.T839 (ebook) | LCC PS3619.T839 F66 2018 (print) |

  DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018028550

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.midnightinkbooks.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  To all who are brave enough to set off on their own Fool’s journey.

  One

  “It’s too hot! I can’t breathe,” Ophelia yowled. She lifted soft black paws to claw with desperation at the cardboard prison that trapped them. “We’re good cats … the old woman always said that. So why did the man do this to us?”

  “Because he’s a bad human,” her brother, Brandon, growled back. “Even the old woman didn’t like him, and he was her son.”

  His words were muffled because his mouth was dry as the Palm Beach sand that stretched behind their old home and all the way to the ocean. But they were far from that safe sanctuary now. Instead, his keen feline nose and ears told him they had been dumped beside a road somewhere in a neighborhood redolent of bacon grease and burning coffee and canine poop. Why, he couldn’t even smell a welcome bit of salt and stinky fish in the air any longer.

  If only they had a bowl of water!

  He paused to paw a bit of oily cardboard from between his teeth. It had been only a few minutes since their prison box had tumbled from the man’s car and landed on the concrete with a bruising thud. Even then, Brandon had held out hope that the box would suddenly spring open, that the man would change his mind and gather them back into the vehicle that smelled of leather and fake pine trees, and take them back home again. Instead, he’d heard the man’s car screech like a wounded chicken, followed by the sound of the man’s car roaring off into the distance.

  And so he’d spent the past minutes frantically gnawing at one of the long, narrow holes that allowed a bit of air into the box and hinted at a possible escape. As he chewed, he could taste the residue of the long yellow fruit—banana, the humans called it—that once had filled the container.

  Bitter. No, sweet. No, both.

  But that didn’t matter. Good taste or bad, he had to keep on tearing at the box until he made a hole big enough for him and his sister to wriggle out of it.

  He sank his teeth deeper into the cardboard and gave a mighty pull. A chunk of cardboard peeled off with a satisfying ripping sound.

  “Look,” he cried, spitting out bits of paper. “I made it through the first layer. It won’t be much longer until we’re free.”

  He shot an anxious glance over his furry shoulder at his littermate. Ophelia sagged against the other side of the box, her small paws still clawing at the cardboard, but to little effect. She was a slightly smaller mirror image of him—sleek black fur, bright green eyes, long legs and soft paws tipped with razor sharp claws. The one difference that humans noticed was their tails.

  Hers was a silken black rope that swished and swirled and floated, depending on her mood—long enough so that when she sat upright, she could wrap it all the way around her front paws with tail to spare! His tail, however, better befitted a canine. It was perhaps a third the size of his sister’s, not even long enough to touch the ground, and when he was angry it flared like the bottle brush that the old woman’s housekeeper used sometimes with the dishes.

  Squirrel, one of the smiling humans at the place of cages where he and Ophelia had lived as kittens had called him. Even at a few weeks old, he’d been insulted to be compared to a fuzzy gray rat-like creature. He had been pleased when the old woman who’d adopted them had dubbed him Brandon Bobtail—a far more dignified moniker.

  But tail size was of no importance now. There was barely enough room in the box for two full-grown felines to sprawl comfortably, let alone both attack the same spot. Still, he knew better than to tell his sister to step aside, that he had this. She might be smaller and less muscular than he, but she had a spirit as big as a feline twice her size, he thought with pride.

  He gave the oily cardboard another bite. If he kept track of time like humans did, he would guess it had been less than an hour since the man had lured them both into the box with a tin of sardines. While they nibbled at the stinky goodness—the old woman had never given them so tasty a treat!—the man had shoved another box over them like a cover. Then Brandon had heard a ripping sound going round and round the box. He’d recognized the noise as coming from a roll of the sticky stuff the humans called tape.

  The man was sealing them inside the box so that they couldn’t escape!

  Brandon hissed as he recalled the man’s treachery. He’d tried to reassure a yowling Ophelia that the man simply was taking them to the place of cold steel tables and sharp needles. Of course, he didn’t really believe that. She always carried them there in a soft container with fluffy towels on the bottom and sides they could see out of. She would carefully strap them onto the back seat of her sleek yellow car that purred just like them, instead of shoving them into a hot, dark compartment that stank of oily smells and growled at them like an angry pit bull.

  They’d fearfully crouched together in their suffocating prison until the car had skidded to an abrupt halt. A moment later, daylight and fresh air had flooded the compartment, leaking into their prison box. Where they were, he wasn’t certain, but he
could tell from the sounds and smells that it wasn’t the veterinarian’s office.

  Maybe he changed his mind, Brandon had told his sister in relief as the man lifted the box out of the trunk. Maybe he brought us back home again.

  But, of course, he hadn’t.

  Brandon had heard the man sneezing, like he always did when he was around them. Allergic, the son always reminded the old woman, voice filled with contempt. You’d rather have those damned cats around than me.

  Then the box had dropped and landed with a hard thud onto what felt like a sidewalk. While they untangled themselves from the unexpected impact, they’d heard the sound of the trunk slamming once more. Then the car sped off with a growl and a roar and a blast of smoke, leaving him and Ophelia behind.

  Where are we? Ophelia had mewed in fear while Brandon pressed a green eye to one of the slits in the box in hopes of learning that answer.

  All he could see was a bit of broken sidewalk and a battered garbage can that, even from a distance, smelled like rude dogs had peed all over it. Other smells drifted to him … burning coffee, rotting food, old shoes.

  Not home, he’d told her. Somewhere hot and stinky and ugly.

  Now Brandon paused again and pressed his eye against the small opening that finally was large enough for him to stick a forearm through. It was early in the morning, and the time of year that humans called spring, so the air outside the box wasn’t yet unbearably hot. But he’d heard terrible stories when he was a kitten in the place of cages about animals—mostly canines—that got left in cars or trapped in sheds or boxes and cooked to death. Unless they could chew out of the cardboard prison, that would happen to him and Ophelia.

  They didn’t have much time, he realized in a panic, and started gnawing even faster. He already was feeling as dizzy as if he’d chased a string in a circle too many times. Pretty soon, he’d be slumped on his side like his sister, panting as he tried to keep cool.

  When it reached that point, they would simply have to lie there in their dark, broiling prison and hope to be found by a passing human … or wait to die.

  “No!”

  With an angry yowl, he gave a mighty rip of the cardboard with his teeth. And with that, a section of the inner box ripped free, allowing in a sudden little burst of cooler air. He gave another tug, and the outer box tore as well. Now he’d made a hole large enough to stick his head through—maybe even his whole body, if he shoved hard enough.

  He paused a moment to gulp down nice cool breaths of air; then he turned to his sister. “We did it! Look, we can get out now.”

  Ophelia opened her green eyes just a crack.

  “I knew you’d do it,” she mewed. “Quick, get out.”

  “You, first.”

  “No, you. Make sure the hole is big enough.”

  Brandon would have argued, but there wasn’t time. Instead, he shoved his head through the hole; then, squeezing and twisting and gasping, he popped out of the box and tumbled onto the broken sidewalk.

  Free!

  Relief swirled about him just like the gaggle of tiny sparrows who lived in the green bushes at home taking flight at the merest fright. He squinted against the burst of morning sun. A second later, his eyes had adjusted to the glare, and he stared in wonder. Where were they?

  This wasn’t home, not by any means. Not with all these tiny buildings painted in strange colors, their cracked windows hung with ugly black bars and sagging like catnip mice missing most of their stuffing. Where he came from, the houses stretched wide and tall, in soft colors like sand and sky, with roofs made of rounded red tile that only sure-footed felines dared traverse. There, walls of thick green shrubs and tall palms and big thorny bushes with giant flowers that smelled like the old woman’s perfume separated the houses from each other. But here, each squat building clung to a narrow strip of pebbles and brown grass so short that it couldn’t even bar a rat from passing.

  The only green he saw was a single stubby palm tree barely taller than he. Just as he had squeezed out of the prison box, the palm had somehow squeezed from a gap in the ground between the sidewalk and a metal building whose windows had been covered with big pieces of wood, like it was waiting for a hurricane to happen. If it ever grew big enough to be a real tree, instead of a few leaves, maybe it could protect the building when the winds next came.

  “Brandon, where are you?”

  Ophelia’s soft wail drifted to him, the fearful tone snapping him from his momentary daydreams.

  He shoved his furry face against the hole in the box. To his alarm, his sister was still lying where he’d left her.

  “I’m right here,” he meowed. “Come on, it’s your turn. Climb out, and we’ll find somewhere nice and cool to lounge until we figure out what to do next.”

  “I can’t,” she mumbled, eyes still closed. “I’m too tired.”

  “You have to! Hurry!”

  She made no reply to that last, and Brandon felt his bobtail bristle in fear. Even if he could squeeze his way back into the prison box, the hole was far too small for him to be able to drag her back out with him again. And the minutes were flying by. He could try chewing a larger hole, one big enough for them both to fit through, but in the time that would take, it might be too late for her.

  In a flash, he made a decision.

  “Me-OOOOOOOOOOOOW!” he cried. “Ophelia, listen to me. I’m going to find a human to help you. I’ll be right back. Will you be okay alone?”

  He saw the faintest flick of her whiskers—yes.

  “I’ll be back soon. Don’t give up.”

  With a flick of his fuzzy tail, he swung about and surveyed the street again. No humans. But he could see that at the far end of the next block, the barred front window of one squat yellow building buzzed with big flashing red letters.

  PAWN.

  What that human word meant, he had no clue. What he did know was that lights meant people, since with their inferior eyesight they needed that extra brightness even in the daytime. But they had hands instead of paws … hands that could tear away tape far faster than he could chew cardboard. Maybe someone in that building was clever enough to follow him back to Ophelia and free her from the box.

  With a quick look around for canines and cars—any feline knew enough to avoid both—he bounded down the sidewalk. Pausing a moment later at the crosswalk to crouch and look around again—both cars and canines were good at springing out from behind closed doors and around corners—he darted from one curb to the next. Then, with a final look back at the prison box that held his sister captive, he rushed on silent black paws in the direction of PAWN.

  Brandon, where are you?

  Ophelia opened her green eyes just a crack. Her head was buzzing, and her black fur felt hot as the oven where the old woman had always cooked her meals. Except now it felt like she was the one being cooked inside this terrible box that the man had made into a prison. And if she didn’t get out soon … well, it would be what the humans called going to the bridge.

  Of course, she knew that word actually meant dead—dead like a mouse caught in a trap, or a lizard in the mouth of a big black snake. Humans were the ones who used words to make things all pretty. But going a bridge might be nice. She could look down into the water and see fish splashing, which was always amusing. And maybe when she died, she would see the old woman again. She’d heard that humans and animals could meet up in whatever life came after this one. If that was true, the first thing she would do would be to jump into the old woman’s lap and raise her chin for a soft scratching. And then, when the old woman laughed and obliged with a little scritch, Ophelia would lift a paw. Careful to keep her claws sheathed, she would give the old woman a gentle tap on one wrinkled cheek, which made her laugh again.

  She missed that. She missed the old woman.

  But the old woman wasn’t the only one gone. Where was Brandon?

&nbs
p; Ophelia tried to meow, but her tongue seemed stuck to the inside of her mouth. Wait, he’s looking for a human to help, she remembered. And maybe he would bring a bowl of water when he came back.

  But what if he couldn’t find her again? She needed to make sure he could see her.

  Rallying a bit at that, she opened her eyes wider and rolled over, so that she was beside the hole that her brother had chewed. She couldn’t drag herself out—she was far too tired to twist herself about like those wily rats that could fit into any space big as their nose—but she could shove her forearm through the gap and wave it about. And so, with a mighty effort, she slid a sleek black leg out of the hole.

  Abruptly, something warm and wet brushed against her paw.

  A tongue!

  Squeaking in alarm, she yanked her forearm back into the box and gave it a sniff. Not Brandon. But she was so dizzy by now, that she was having a hard time figuring out what it was that had licked her. Outside the box, she could hear sounds now … sounds of a human talking. And then the box rolled about, and she heard the sharp ripping noise of tape being pulled off cardboard.

  Brandon had done it! He’d found a human to help.

  But her relief faded as she caught another sniff of her forearm. The slobber that dampened her fur smelled vaguely familiar … smelled suspiciously like …

  Abruptly, the box lid was pulled off, and sunshine beat down on her. In the instant it took for her feline eyes to adjust to the change of light, she felt something hot and wet splatter onto her face. Then her vision focused and she saw it—a broad white muzzle filled with sharp canine teeth looming over them. The jaws were open, and a long pink tongue lolled out.

  “Pit bull!” she shrieked before everything went dark as a mouse hole.

  Water. Cool and clear.

  It wasn’t real, Ophelia realized from some faraway place inside her head. She was in a dream, back again at the old house where she and Brandon had lived since they were kittens. And water … the water in her dream was everywhere.