THE DEADLINE CAFÉ EPISODE #8

To say that the cat caused a commotion its first day in the Café is an understatement. Hank fixed up a litter box in the hallway outside the back room and made sure there was a dish of water and some crunchy food nearby.  He figured Lissa and Oakey would leave some cream there for Sherman now and then.

“Sherman? I thought his name was Big Foot,” Lissa had said when Hank introduced her to his new charge.

“Nope.  He’s had a hard life as a mouser, Lis.  And he’s been abandoned.  Look how tired he looks.  He needs a fresh start with a city name.”

“But why Sherman?”  Lissa dropped down on her knees, letting Sherman have a good look and sniff. Eye to eye, both seemed to approve of what they saw.

“First name that popped into my mind.  And when I called him that, he seemed to like it.”

Earlier, on the drive back to Evanston from the airport, Hank had reached in the back seat and unhinged Sherman’s cage. Seeing his new freedom, the cat had stretched out, then jumped casually into the front seat, next to Hank, and propped himself up to take a look out the passenger window, where he watched bright lights and strip malls slide by. Hank hit the ass-warmer button on Sherman’s seat and by the time they reached the café, Sherman was curled up in a big furry ball like a musher dog sleeping in an Alaskan snowdrift. Hank put his hand on the cat and Sherman’s purr box warmed up a notch, and Hank thought maybe this will work out after all.

But it wasn’t maybe ten minutes after Sherman’s first appearance in the cafe that the commotion began. The way Mrs. Worthly described it, “That raccoon lunged onto Ruth Anna Moon’s lap and her whole cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows went flying into the air. ” The cup was still in Ruth Anna’s shaking hand, but her hot chocolate was all over the back of the Whittler, who was none too happy with the shower.

“Ruth Anna—are you ok?” Lissa asked, taking the now empty cup. Ruth Anna nodded. Oakey was already stirring up a new cup of hot chocolate. They were such a team it sometimes frightened Hank.

“Someone call Animal Control! That raccoon could be rabid,” said the Whittler.

“No one’s going to be calling Animal Control now,” Lissa interrupted.  “And he’s not a raccoon.  He’s a Maine Coon cat.”

“What? You have a mouse problem?” asked the Professor.  “Someone call the Board of Health!”

 Oakey promised to take the Whittler’s coat to the dry cleaners and reassured the Professor there was no mouse problem.

“You might as well get used to Sherman,” Lissa announced to the assembled.  She liked the idea that another character had been added to the mix.  Sherman was just one of so many things that set the café apart from all the others: the White Horse, Café Salieri, St. Pete’s, and certainly Five Bucks. 

Hank missed all the back and forth. Right around the time Ruth Anna had screeched,  Lt. James Monahan had popped up at Hank’s side.

“Jimmy! Hey—!” Hank said, startled.  Seeing the uniform, his first thought was that this was a pretty fast response from Animal Control.

“Hank. We need to talk. I think I have a lead.”

Hank followed Jimmy into the back room where Jimmy told Hank he’d been sniffing around, checked some dates and found out that the Whittler—who seemed to have taken an odd interest in the countdown—was planning a big exhibition of his carvings.

“So what?” Hank asked, thinking he really needed to get back to work.

“Well, this is what, Hank…wake up and smell the coffee, my friend.”

Jimmy showed Hank a new poster he’d taken down from the café’s bulletin board:

   ARTOPIA  EVANSTON~

~ MUSINGS, CARVINGS, & CAFÉ WHITTLINGS~

~APRIL 18 ~

Over the photograph of one of the Whittler’s carvings, someone had written in thick black magic marker: “COUNTDOWN: ONLY 73 DAYS LEFT!”

“You with me now, Hank?”

Hank nodded. 

If this was it, just a bit of advertising flair, a little suspense building on the Whittler’s part, Hank should feel relieved.  Mystery solved, case closed and all that.  And Hank might have exhaled one of those big relieved sighs if he hadn’t noticed something on the wall next to the backroom door.  Two quarters, two dimes, and three pennies were scotch-taped right there on the molding.  Seventy-three cents?  Seventy-three  cents  worth of advertising where no one could see it or know what it meant?