Judas Cat by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

thought.
    “Well,” Barnard said, “let’s take this in to the table and get it over with.” He cut away the wrappings and disposed of them in a container at his foot.
    “Ugly business,” Alex said when he saw the carcass.
    “Think of roses, whiskey, beautiful women,” Barnard said.
    “Don’t worry, I’m not going to be sick,” he said, but he could feel a turning in his stomach. Barnard went to the windows and opened them.
    “It doesn’t look like they did very much work on it, does it, Doc?”
    “That’s hard to say, Alex, the condition it’s in.”
    “It’s that sore under its forearm I’m most interested in. The cat was injected with something, wouldn’t you say?”
    “Not being an amateur, Alex, I wouldn’t say. It looks as though that’s what it might have been.”
    “Like vaccination?”
    “Somewhat. The position is strange for an injection.”
    “My theory, strictly amateur, is that the old man picked the cat up there. That might have been why it turned on him.”
    “Possibly.”
    “How long before it died did it eat? Can you tell that, Doc?”
    “I would need more time. In fact, I need more time before I can tell you anything, Alex. Immediate symptoms of disease or poison aren’t present, and it’s pretty late to make cultures, that is, late from the time of its death. That should have been done in two or three hours. But suppose you leave it here. I’ll take some specimens and see what I can develop. I’ll call you in the morning and tell you whether it’s worth your while to come over.”
    “You don’t give me much encouragement, Doc.”
    “I don’t give you false encouragement. This was a foolhardy stunt, Alex. I can understand your doing it, but doesn’t it seem unlikely to you that the coroner’s office would have been so brazen if they weren’t pretty sure of themselves?”
    “I suppose you’re right, Doc. But it seemed like such a slick job to me, and I feel sure we don’t have the full story of what happened in that house last night.”
    “Did you question the neighbors?”
    “Yes. Mabel Turnsby’s the only one who could really see the place, and she didn’t see anything.”
    “If Mabel didn’t see anything, Alex, believe me, there wasn’t anything to see. She’s had the eyes and ears of the world all her life.” He went to the sink and washed his hands.
    “Well, I guess that’s that,” Alex said. “It didn’t take so long after all.”
    “It will take me a while after you leave. Let’s see if they’ll give us a cup of tea first. How’s your father these days? I was in the Sentinel office the other day and it seemed mighty strange without him.”
    In the living room Mrs. Barnard was pouring the tea. She sat very straight on the edge of the couch and maneuvered the cups with great dignity. Joan had her tea and a plate with cookies. Her movement with the sugar and creamer were quite relaxed, and it struck Alex as he caught a glimpse of the two women from the doorway, that Joan was more at ease, more natural in this elegant house than her hostess.
    “How nice that you can join us,” Mrs. Barnard said. “I brought the extra cups in hopes that you would. Lemon, Alex?”
    “No thank you, ma’m, straight with sugar.”
    “Miss Elliot and I were talking about that poor old gentleman’s death.”
    “I was telling Mrs. Barnard how lonely you found the house, Alex.”
    Mrs. Barnard gave that set half-smile of hers. “Yes. I’ve often wondered what becomes of us when we grow old. Our inner selves. It seems to me that we’re like flowers … Take a cookie, Jeff. You didn’t eat much dinner—like flowers, in that we spread outward, unfolding in our growth, and then we contract again until there’s nothing of us left.”
    “Except the seed,” Alex said.
    “Yes, of course. That is the most important part, isn’t it?”
    If Norah Barnard had grown up in the four rooms of Andy’s house, she had come a long ways in luxury. The room was sweet with